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Synopsis
Jodi Taylor and the disaster magnets of St Mary's return with a story of chaos and catastrophe, to wish you a very Merry Christmas.
Coming to a screen near you...
TEMPORA, THE TIME TRAVELLING TOURIST
Starring Astrid Gustafsson as Helen of Troy - 'the face that launched a thousand ships' (Homer)
With Dirk Thrust as Achilles - 'demi god and hero' (Homer)
And the Wooden Horse as Himself - 'easily the least wooden performance from anyone participating in this particular travesty' (Dr Maxwell)
Watch and weep as this epic tale unfolds...
*
It's drama, darling! In this year's festive tale, the nation's favourite film producer, Calvin Cutter, returns to darken the doors of St Mary's once again...
Readers love Jodi Taylor:
'The Chronicles of St Mary's is one of the most enjoyable series of books I have ever read'
'Jodi Taylor is a master storyteller'
'I don't think I've ever laughed out loud so much reading a book'
'I am always gutted when I finish a Jodi Taylor book as I know I will have to wait for the next one'
Release date: December 25, 2024
Publisher: Headline
Print pages: 112
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
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Lights! Camera! Mayhem!
Jodi Taylor
Starring . . .
Tempora, the Time-Travelling Tourist |
Astrid Gustafsson |
Darkly Smouldering Hero. Sadly underused, but perhaps one day . . . |
Dirk Thrust |
The second half of Cavendish Cutter Productions |
Calvin Cutter |
Director of St Mary’s |
Dr Bairstow |
Personal Assistant/Muse of History |
Mrs Partridge |
Senior Priestess at the Temple of Athena |
Dr Maxwell |
Fine upstanding Security guards from St Mary’s |
Mr Markham |
Mr Evans |
|
Hapless eagle victim |
Adrian Meiklejohn |
Deputy Director of St Mary’s |
Dr Peterson |
Keeper of the Sacred Data Stack |
Rosie Lee |
Former Resident of Welwyn Garden City |
Mrs Enderby |
First Greek Hero |
Odysseus, son of Laertes |
Second Greek Hero |
Diomedes, son of Tydeus |
Dei Ex Machina |
Smallhope & Pennyroyal |
Full supporting cast of |
|
Priests and Priestesses Handmaidens Door wardens Soldiers and guards Citizens of Troy Psychotic eagle Damaged drone Sacrificial chickens Trojan drop goats
‘Um . . .’ said Adrian. I don’t know if anyone’s ever noticed, but there are a million interpretations of the word ‘Um . . .’ There’s the ‘Um . . .’ that means ‘I’ve forgotten what I was going to say’. Then there’s the ‘Um . . .’ that says ‘I’m not sure what’s going on’. Even the ‘Um . . .’ that politely and delicately tries to attract attention. And then, of course, there’s the ‘Um . . .’ that precedes the apocalypse. Guess which one this was.
Ten days earlier . . . Just when I thought things were going reasonably well at St Mary’s and I could relax a little, we were hit by an all-staff briefing from Dr Bairstow. ‘This will be fun,’ whispered Leon, sliding into the seat beside me. It struck me he was looking much more cheerful than the occasion warranted. ‘Do you know what this is all about?’ I asked. He grinned and settled back in his seat. ‘Oh yes.’ ‘Tell me.’ ‘Nope.’ ‘Tell me or I’ll send Rosie Lee round to break your legs.’ ‘Your words have no power over me.’ ‘Tell me or I’ll . . .’ Silence fell as Dr Bairstow descended the stairs to take his traditional place on the half-landing. ‘Good morning. Thank you all for coming at such short notice.’ As if we ever had a choice. ‘I am delighted to announce that after prolonged and sometimes quite cut-throat negotiations . . .’ He left a pause long enough for us to imagine and admire these cut-throat negotiations. ‘. . . Cavendish Cutter Productions is again to avail itself of the unique services offered by St Mary’s. We are to provide professional advice in connection with the production of the second series of their ever-popular TV show Tempora, the Time-Travelling Tourist. At, I have to say, a fee very advantageous to this unit.’ He left a pause long enough for us to imagine and admire this advantageous fee. ‘A preliminary visit will take place next week. Mr Cutter will be accompanied here by various key members of his team, to whom you will extend the traditional St Mary’s courtesy. Their purpose will be to familiarise themselves with the background material being prepared for them by our History Department and to liaise with Wardrobe, who will be designing and making the costumes required for the new series. ‘We expect their stay to last between five and seven days. All compromising material – the Archive, contentious History Department files, and the pods themselves – will be removed to our remote site under the supervision of Chief Technical Officer Farrell. Along with as many of you as wish to accompany him.’ Looking around I could see that included nearly everyone. It certainly included me. Calvin Cutter was the world’s biggest – I believe the technical expression is . . . ‘prat’. I’d come across him once before and had no intention of repeating the experience. Besides, life at any of our remote sites was rarely dull. My last visit had manifested a bunch of geographically challenged football-playing Vikings, and that’s not something you see every day. A buzz of excitement from my similarly thinking colleagues rose around the Great Hall. I had, however, greatly underestimated Dr Bairstow’s cunning. Slowly turning a page of his notes, he waited for silence to fall before he continued. ‘Mr Cutter has asked me to inform you that he would very much like to offer members of St Mary’s the chance to act as extras in his forthcoming enterprise. For which, of course, the appropriate fees will be paid. Preliminary interviews – or auditions, as I believe they are known – will be carried out after Christmas for anyone interested in availing themselves of this unique opportunity to participate in the shooting of Mr Cutter’s exciting flagship series.’ Dr Bairstow paused, artistically turning another page and waiting for us to admire his grasp of theatrical terms. The buzz in the Great Hall became a roar. I could hear Markham informing someone that he was an act-or, you know. I had a horrible feeling St Mary’s would be to stage-struck what the Black Death was to the Middle Ages. The result would probably be similar, too. Two-thirds of the population dead and Europe laid waste. On the other hand . . . I could be a star!
Ten days later . . . ‘Oh my God,’ said Peterson, hanging out of my office window because his faced in the wrong direction. ‘It’s her.’ Peterson is Deputy Director of St Mary’s and frequently displays levels of intelligence commensurate to senior managers everywhere. The door burst open and Markham rushed in, trailing clouds of excitement, followed by Mr Evans, trailing a ham sandwich. ‘Oh my God, is it her?’ he squeaked. Markham, I mean, not Evans. At approximately the size of the principality of Wales – from where he definitely does not hail – Evans is too big to squeak. They crowded around my window, pushing me out of the way. There are two windows in my office, but Rosie Lee was standing at the other one and obviously she had that to herself. ‘It is her,’ she declared. ‘I thought it was. She looks just the same as she did in Joan of Arc.’ Joan of Arc was an earlier Calvin Cutter creation and Astrid Gustafsson’s first major role. In this version of events – a memorable departure from the more traditional tale – Joan did not die at the stake but leaped from the flames (method never specified) wielding the cross assembled for her by an English infantryman. Striking down everyone in her path – it seemed she had, at some point, acquired slightly improbable Eastern self-defence skills – Joan went on to overcome about forty armour-clad, sword-wielding, battle-hardened knights, before finally succumbing to a cowardly thrust from behind, delivered by a blood-crazed and frothing-into-his-beard King Henry VI himself, who had apparently turned up to supervise the cruel execution of his supposed nemesis. I’ve no idea how he would have managed that – especially as he’d only have been about ten years old at the time. Anyway, eventually dying lengthily and prettily, and bathed in soft-focus golden light, Astrid Gustafsson’s Joan ascended into heaven above, having been sainted on the spot by the Bishop of Beauvais – who had been presiding over her execution in the first place but now, presumably, had seen the error of his ways. This astonishing film had concluded with half a dozen buxom young women in their diaphanous nighties – without whom no Calvin Cutter film would be complete – apparently representing angels. They enveloped Joan in a magnificent golden cloak and, for reasons never established, placed a crown upon her head. The clouds rolled back, the choir belted out something suitably angelic, Joan ascended in more soft focus and the screen faded to black. The End. Another Calvin Cutter classic. Made a fortune at the box office, apparently. So pleased had Calvin been with the actress who had managed to convey this astonishing storyline with a straight face that he immediately signed her up to star in his next project – an epic time-travel series. The one based on David Sands’ popular time-travel books published under the series title Sands of Time. I forget the original name of Sands’ heroine, but on Planet Cutter she was known as Tempora, the Time-Travelling Tourist – thus thoroughly confusing Markham who had always thought Tempora was some sort of batter until Mrs Mack led him quietly away for explanations. Anyway, in every episode, Tempora would leap into her time-travelling vehicle – David Sands’ original idea of a wrist-worn device had been