Long Story Short

Book : Part of: Chronicles of St. Mary's

by Jodi Taylor

Genres: Time Travel; Historical Fantasy

Synopsis

Now in print for the very first time, this unmissable collection brings together seven short stories from the internationally bestselling Chronicles of St Mary's series, and one special guest tale from somewhere completely different. **Includes brand-new St Mary's short story When Did You Last See Your Father? and original introductions from the author** From riotous misbehaviour in Victorian London to ingenious feats of scientific invention (powdered water - just add water!), and from a chaotic Nativity play starring a vengeful Angel Gabriel to an illegal expedition to Mars, Jodi Taylor knows how to spin a good yarn. --- Christmas Past The Farrells are together at last for their first St Mary's Christmas, a time of riotous misbehaviour and the traditional illegal Christmas jump - this time to Victorian London. Battersea Barricades A glimpse into the past of some of your St Mary's favourites characters in the throes of Civil Uprisings. The Steam-Pump Jump St Mary's Max is injured and tied to Sick Bay but obviously a good historian would never let that get in her way. Step forward, Mr Markham... And Now For Something Completely Different Who would the St Mary's team be to turn down a little Christmas expedition to Mars? An illegal Christmas jump is traditional, after all. When Did You Last See Your Father? Have you ever wondered how things would go if Max's husband met Max's father? This is the story of what can happen if St Mary's doesn't like someone... Desiccated Water Professor Rapson breaks astonishing new ground with his latest feat of scientific invention. Markham and the Anal Probing When Markham disappears in the middle of nowhere, Max jumps to the logical conclusion - alien abduction. Little Donkey A chaotic Nativity play like no other, starring a donkey intent on eating the baby Jesus and a vengeful Angel Gabriel.

Release date: July 11, 2019

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 305

Sample

Introduction

I love writing short stories. They’re so useful for those scraps of plot that can’t be shoehorned into one of the full-length novels. Or for following the back stories of some of the minor characters. Or, in one famous case, for preventing me from going insane when I inadvertently locked myself in someone else’s flat for nine hours and couldn’t get out. Ten thousand words – by hand – in less than nine hours, people!

They’re useful for planting the seeds of future storylines or for experimenting with other voices or even for toppling right off the rails and trying something completely different.

The first compilation, The Long and Short of It, came about because, initially, the short stories were only available as digital shorts and people started saying they didn’t have a Kindle and asking if they could be put together in a print edition. So, we did and, apparently, it was very popular. So much so that my Chanel-bedecked, expensive-jewellery-strewn agent has been forced to exhaust herself by telephoning me constantly from the world’s most luxurious hotels, demanding to know if I’ve yet written enough new shorts for a second compilation – and why not?

It is with enormous relief that I am finally able to lift my head and respond in the affirmative before sinking, exhausted, into an early grave. And here it is – Long Story Short. You’ll find all the short stories published since A Perfect Storm, as well as Little Donkey because I’ve always thought it looked a bit lonely out there all on its own. We’ve even included the two really short stories I wrote one afternoon when I was bored and it was raining and I didn’t want to clean the oven – Desiccated Water and Markham and the Anal Probing, previously only available on my blog.

You’ll find seven St Mary’s stories and one – Little Donkey – from the Frogmorton Farm series.

Christmas Past

The Battersea Barricades

The Steam-Pump Jump

And Now for Something Completely Different

When Did You Last See Your Father?

Desiccated Water

Markham and the Anal Probing

Little Donkey

Most of the stories have their own introductions – just a few details of how and why they came to be written, together with their own Dramatis Thingummy which is often the best fun to write. I hope you enjoy them.

Lots of people to thank – everyone at Accent Press who originally published the stories – and everyone at Headline who are publishing the book. Thanks to, my editor Frankie, Edwards, who, so far is, undaunted by my complete failure to master the art of, comma placing. And thanks to my agent, Hazel Cushion, sock-knitter extraordinaire and wine-drinking encourager.



It was Christmas Eve and all through the house

St Mary’s was heaving like Markham’s pet louse.

