A Perfect Storm Read online

  ‘Mr Calvin Cutter,’ he pronounced.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Calvin Cutter, the producer.’

  Oh. Him. Calvin Cutter is the co-founder and one of the directors of a film company. They make those romantic, historical dramas that are usually shown on Sunday afternoons as an alternative to the football. You know the ones. They always start with a hand turning the pages of a book explaining the plot. Always a signal it’s time to get up and clean the toilet.

  ‘Ah,’ I said, fully intending to pass this on to whoever in the History Department had annoyed me most recently, but that plan was nipped in the bud because, as Dr Bairstow unreasonably pointed out, it had been my publicity campaign that had started the ball rolling in the first place.

  I was determined not to give in without a fight.

  ‘But sir…’

  ‘You will accord him every courtesy, Dr Maxwell. Show him everything he wants to see and accommodate his slightest wish. You may wish to lock Professor Rapson in the basement where he can do no harm. You will impress Mr Cutter to such an extent that he signs a contract employing us not only to do all the historical research for his next three films, but to design and supply the costumes as well. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘But sir, they put horns on their Viking helmets.’

  ‘Then it will be your responsibility to ensure that that heinous offence is never committed again.’

  ‘And blades on Boudicca’s chariot wheels.’

  ‘May I refer you to my previous statement?’

  ‘And that musical they did on Hildegard of Bingen, when she wandered around with a cleavage bigger than the Valley of the Kings…’

  ‘Why are you still here, Dr Maxwell?’

  I sighed and sagged. ‘When does he arrive?’

  ‘Thursday. Show him around. Give him lunch. Impress him. Get that contract signed. See to it, Dr Maxwell.’

  I’m an historian. Rising to the challenge is what I do. I assembled my motley crew – or the History Department as I try to insist they’re called – and harangued, bullied, persuaded, entreated, pleaded, commanded and made shameful use of my recent injuries to get what I wanted. In the end, nearly everyone signed up, mostly, they said, so I would stop talking and go away.

  Dr Dowson offered to show Mr Cutter around the Library, which was an excellent idea because it would separate him from Professor Rapson who, together with his volatile section, would be confined to R&D for the duration. Dr Bairstow had made it very clear that nothing – and I stress this, Dr Maxwell – nothing was to prevent Mr Cutter being so impressed with the quality of research done at St Mary’s that he would beg us to sign as many contracts as we liked. Sometimes I think he imposes slightly unreasonable demands upon his unit, but never let it be said St Mary’s is unequal to the task before us.

  Peterson offered to set up an archery demonstration and there was a short silence as everyone tried not to remember he couldn’t pull a bow properly any longer. However, I smiled and thanked him and he nodded.

  ‘Side-saddle,’ said Prentiss. ‘Sykes and I need the hours, anyway. We’ll blag a couple of riding habits from Wardrobe and show off.’

  ‘Both of those are good suggestions. Mrs Enderby, can you provide a display of our best and most beautiful costumes. Along the gallery, I think. Angle it so that it keeps him away from R&D.’

  She nodded her complete understanding.

  ‘Historians, clear the Hall of anything we don’t want anyone to see. Lay out some of the Troy, Carthage and Hastings material – flashy stuff that will give him a good impression of our work. Anything else?’

  ‘Is he going to be wandering around the building?’ asked Sykes. ‘What about the repairs in Hawking?’

  ‘Everything locked up. Blast doors down. Absolutely no admittance. Civilian clothes to be worn that day. No pressure, but anyone screwing up will be fed, live, to Dr Bairstow. Any questions?’

  They shook their heads and wandered off.

  The Great St Mary’s All Repairs Completed At Last Pub Crawl has passed into legend. And not a good legend. None of the participants could remember much about it afterwards – I swear, it was easier to piece together the fall of Troy than get a clear idea of what happened that night – but mostly it was memorable because it was the night Bashford met Angus.