replaced by something suitably futuristic which graunched its way dramatically through the centuries, trailing clouds of psychedelic smoke as it went – and become embroiled in another exciting adventure, which mostly involved her running, screaming, falling over, being rescued and having sex. In various permutations depending on the plot. The first series had been a huge success and Calvin Cutter was about to embark upon the second. Hence his presence here at St Mary’s. And that of his leading actors. The actress playing Tempora – the famous Astrid Gustafsson now disembarking from the smart SUV parked under my window – stood six feet tall in her stockinged feet. Her long silver-blonde hair was caught up in a casual knot, but what you saw first were her extraordinary blue eyes. Clear and calm and framed with thick black lashes. Obviously she was wearing normal clothes at the moment, but her regular time-travelling uniform comprised leather boots with six-inch heels and a silver outfit moulded so completely to her body that fights still broke out across the land as to whether it was an actual costume or just something the studio’s wardrobe department sprayed on every morning. The nation was more divided over this issue than whether to indict the current PM for a series of misdemeanours longer than War and Peace. When questioned about this astonishing costume in television interviews, Mr Cutter’s explanation was always that it was vital to the story and that the time-travel machine couldn’t work unless Tempora was wearing it. I should imagine physicists across the land must have been gobsmacked to discover that the solution to the problem of successful time travel was simply to spray the nearest female with silver paint. Apparently an entire department at one of our more distinguished centres of learning – yes, all right, Thirsk University – was devoting their afternoons to watching every episode and drinking beer in their tireless quest to resolve this scientific conundrum. Sadly, despite months of intensive research, they hadn’t even been able to work out how she got in and out of the silver clingy thingy. Anyway, Tempora was inevitably rescued each week by her much more sensibly dressed co-star, the really rather gorgeous Dirk Thrust, and every episode ended with her falling into his arms. Because of all this, in both the real world and that of St Mary’s, she was inevitably known as Tempora, the Time-Travelling Tottie. And now she was here. Actually standing on the South Lawn under my window. Not in six-inch heels, should anyone be concerned for our ancient bit of turf – although given everything that had happened to it under the current regime, it seemed safe to assume a six-foot actress in killer heels wouldn’t cause it any great problems. Back to the window. Markham, Peterson and Rosie Lee all turned to look at me and grinned. Because guess who’d been allocated Tottie Duty? Chaperone . . . guide . . . assistant . . . you name it – my responsibility was to escort Astrid Gustafsson around the building, make sure she arrived at various appointments on time, and didn’t get lost or have a ceiling come down on her. A not unlikely possibility given the toll R&D has taken on St Mary’s over the years. Additionally I was to make sure she had everything she needed, answer questions and just generally stop her wandering off and getting lost. Simple, you might think. You’re wrong. So, so wrong.
I flew around the gallery and down the stairs, arriving just as our visitors mounted the front steps where Dr Bairstow was waiting to greet them. Mr Strong was supervising their luggage. Our guests would be staying in the slightly more modern Staff Block, so they all stood quite a good chance of getting through the visit without their accommodation disintegrating around them. First up the steps was Dirk Thrust. The archetypal leading man. Generally reckoned to have so little between his ears that it was a miracle they didn’t overlap. His ears, I mean. He paused at the top and smouldered. Tall, dark and handsome – he’d make a fabulous Charles II. Dirk Thrust was followed by Calvin Cutter – or CC as he now liked to be known. He hadn’t changed much since the last time I’d seen him, although admittedly during his previous visit we had exploded a number of rocks all over him – as you do – and he’d spent a lot of time under a table. Still average height and a little soft around the middle. The only slight difference was a smart new earpiece that kept him constantly connected with the outside world and enabled him to sustain multiple conversations simultaneously. This new one was sleek and silver and flashed coloured lights on a seemingly random basis. God knows what it was doing to his brain. Perhaps this wasn’t the real Calvin Cutter. Perhaps this was a cyborg of some kind. The latest thing in AI, perhaps. A Terminator, sent by the Time Police to kill us all. I made a mental note to discuss this new and interesting theory with Peterson at the first opportunity. But back to CC. ‘Ah,’ he said, breaking off his telephone conversation and grasping my hand in his flabby paw. ‘You’re Dr Maxwell. I remember you.’ Probably not for the right reasons. ‘How’s Marj?’ I said. ‘She was having a baby, I believe.’ Marj was his long-suffering PA. As far as I could make out, she ran Cavendish Cutter Productions while CC was away. I suspected she ran Cavendish Cutter Productions while CC was actually present, as well. ‘Oh, I think she’s had another one since then. Hang on.’ He thumped his ear. ‘Marj? . . . Yes, at St Mary’s . . . Yes, they’re still here . . . I know – I’m surprised, too. Anyway, it’s just come up in conversation – how many children do you have? . . . Well, of course I know . . . Yes, I do . . . I sent a birthday card . . . Well, yes, but you told me it was a boy . . . Yes, you did . . . No, Marj, I listen all the time. And anyway, it’s the thought that counts.’ He stared at his fingers, performed a rapid mental calculation and then said with confidence, ‘Two. You have two children . . . Really? . . . When did that happen? . . . I definitely remember the one you had on my desk during that scriptwriters’ meeting. Terrible mess. I had to have all twenty-three copies of the script for Victoria’s Love Agony – the Queen’s Forbidden Passion completely reprinted . . . Well, yes, all right, you had the twenty-three copies repri— Yes, but . . . No, but . . . You’re never going to let that go, are you? . . . You could have gone to the hospital at any . . . Well, yes, I do remember you weren’t around for a while because I couldn’t find the . . . No, it wasn’t on my desk, Marj, first place I loo— That’s not what in-trays are for, Marj . . . Look, I can’t . . . Hello? Hello?’ As Peterson had once remarked, Calvin Cutter really was rather good value. Tempora, or Astrid, as I suppose I should call her, was a completely different kettle of fish. Sometimes, meeting someone famous can be a bit of a disappointment, but not in this case. Tempora – sorry, Astrid – was exactly as she appeared on-screen. Even more so, perhaps – and when she donned her famous time-travelling outfit and piled her hair on top of her head in her equally famous beehive, she was well over six foot six. But even out of costume, standing here on the steps outside St Mary’s, she was the most striking woman I’d ever seen. Dr Bairstow was shaking hands and welcoming everyone to St Mary’s and we ushered director, actors and senior members of the production team in through the front door. Safely. No random bits of building dropped off. In fact, the place looked quite nice. The normal historian vortex of unstable tables, one-legged whiteboards, piles of files, and blizzards of yellow stickies all over the priceless oak panelling had been removed. The Great Hall was now revealed in all its glory and I have to say, with its flagged floor and hammer beams, it did look impressive. Only an hour later, of course, it was cluttered up with all the equipment and paraphernalia members of the entertainment industry deem necessary for survival in the wild – or outside London, as it’s often known. Most looked as if it had evolved during the Spanish Inquisition and I looked forward to divining its true purpose in due course, but just at that particular moment, the Great Hall did look amazing. We took them up the stairs, around the gallery and into Dr Bairstow’s office, where tea and biscuits were waiting. Mrs Partridge was introduced and I was interested to see CC did remember her name and politely shook her hand. She’d obviously made quite an impression on his previous visit. Everyone took their seats, there were formal introductions, and then we all got stuck in. I’d brought all the research we’d carried out on the production company’s behalf, and thirty seconds later it was spread all over the table and I was deep in discussions about sets and backgrounds. Especially those for episode one. Because, for episode one, I was the expert. I’d actually been there. Because, in episode one, Tempora was going to Troy. From my point of view, things went badly right from the off. Apparently elegant pillared temples and palaces weren’t exciting enough for Calvin Cutter – sorry, CC – and he’d brought his own ideas with him, including sketches of how he thought Troy should look. There was a ziggurat. And a couple of Egyptian pylons. Then something that I thought looked very like the Shard, although apparently I was looking at it upside down so I might have been mistaken. I swear there was a pyramid and a couple of monoliths in there as well. I countered with a folder of sketches and graphics – mostly