Sorry, I don’t know what came over me then. I’ve never actually had the urge to rhyme things before. Either old age or too much eggnog, I suspect. Afterwards, when all the dust had settled, I did say to Peterson, ‘When you drink eggnog, do you get the urge to write poetry?’ To which he replied, ‘I’m pleased and proud to announce I’ve never had the urge either to drink eggnog or write poetry.’ So not a great deal of help there.

Anyway, it was Christmas Eve and St Mary’s was getting ready for the Big Day. We were busy decorating everything that didn’t move, including Vortigern, Mrs Mack’s kitchen cat, the most inanimate object on the planet, now sporting a large red tinsel bow. He was currently slumbering heavily on her desk and completely unaware of this new personal adornment, but someone would suffer when he did wake up. Just so long as it wasn’t me.

St Mary’s looked beautiful. Our admittedly exuberant Christmas decorations covered a multitude of damp patches, peeling plaster, chipped paintwork and mysterious R&D-generated scorch marks. Our special Christmas tree stood to one side of the stairs, leaning slightly as it always did and smothered with tinsel, decorations, and six or seven sets of Christmas lights – which would normally be a cause for concern but fortunately Mr Dieter had supervised the electrics which increased our chances of getting through the Big Day without any major conflagrations. Giant sprigs of holly and ivy had been woven into bizarre three-dimensional shapes we were calling seasonal garlands, and about twenty-five miles of paper chains were festooned across the hall like a giant spider’s web from which I, at least, expected Shelob to emerge at any moment, clacking her mandibles and looking for fresh meat.

Succulent smells were already emanating from the kitchen, giving promise of an even better tomorrow.

The giant fireplace stood empty, awaiting the arrival of the Yule log which would be lit in the morning. The Yule log is supposed to burn for the twelve days of Christmas but that would involve something the size of a Canadian redwood, so we were making do with one of the victims of Professor Rapson’s log-rolling experiment. The one back in the autumn, when it had become sadly apparent there wasn’t a lumberjack among us and Bashford had nearly drowned.

We do this every year – the Yule log, I mean, not the lumberjack thing. Dr Bairstow has the chimney swept ready and we have the Yule log ceremony. Which basically is not a lot different from the May Day Ceremony or the St George’s Day Ceremony or Halloween or Bonfire Night in that it involves lots of alcohol and someone usually gets hurt.

Anyway, the whole place was a hive of activity into which I would be roped if I wasn’t careful, so I made my way back to the one place I knew no work would be happening – my office.

Rosie Lee was clearing her desk and preparing to depart for the day. Seeing me, she said, ‘Well, I’m off,’ and waited for me to say I’d wondered what the smell was, but it was Christmas and I was filled with good will for all mankind. Even this specific specimen of womankind.

‘Oh, before I forget.’ She pulled out a small present, wrapped in red paper.

‘Oh,’ I said, touched. ‘Thank you so much. You shouldn’t have.’

‘I didn’t,’ she said, heading for the door. ‘It’s for Matthew.’

Honour compelled me at least to try for the last word. ‘Where’s the 1536 file?’

‘In your in tray.’

‘And Doggerland?’

‘On your desk.’

‘And the professor’s report on . . .’

‘Top drawer.’ She smirked briefly and slammed the door behind her. Two books fell off my book shelf. I sighed again and yanked open the top drawer to find a small package, wrapped in gold foil and bearing the label, To Max. Merry Christmas. David, Rosie and Benjamin.

I would have felt extremely guilty except that when she opened her bag for her bus fare home she’d find a similar small package labelled To Rosie, Merry Christmas. Leon, Max and Matthew. Revenge is sweet.

Now that the reason for having to set a good example had left for the holidays, there was no need for me even to pretend to continue working. With the exception of Dr Bairstow and Mrs Partridge, I was probably the only person still at her desk anyway and that was bad for my image, so I gave it up and trotted off to wait for Leon and Matthew instead.

I wasn’t sure, at that moment, of my exact status. You hear of single-parent families where one of the partners isn’t around for some reason, but as far as I know, no one has invented a word for the sole remaining member of a family where fifty per cent of the parents and a hundred per cent of the kids are living in the future. ‘Alone’ seemed too depressing a word for it, but I was and had been for some time. These days, it was just me. Leon and Matthew were both living with the Time Police. Leon for medical reasons and Matthew for his own safety. They were, however, returning for Christmas. And Kal was coming down from Thirsk, too. St Mary’s likes to gather its chicks for special occasions.