  Everyone assembled in the Great Hall. For some reason, they had all decided to dress as superheroes. With much posturing and cape swirling, they set off down the drive to meet the minibus that was to take them into town. It was also supposed to bring them back again although that didn’t go quite according to plan. I must say thirteen superheroes assembled together are quite an impressive sight. They’d taken a lot of time and trouble with their costumes and I think it’s only right that I should list them here:

  •Peterson – Superman. Not quite as muscular as the original, but making a good try as he led his happy band of heroes to their night of adventure.

  •Markham – The Flash. Small, scarred and overpoweringly red. Like an acne-ridden teenager.

  •Dieter – The Hulk. A part he was born to play. It had taken two people the best part of the day to paint him green.

  •Bashford – The Great God Thor complete with giant silver hammer, and currently hiding from Mrs Mack who was demanding to know who had stolen her entire supply of kitchen foil.

  •Atherton – General Zod. Mr Normal. I was relying on him to keep everyone in line. I don’t know why I bothered.

  •Clerk – Darth Vader. He’d been practising The Voice all week, and now he made a stunning entrance, Darth Vader music blaring, and informed a startled Dr Bairstow that he was his father. He was bundled away before he could shorten his life expectancy even further.

  •Mr Strong – Lex Luthor. Wearing a brown and white pinstriped suit and carrying a violin case. It turned out later he’d confused Mr Luthor with Mr Capone.

  •Lindstrom – Mr Fantastic. Complete with nine-foot-long elastic arms over which he regularly tripped. I had no idea how they were going to get all of him on the bus and looked forward to seeing them try.

  •Miss Prentiss – Captain America. She’d stolen a dustbin lid for her shield and painted it with the old-style Stars and Stripes.

  •Miss Sykes – Hellboy. Enough said.

  •Evans – Spiderman. He had equipped himself with one of those party spray things to enable him to squirt his web over everyone, but it was confiscated by the minibus driver and he forgot to ask for it back.

  •Professor Rapson – Professor X because it was easy for him to remember.

  •Dr Dowson – Dr Doom. Ditto.

  •Miss North had refused to participate, much to everyone’s relief, and I was staying behind with Leon. We were having a quiet night in.

  Anyway, we waved them off from the front steps because, as Leon said, we might never see some, any, or all of them, again. No one seemed particularly dismayed by this prospect.

  That was Monday. Things soon got worse.

  Tuesday

  (The Early Hours)

  Their return was nowhere near as epic as their departure.

  No one is very clear how it happened but, at some point in the evening, they had all become separated. I’m not sure how you can lose a group of colourfully clad superheroes but they’d managed it, no problem at all.

  First to come to grief was the Great God Thor who, displaying the usual historian sense of direction, had somehow got himself lost and was wandering out of Rushford towards Ireland – and ultimately America – when he encountered what turned out to be his lifelong companion, Angus. When questioned afterwards, both appeared equally confused as to the details of their meeting, but it turned out to be a happy accident for the pair of them because, only five minutes later, they encountered a group of lively and slightly inebriated young men who happened to have a number of issues with Thor and his new friend. Things would have gone badly for the Great God had he been alone but, fortunately, Angus slipped naturally into the role of trusty sidek
ick, standing over the Great God when he tripped over his hammer, and pluckily defending him against all comers. Having seen off their attackers, they happily turned their footsteps in the direction they believed St Mary’s to lie, although by now, the evening’s exertions had become a little too much for Angus, who had to be carried home. Mr Bashford’s injuries were severe enough to need monitoring for forty-eight hours in Sick Bay, in case of concussion, although how they’d be able to tell was a bit of a mystery.

  It didn’t get any better. Mr Fantastic and his elastic arms were delivered to St Mary’s in a police car. No charges were brought, but he was instructed to write a letter of apology to a Miss McLelland, who had never before met a superhero with nine-foot-long appendages and had had to be taken into Tesco’s and given a glass of water.