done by me and Polly Perkins from IT – which showed, if not a more accurate Troy, at least one that could have been achieved by the building methods of the time. Frankly, even with today’s modern construction techniques, they’d have struggled to build some of Cutter’s suggestions. CC wasn’t having any of it. He thumped his ear again. ‘Marj? . . . Yes, of course I’m still at St Mary’s. Why would I not be? Have you still got the artwork for Moses? You know, the bloke who did the thing with the Red Sea. Although what he was doing at the Red Sea if he was on his way to the Promised Land beats me every time. Very woolly navigation skills, if you ask me. I mean – all he had to do was find the Med and turn right. Forty years in the wilderness with fifty thousand kids in the back seat whining “Are we there yet? Are we there yet?” and all because Moses had his map upside down . . . What? . . . Well, I am getting to the point, Marj. Can you get Justin to send over sketches of the exteriors? We can use them again for Troy . . . Because Egypt and Troy are identical . . . No one will notice . . . Oh, sod the critics – what do they know? Cheers, Marj.’ I sighed. This was going to be a very long week. Leon’s advice, just before he departed on the week-long holiday I’d been denied, had been to smile and smile and think of the money. I’d told him women had been doing that for millennia and waved him goodbye. Mrs Enderby was present at the meeting too. I reintroduced them and, evidently remembering the somewhat embarrassing circumstances of their last encounter, she confined herself to a simple ‘Good day’. Calvin Cutter fixed her with a suspicious stare. ‘I’m sure I remember you as having a brogue,’ he said. ‘I’m from Welwyn Garden City,’ she said primly, and we all left it at that. Anyway, this episode was entitled Tempora and the Fall of Troy. For those of you who fondly imagine you are familiar with the story behind the fall of Troy – heads up – you aren’t. According to Calvin Cutter, the legend was to be given a whole new treatment, making it more relevant to today’s modern world, and bringing it in line with current thinking and social mores. Which led to a certain amount of bewilderment by all, and some heavy drinking later that evening by me. ‘It’s Troy,’ said Peterson, putting a margarita in front of me. ‘How many other ways are there to tell the story?’ ‘Perhaps Troy doesn’t fall,’ said Markham. ‘Perhaps it’s the Trojans who build a wooden horse and leave it outside the city, where it’s welcomed by the Greeks who don’t know it’s stuffed to the gunwales with bloodthirsty Trojan spearmen. They creep out at dead of night, run amok through the Greek lines, set fire to the ships, kill as many as they can and enslave the rest. War over – Mycenae falls and Troy dominates that end of the Med for the next five hundred years.’ ‘Or,’ said Peterson, in great excitement, ‘and more in line with today’s modern trends, both sides sit down together for a feast on the beach – at which all special dietary requirements are catered for – and thrash out a way forwards that doesn’t involve bloodshed or the forcible relocation of large numbers of various populations, and all the decisions are reached after extensive and wide-ranging negotiations which prioritise inclusivity, fairness and equality for all.’ ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I can just see Agamemnon, Achilles, Hector and Odysseus going for that. Don’t think much of its chances at the box office, though.’ We’d still been speculating when a copy of the full script had come our way. Allow me to summarise the glorious plot. If History is an important part of your life, you might need to skip this next bit. Tempora jumps into her time-travelling device and is psychedelically whirled back to besieged Troy, where there’s a bit of a panic on because Helen – yes, her – has just died. I can’t remember from what. I’m not sure it’s ever specified. Anyway, by the sort of coincidence that happens all the time, Tempora is a dead ringer for Helen. Obviously in Cutterworld, statuesque Nordic blondes are constantly being mistaken for Mediterranean Greeks. They must be so bored with that. But, to continue this enthralling storyline – the Trojans, apparently mastering fluent English with ease, persuade Tempora to impersonate Helen and win the war for them. Why they don’t just open the gates and hand Helen’s lifeless body back to Menelaus so everyone can go home and pick up their lives is never adequately explained. Tempora willingly agrees to become Helen – again, for reasons beyond the ken of man. Achilles does challenge Hector to their famous duel but, in a teeny tiny departure from the original legend, Hector has been too badly wounded to fight, so he persuades Tempora to don his armour and fight in his place.
!!!