I got to Hawking Hangar half an hour early, but that was OK because Dieter made me a cup of tea while I waited. Christmas had arrived here as well. All the pods were in and were heavily festooned with seasonal black and yellow hazard tape. Someone had spray-snowed Father Christmases and snowflakes all over the windows of Leon’s office and, far from taking advantage of the seasonal lull to give the pods a thorough servicing, the entire Technical Section, together with Polly Perkins from IT and Miss Lingoss from R&D – today’s hair was a frosty, glittering pale blue – were working on a life-sized mechanical Rudolph whose nose was refusing to glow. My helpful suggestions were ignored.

I finished my tea and wandered outside. The weather was unseasonably warm. I didn’t even need a jacket. There would be no white Christmas this year. I made a mental note to ensure Professor Rapson’s snow-making machine was mysteriously unavailable. Last year it had gone into overdrive and pumped out unbelievable amounts of white stuff which had ­spontaneously combusted on contact with the air and the smell of burned rubber had been with us until May.

The Time Police turned up exactly on time. Their small black pod materialised just outside of Hawking. The door opened and Leon and Matthew, hand in hand, stepped out. They turned and waved to someone inside. The pod disappeared.

I walked into Leon’s arms – very carefully so as not to overbalance him. He could walk, but only slowly and with a stick. He, Ian Guthrie and Markham had crash-landed in Constantinople. They’d all been badly injured. The pod was destroyed and it hadn’t done Constantinople a lot of good either.

‘Hey,’ he said gently, smiling for me alone. ‘All right?’

‘Absolutely fine. You?’

‘Also absolutely fine.’

I turned to Matthew, waiting patiently. ‘Hello there. How about a hug, then?’

He didn’t pull away but he wasn’t wildly enthusiastic either. I pretended not to notice.

‘How long have you got?’ I asked as we made our way back to Hawking. ‘A week,’ he said as I slipped my arm through his. ‘Then back for another check-up and if there’s no problems, back for good.’

Matthew let go of my hand. ‘I have to find Auntie Lingoss. Tell her about my dirigible.’ He shot off.

‘It’s nice to have you back,’ I said, watching him run on ahead. ‘I can’t remember the last time I woke up with you beside me. How’s Matthew doing?’

There was a slight pause. ‘He’s doing well. They like him. He likes them.’ We stopped walking and looked at each other.

Leon said sadly, ‘I think we’ve lost him, Max.’

I swallowed and said carefully, ‘I don’t think we ever had him. Not since the day Clive Ronan took him away from us. But at least this is his choice. It’s where he wants to be. He’ll be happy there.’

He took my hand. ‘Between us, how many children have we lost?’

‘We haven’t lost this one,’ I said firmly. ‘He can visit us whenever he wants to. I have Commander Hay’s word on that.’

He wouldn’t look at me. ‘Suppose he doesn’t want to?’

I squeezed his hand. ‘We must make sure that he does. Think of the advantages, Leon – we don’t have the burden of being his parents any longer. We’re the favourite aunt and uncle. We let him stay up past his bedtime. We let him watch age-inappropriate holos. We let him eat as many sweets as he likes. We let him ride the rollercoaster. And then when he’s sick, fractious and exhausted, we hand him back to the Time Police.’

He couldn’t fold his arms because of his stick, but I could see the thought was there. ‘What rollercoaster?’

I persevered. Before I burst into tears. Because it was all about doing what was right for Matthew.

‘All the boring stuff – the broccoli, the homework, keeping his bedroom tidy, getting his hair cut – that’s all their responsibility. We’re the fun ones. What do you think?’

He bent and kissed my hair again. ‘I think I wish I was as good as you at hiding a broken heart.’

I swallowed and slapped his arm. Gently, in case I knocked him over. ‘Well, you’re not, so live with it.’

He laughed a little and we held each other very tightly for a few minutes and then I took him inside to see Dr Stone.