  Markham won the ‘Who can come home with the most traffic cones?’ competition. He always does. Seven at the first count, equalling the current record (already held by him), which soared to eight after I had the forethought to nip in and remove the one sitting in solitary splendour on Dr Bairstow’s desk with the rude verse attached. The one which began ‘There was a Director of St Mary’s…’

  Wherever they’d been and whatever they’d been up to, General Zod, Darth Vader and Lex Luthor didn’t pitch up until after breakfast the next morning with no clear memory of the night before, although they thought there might have been a badger.

  Professor X and Dr Doom mistakenly boarded an overnight delivery van believing it to be the local bus home. On being discovered some miles away and escorted to the train station, they’d been unable to remember the word for Rushford and boarded a train to Redruth instead. They spent the next day zig-zagging around the country, eventually arriving, dishevelled but cheerful, around tea-time.

  Our revered Deputy Director, just in case anyone was wondering, was brought home in a disgraceful condition by Captain America, Hellboy and The Hulk, themselves not much better. They experienced some difficulty getting through the front door since the four of them had linked arms – for stability, presumably – and they spent a considerable amount of time bouncing gently off the door frame and staggering backwards before coordinating themselves enough to mount another attempt. A small crowd gathered to watch them making complete arses of themselves. I believe a great deal of money was won and lost on whether they would ever gain entrance and it was very possible they might be there still if Mrs Partridge – of all people – had not sighed in exasperation and arranged them in single file instead of horizontally, after which, to loud cheers, they successfully navigated the Scylla and Charybdis of the front doors. She gently guided them into the Great Hall, where, good deed done, she abandoned them to find their own way to their beds. Dieter wandered off to talk to his pods. Peterson, apparently on automatic pilot, successfully found his way to his room. Hellboy was subsequently discovered washed, pyjama’d and serenely slumbering in her own bed. No one had any idea how that had happened. Spiderman, left to his own devices, fell asleep on the bottom stair. It seemed kindest to leave him there so we did.

  Dr Bairstow, passing that way some ten minutes later and very carefully ignoring the latest thing in draught excluders, commented to no one in particular that his unit appeared to be disintegrating around him and limped on his way. His temper was not improved by finding his beloved car in the middle of the Great Hall the next morning.

  I remember staring at it with Markham swaying gently beside me.

  ‘How the hell did you get it in here?’

  ‘To be honest, I can’t remember.’

  ‘What do you remember?’

  He peered at me. ‘Who are you?’

  For some people, Tuesday was a very gentle day. Everyone used their indoor voices.

  Thursday

  We spent most of Wednesday preparing for Mr Calvin Cutter. I chivvied Peterson and Markham mercilessly, even though they both looked like death in trousers, and then on Thursday, just as things seemed to be settling down again, Mr Calvin Cutter arrived.

  I disliked him on sight.

  I don’t know why, but I was expecting someone tall and artistic, who would toss his silky blond hair and utter, ‘Darling…’ with every other sentence.

  Calvin Cutter was below average height, flabby around the middle and had one of those mobile headset things attached to one ear. I don’t know why he didn’t have it implanted subcutaneously because he was never off it.

  I met him in the Boss’s office. He was talking on his phone. Dr Bairstow stood nearby, rigid with outrage at this discourtesy.

  ‘Ah, Dr Maxwell,’ he said, ruthlessly cutting across the chattering Mr Cutter. ‘May I introduce Mr Calvin Cutter, co-owner of Cutter Cavendish Films.’

  ‘How do you do,’ I said, also ignoring his phone conversation, and holding out my hand. It would be interesting to see how many conversations he could hold at the same time.

  He stared at it vaguely, still talking to someone apparently named Justin. I seized his unresisting paw and shook it vigorously.

  ‘Welcome to St Mary’s.’

  ‘What?’ he said, breaking off his phone conversation.

  ‘Excellent.’ I beamed. ‘I’m glad that difficult point has been covered. I must admit, we didn’t expect you to agree so easily.’

  ‘What?’

  Dr Bairstow was regarding me with rare approval. I made a mental note to request a pay rise before it evaporated.