It’s worth noting that at this point in the script, Dr Bairstow was the only person at St Mary’s who had managed not to have a WTF moment – but it was close. Anyway, Tempora and Achilles do battle on the plains of Troy, and after an epic fight, she defeats him – I swear I am not making this up – and when she whips off her helmet in a true Eowyn moment, he falls in love with her. There’s a torrid sex scene behind the bushes – the script was silent on whether they would keep their armour on or not. Peterson, Markham and I spent a happy half-hour drinking and imagining the clanking. Unfortunately, her husband Paris – who, for some reason, has been kept in the dark about Tempora – doesn’t know it’s her and not Hector, and shoots off his arrow and catches Achilles on his famous heel. Achilles makes a long and moving speech proclaiming his love for Helen/Tempora and how all mankind should live together in peace and harmony, and then the greatest warrior of his time dies in her arms. Of his heel wound. Heartbroken at her lover’s death, Tempora drags herself back to Troy where everyone is terribly pleased with her. She, however, has gone off the Trojans big time – and Paris in particular – and now she secretly sides with the Greeks. Stick with me, because now the magnificently manufactured wooden horse turns up. You might wonder from where they got the wood. I did. Panic not – imbued with massive enthusiasm for Project Wooden Horse, all the Greeks race to the shoreline and, in a very 20th-century montage and to a catchy soundtrack, immediately begin to dismantle their ships. Obviously no one’s even slightly concerned about how they’ll get home afterwards. Paddle home on the horse, perhaps. Anyway, as a time traveller, Tempora knows full well the horse will be stuffed full of Greeks. Seeing this as an opportunity for revenge, she persuades King Priam to bring it into the city. Cue lots of sack and slaughter while Helen/Tempora cackles demonically from the battlements and kills Paris in hand-to-hand combat while dramatically silhouetted against the leaping flames as Troy burns to the ground. Obviously at some point she has to escape the burning city and return to her time-travelling machine, which she does while being pursued by her original husband, Menelaus, who can’t decide whether to shoot her or shag her. Sadly, he doesn’t get the chance to do either – Tempora trips over her own two feet as she’s running away and is rescued by good old Dirk Thrust – this happens every week – who leaps out of the undergrowth. Both Calvin Cutter and Homer are silent as to the reason behind this dramatic appearance of the Generic Darkly Smouldering Hero at this point. Just as Menelaus is poised for the killing blow, Dirk saves her and Tempora survives to time travel another day. The End. For anyone wondering about David Sands’ original time-travelling story – it was in there somewhere, except that it had been set on a moon base in the future and involved robots who were gender neutral, and there certainly wasn’t any sex. Otherwise the adaptation was completely faithful to the book. Back to the script. I’d actually been asked for my comments on this remarkable document. Mindful of Dr Bairstow’s instructions, I ignored twenty years of historianism, and said faintly, ‘Very nice,’ before going off in search of a darkened room and alcohol. And not in that order.
Anyway, I’d approached Tottie Duty with a certain amount of reluctance, only to discover, slightly to my resentment, that Astrid was a really nice person whom it was impossible to dislike. ‘Hi,’ she said, after our first script meeting had finished and we were on our way around the gallery. CC had disappeared off for a frenzy of ear thumping and chat, and she and I were pretty much alone. ‘Nice to meet you at last, Dr Maxwell.’ ‘Max,’ I said. ‘And welcome to St Mary’s.’ ‘That’s very kind. You must think we’re a real pain in the arse.’ Taken aback, I hesitated just that moment too long to deny it, but fortunately I was saved by Markham, who had been hovering with intent. I introduced them and said, ‘Would you like some tea?’ She sighed. ‘I’d rather have a vodka.’ Well, that was promising. We seated ourselves in the bar and sipped for a while. She seemed happy enough with just her drink but I felt I should make polite conversation so I mentioned I’d seen Joan of Arc. ‘I won an award for that,’ she said dismally. I struggled not to sound too surprised. ‘How lovely for you.’ She shrugged. ‘Not really. There’s an annual award for the worst adaptation of an author’s work. I don’t know if you’ve heard of it. The BADs – Book Adaptation Disasters – and Joan was the winner three or four years ago.’ ‘Really?’ I said, motioning to Markham to get her a refill because this sounded interesting. ‘Yes. Back in the mists of time, a well-known production outfit – not Calvin’s, before you ask – acquired the rights to a much-loved book by a much-loved author. The finished product was – in the opinion of everyone – an unmitigated abomination.’ I had to ask. ‘What did the author say?’ ‘Apparently he was rather pissed at the somewhat cavalier treatment of one of the nation’s favourite books. Actually I think he was rather pissed for an entire month afterwards. Rumour had it he called down curses on the heads of everyone involved, and his plans for their future made Jack the Ripper look like Mother Theresa— Oh, thanks.’ Markham had set down another drink in front of her. ‘And did he carry them out?’ he enquired, hugely excited at this brief glimpse into the glamorous world of acting. ‘No. His friends kept him drunk for a month and when he eventually sobered up, the production company had moved on to massacre someone else’s cherished work.’ She buried her nose in her drink. ‘So – the award?’ I prompted. ‘Oh yes. Well, when the author was functioning again, he sat down and plotted his revenge. The irony was that he’d made a shedload of money from the film which, he said, somehow made things even worse. So, he and a number of other authors, whose work had been similarly treated, sat down in the pub one night and jokingly dreamed up the annual BADs. The worst adaptation of a book for that year. And not just bad. Because most adaptations are bad – that’s par for the course. No, the winner had to be absolutely dire. Skin-crawling, fingernails-on-blackboard, cringingly awful. The bigger the desecration of a once fine work, the more chance it stood of winning. They called it a compensation to authors for having their life’s work ruined. The prize money wasn’t a huge amount initially, but other authors have chipped in over the years and it’s now quite a prestigious event in its own right. There’s a huge ceremony every year when they really take the piss out of the BAFTAs and the Oscars. There’s a red carpet and a grand location. The blokes all wear comfortable, sensible suits and we women enter into the spirit of the evening by wearing the most ridiculous, uncomfortable, unflattering, but terribly, terribly on trend, darling garments we can find. And if you can walk properly in your footwear then they won’t let you in. All the press are there, cameras flashing, with everyone on nipple alert.’ Markham spilled his drink. ‘I’m sorry?’ ‘Unexpected nipples. It’s not a proper evening until at least three have made impromptu appearances. There’s a rating system and everything.’ ‘Number or quality?’ said Markham, seemingly oblivious to my let the subject drop gestures. ‘Oh, number, definitely. Quality wouldn’t dare show its face at these events. Last year was a seven-nipple affair – not a record, before you ask – because three actresses fell down the stairs together and there were massive wardrobe malfunctions.’ ‘Seven?’ said Markham, working things out on his fingers. ‘How . . . ?’ ‘Ignore him,’ I said. ‘Were any of them . . . um . . . yours?’ ‘Oh, no. I’d entered into the spirit of the thing by cobbling together a couple of my mum’s dishcloths and a strategically placed feather. And a body suit underneath. I went with Dirk – who’s a lot more fun than you think. Get him to do his impersonation of that politician – Jack Daniels – and the unexpected aubergine. It’s hilarious. Anyway, one of the nipples was his. Dirk’s, I mean. He’d rigged his shirt to fall off at a strategic moment on the grounds that he spent so much time on-screen with it hanging in tatters off his body that no one would recognise his face. So the two of us posed together on the carpet, the cameras closed in, and voilà – nipple.’ Markham had assumed a faraway look. Either he was contemplating asking Dr Bairstow to employ something similar here or envisioning his own award ceremony in which he . . . No. I shut that thought down quite firmly. Naked hoovering had been bad enough. I dragged the conversation back. ‘So you won the award for Joan of Arc.’ ‘Yep. Worst Female Actress category. I accepted with pleasure, made a clever speech which was completely wasted because so was everyone else. The book’s author – poor soul – was discovered assaulting a hat stand under the impression it was Calvin Cutter, several additional fights broke out, the police were called and I took Dirk and his nipple home. I have to say it was one of the best nights out we’d had for a long time. We’re confident Tempora and the Fall of Troy will put us both right back on top again.’ She sighed and drooped over her vodka. ‘You’re the star,’ I said. ‘Can’t you say something to Calvin?’ ‘He doesn’t listen to me,’ she said gloomily. ‘Really?’ ‘Well, you don’t think I wear that silver clingy thingy by choice, do you?’ ‘Well . . .’ ‘Once it’s on, it’s on for the whole day – and that’s it. I can’t eat, drink, or wee. I can barely bend over in it. It even restricts my breathing. I’ve fainted a couple of times. The nurse on set tried to get the team to give me a two-hour break in the middle of the day, but it’s so much faff to get in and out of that we couldn’t do it.’ ‘That’s awful,’ I said, genuinely shocked, because I’d seen her on-screen, running and jumping and hurling men into the middle of next week, and generally not giving any indication of physical discomfort. ‘I’m an act-or, darling,’ she said when I mentioned this. ‘Although, to give him his due, Calvin has told them to come up with better fabric, but they haven’t found anything that doesn’t wrinkle in all the wrong places, so . . . yeah.’ She stared into her glass. ‘And the boots?’ ‘Make my bottom stick out. If I’m not careful, I find myself walking like a constipated T-rex.’ ‘Couldn’t you get Marj to do it? Advocate for you with the wardrobe people.’ She looked suddenly thoughtful. I took full advantage. ‘What’s she like – Marj, I mean?’ ‘Oh, she’s lovely. Runs the place. Runs Calvin.’ ‘Did she really have a baby on his desk?’ ‘And broke his thumb and two fingers.’ ‘Because of the contractions?’ ‘No, nothing to do with that. That was a completely different occasion. I think he just annoyed her that day. She actually turned up on set once and fought her way through a phalanx of Spartan warriors to get six months of unpaid tea money out of Calvin.’ ‘He paid up?’ ‘We all paid up. It’s not everyone who can traumatise twenty-five stuntmen, two internationally renowned stars of stage and screen, a flock of geese and Calvin Cutter with one look. The woman is a legend. But I doubt even she’ll be able to free me from the silver clingy thingy.’ She sighed. I felt quite sorry for her, even though she was taller, better looking, thinner, younger, and a single minute’s work earned her ten times more than me in a whole year. And I really liked her. Although the scriptwriters were on my list of people to be dealt with one day. A swift trip to the Cretaceous for them, perhaps. Along with their boss, the less than lovely Calvin Cutter.