I left Leon in Sick Bay and went to look for Matthew, finding him sitting on the stairs watching what was going on in the Hall. Stifling my normal urge to go and make him talk to me, I stood and watched him for a while. His face was a complete blank. What was he thinking? This was his first Christmas with us and although Leon had told me he’d carefully explained what would be happening, he hadn’t been quite sure he’d understood.

St Mary’s was indeed heaving – forget the louse – although now I come to think of it . . . Anyway, Mr Strong was setting up the long tables. Kitchen staff were flapping tablecloths big enough to be used as sails on a Viking longboat. And, actually, after Professor Rapson’s Atlantic foray last year – the one Dr Bairstow has forbidden us to talk about so you won’t hear anything from me – some of them had been.

They were laying out our gleaming white crockery and our best cutlery. The stuff that nearly matched. There were bowls of fruit down the middle of the table. Glassware winked in the bright lights. Every place had a Christmas cracker, handmade by R&D. It was perfectly possible that those pulling them would lose an arm in the subsequent detonation, but the professor had assured me there would be only the tiniest explosion which would be lost in the spectacular shower of glitter and stardust that would cascade from each cracker. I resolved to let someone else pull the first one – just in case. And Matthew not at all if I could help it.

Speaking of whom . . . He was looking thoughtful and a little sad, still sitting on the stairs, his chin cupped in his hands, elbows on knees. What was he thinking?

I sat down beside him and tried to get him to talk to me. ‘Hey. Is everything all right?’

He nodded. He doesn’t talk if gestures will do.

I wasn’t sure I believed him, so I said nothing and let the silence gather because sometimes that works. On this occasion, however, it didn’t seem to be successful and I was just about to get up and leave him to his thoughts when he said, ‘I . . .’

I sat back down again and waited. He still finds it difficult to express himself sometimes. He chatters away to Miss Lingoss and Mr Strong. Even to Leon – especially if they’re building something together – but with me he’s still pretty much tongue-tied. I’ve learned to say nothing and wait, so I rested my forearms on my knees, watched all the activity in the Hall and waited.

Eventually he said, ‘We didn’t have this.’ He made a gesture with his hand, encompassing all the noise and colour around us.

I assumed that by we, he meant himself and the other climbing boys.

Matthew was stolen from us a few months after he was born. It’s a terrible story and I’m not going to tell it now. He’d been stolen away, sold on to various people and eventually ended up as a climbing boy. There had been three of them altogether, apprenticed to one Jeremiah Scrope who had been bad enough, but his wife, old Ma Scrope, had been a monster.

They say you should ask open questions if you want people to talk. It doesn’t work like that with Matthew who was much more comfortable with short questions and even shorter answers. Yes or no are his favourites. Actually, his favourite answer is to say nothing at all. But, he’d initiated this conversation so I was prepared to do the heavy lifting.

‘What were their names?’

‘James – Jamie. And Joshua.’

His own name had been Joseph. Until Leon had rescued him he hadn’t known his real name was Matthew.

If I said, ‘Tell me about them,’ he’d be so overwhelmed by words that he’d say nothing, so I said, ‘They were the other climbing boys, weren’t they?’ so he could nod.

‘You all lived together?’

‘In the shed.’ He said no more. I waited again. Looking at his feet, he said, ‘It’s wrong.’

‘What is?’

He struggled. ‘This. Last year, we . . . Jamie nearly died. He was ill. It’s the soot. Makes him cough. It was cold. She sold our blanket. Gin,’ he added as I looked at him. ‘We didn’t work that day. Old Scrope was too drunk to go out but it was too cold to sleep so we just sat. Until it got dark. Rats bite in the dark.’

He wasn’t looking at me. He was staring back down the past to his other life.

A life I guessed was still sometimes more real to him than this one. I travel in time for a living and I’ve come back from long assignments and I know how the contemporary world can take a bit of getting used to.

He looked up at me again. ‘It’s not right.’

I sat silently. No, it wasn’t right. That we should have so much and they should have so little. St Mary’s does its best. We give to charity. We hold a children’s party every year and one day that will go well. I know Mrs Mack and one or two others work at the public food halls for those who can’t eat as regularly as they should. Like most people, we do a little bit and try not to admit it’s not enough.