  ‘Shall we begin,’ I said, moving towards the door.

  ‘Wait,’ he said, startled. ‘No, not you, Justin. Just a minute, Dr Umm…’

  ‘I thought we could start with Wardrobe,’ I said, gesturing ahead of me and setting off at a good speed. I really wasn’t bothered whether he was with me or not. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d been discovered roaming the corridors of St Mary’s having long a conversation with myself.

  Mrs Enderby had done us proud. A History of Costume through the Ages was ranged around three sides of the gallery, not coincidentally blocking the door in and out of R&D.

  ‘We’ll start at Saxon and early Norman, Mr Cutter. Please note the similarities in style. Moving on now to the early Middle Ages. You can see how, over time, the surcoat has evolved and…’

  He wasn’t listening, staring over my shoulder, and yapping away for dear life. I suspected Justin was being difficult. I waited until he had finished, beamed at him again, and said, ‘Well, that’s very generous of you. Don’t think we don’t appreciate your kind offer.’

  ‘What…?’

  ‘You must let me introduce you to Mrs Enderby, who has charge of all matters pertaining to costume and wardrobe. I believe you are familiar with her work. I think Dr Bairstow has already forwarded you a list of productions in which St Mary’s has collaborated. Her designs for The She-Wolf of France were nominated for an award.’

  ‘Shut up, Justin, I’m trying to concentrate here. Just wait a minute, will you?’

  Of course, he could try just switching the damn thing off.

  ‘She’s just through here,’ I said, ushering him into Wardrobe, a hive of chattering activity, and where their latest creation, a 17th-century court dress stood in eye-catching pride of place.

  I couldn’t see her initially, but it seemed safe to assume the pair of legs poking out from underneath the huge skirt was hers. Which, of course, meant that while her nether regions were on show, her top half couldn’t be seen. Or see.

  She was talking. ‘And don’t talk to me about Cutter Cavendish Productions. Their last picture was a disgrace. Well, not commercially, of course, but they had servant girls in costumes that laced up the back. And their leading man kept wearing those stupid flimsy shirts with the big sleeves. And all those heaving bosoms. They call him Tits and Bums, you know, because he doesn’t care about any sort of historical accuracy so long as everyone’s bosom is falling out of their bodice and the men’s breeches are so tight that if you look hard enough you can see every – well, never mind. The man’s an idiot, anyway.’

  I
really thought I’d covered all my bases. Professor Rapson, if not behind locked doors, was as good as. Sykes was on a horse somewhere far, far away. Bashford – who might or might not be concussed – was in Sick Bay. Miss Lingoss was … I didn’t know where Miss Lingoss was, but she wasn’t here, which was the main thing. And Markham was off in the cupboard the Security Section persist in referring to as their nerve centre and well out of harm’s way. I never, ever thought it would be Mrs Enderby, of all people.

  I cleared my throat.

  There was a kind of frozen silence and the already voluminous skirt bulged even further and then grew still. Very, very slowly, two legs were drawn up inside the fabric.

  I’m an historian. I can deal with a crisis. God knows I’ve had enough practice.

  I said brightly, ‘Has anyone seen Mrs Enderby this morning?’

  Heads shook and her loyal staff assured us, with complete sincerity, that no one had seen Mrs Enderby that morning. So convincing were they that if I hadn’t just seen her taking up residence beneath a 17th-century court dress I would have believed them myself. Someone shyly suggested she might be in Admin, checking over invoices. Someone else suggested she was out on the gallery ensuring our display was perfect. They were incredibly convincing. I resolved never again to believe a word this section uttered. Ever.

  ‘Ah, never mind, we’ll catch her later then. Come along, Mr Cutter.’

  Back out in the corridor, he peered out of a window.

  ‘What are those big white things out there?’

  I peered cautiously because, quite honestly, it could have been anything. ‘Oh no, it’s all right, Mr Cutter, it’s a swan. Several swans in fact.’