At this point I suppose I’d better include a few explanations for the completely bewildered. We’re the Institute of Historical Research at St Mary’s, just outside Rushford. Our purpose – when not up to our necks in the glamorous world of Calvin Cutter – is to observe and document major historical events in contemporary time. I did once describe it as time travel – in fact I was quite loud and proud about it just outside of Coventry – and someone grassed me up to Dr Bairstow who addressed me for nearly twenty minutes on the subject and never repeated himself once. So sorry, everyone – we’re back to observing major historical whatnots in contemporary thingummy again. Except – as you may have gathered – not just at the moment. Funding is always a problem for us – St Mary’s is not cheap to run, as Dr Bairstow points out to me ten times a week – so he pimps us out on a regular basis. We advise on historical matters. Authors come to us – well, they do if they have any sense – to get their research right, we lecture in local schools and colleges, and we’re the official advisers to Calvin Cutter’s production company. For a considerable sum of money, actually, so we have to do a good job. We meticulously assemble everything he needs to know about the historical event he’s about to massacre, have him in for a series of face-to-face briefings, charge him a fortune, and watch him ignore all of it. Something else I should mention at this point – because it will come up in the future – is that not only was my life full of Tempora the Time-Travelling Tottie, but also Adrian the Amazing . . . um . . . ‘Aardvark,’ suggested Markham. ‘Arthropod,’ said Peterson. ‘Android,’ said Markham. ‘Armadillo,’ said Peterson. ‘Shut up, the pair of you,’ said I. Adrian was very keen to assist with Tottie duty. Personally I’d always thought his interest in anything not directly pod-related was zero but I had mistaken the hormonal instability of a young man whose closest – and only – relationship had hitherto been with a giant teapot and who didn’t get out much. ‘I don’t understand it,’ I said to Peterson, as we once again prepared to restore our souls with copious amounts of alcohol. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘A six-foot blonde time traveller who wears spray latex for a living and spends her days either falling over or having sex. What interest could she possibly have for any bloke under the age of . . . well, any bloke who still has a pulse?’ He followed Astrid around. Adrian, I mean – not Peterson. He was assiduous with cups of tea. He was always on hand with biscuits and the like. For the first time in living memory, he began paying attention to his appearance. He wore a clean T-shirt. It didn’t exactly have a pink kitten on the front, but it was an awful lot less death-metallish than his usual efforts. He even combed his hair. I wished Matthew had been around to see that. Matters were further complicated – intentionally so – by Evans from Security, who had taken one look at Miss Gustafsson and immediately volunteered himself. For what, was not entirely clear. ‘For everything, Max,’ he said, not taking his eyes off her for one moment. ‘You name it – I’m your man.’ ‘Seriously?’ I said, because normally the only thing that gets him going around here is a ham sandwich. ‘Max, for the first time in my life, I’ve met a woman who’s actually my size.’ He’s a big bloke is our Mr Evans. ‘Oh,’ I said. Markham, not in any way intending to make my life more difficult – as he had assured me with an expression of such blinding innocence that I very nearly believed him – immediately appointed Evans as bodyguard to the stars, by which he meant Miss Gustafsson (apparently Dirk Thrust would be fending for himself). So now Astrid’s every appearance was accompanied by me – on Tottie duty, for those of you not paying attention – Adrian, ... |
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