He turned to me. ‘Can we . . . ?’ He stopped and stared down at his feet, still encased in his favourite light-up trainers.

I said quietly, ‘Can we what?’

‘You know.’ He gestured again. ‘Can we . . . go there? Take them some . . . things? We wouldn’t miss them.’

He was right. We wouldn’t miss a few things but that wasn’t the point. I opened my mouth to tell him, very gently, that no, we couldn’t, because that sort of thing wasn’t allowed. And then I closed it again. Because there was no physical reason why I couldn’t. The rules had some harsh things to say about interfering with contemporaries. Changing one tiny thing can have enormous consequences, but as I was very fond of saying – they’re not my rules.

He started to speak and I said, ‘Hush a minute, I’m having a bit of a think.’ Since he was always being encouraged to talk as much as possible, he seemed slightly taken aback, but wisely he shut up and we both stared down into the Hall.

I would need . . . What would I need?

Food. And lots of it. That wasn’t a problem. Mrs Mack would pack me up something appropriate. I probably wouldn’t even have to tell her what it was for. Apart from strict adherence to the Flour Handling Regulations, Mrs Mack’s approach to the straight and narrow is nearly as wobbly as mine.

Costumes. That might be a problem. I spent some moments trying to devise a scenario that would account for my crying need for two early 19th-century costumes right now, right this moment, on Christmas Eve, and one of those for a small boy, and failed miserably. If Mrs Enderby asked – and she might not but with my luck she would – then I’d tell her . . . something or other.

And a pod. Well, that was no problem. I could use Leon’s, still quietly hidden at the back of the paint store. Blast doors and two sets of thick walls had saved it from Clive Ronan’s attempts to blow us all to kingdom come. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d indulged in a teensy-tiny illegal jump at Christmas. It would be the first one I’d ever done alone, though. Markham was back on his feet and completely recovered, but it wasn’t fair to involve him in whatever the 19th century might decide to throw at me, and Peterson . . . Peterson was confronting his first Christmas without Helen and had enough on his plate.

I should probably also mention something to Leon, and I would. As a wife, obviously, I shouldn’t have any secrets from my husband and I made a note to tell him just as soon as I got back. I sighed and hoped Matthew hadn’t inherited my lax moral standards.

I stood up.

He looked up. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Oh,’ I said vaguely, rather caught on the hop because you’re not supposed to lie to children. I don’t know why not – it’s not as if they don’t lie their socks off to us. And I wasn’t just lying. I was also providing a first-class example of deceit, duplicity, trickery, and how, in general, good people shouldn’t behave. ‘I thought I’d just . . .’ I gestured, vaguely.

He got up.

‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘You stay here. They’ll be bringing in the Yule log soon and Uncle Markham will be looking for you.’

I patted him on the shoulder and strode off in the direction of Wardrobe. I’d get my costume sorted first.

I looked down to find Matthew trotting along beside me. ‘No,’ I said, slowing to a halt. ‘You have to stay here.’

He said nothing – just glared at me with the eyes that were so like my own. Well, two could play at that game. I glared back with eyes that were so like his own. We glared at each other.

‘You won’t know the way,’ he said quietly.

Bugger. Busted. By my own kid. How did that happen? ‘What?’ I said, pretending ignorance.

‘You won’t know the way to Grit Lane. There’s a lot of alleys. Some wrong people live there. I should come.’

I paused. I still wasn’t sure he quite grasped . . . things. Whether he knew he’d been living in another time, or whether he thought he’d just moved a few miles up the road from Grit Lane to St Mary’s, where people lived nicer lives. And then sometimes he would say something that made me wonder if he didn’t know more than the rest of us put together.

‘Wouldn’t you be afraid to go back?’

‘No. Yes. A little bit.’

At that moment, he sounded so like me that I nearly laughed. With Leon’s dark hair and stocky build and his love of putting things together – or more often of taking them apart – I sometimes wondered if there was anything of me in Matthew at all, but this disregard for the rules and complete inability both to tell the truth and to lie – that was all me.

I stared at him while I took a moment to think. Taking him back might do him good. He could see his friends again. Say a proper goodbye. Leon had yanked him out of that life and brought him back to St Mary’s, confused, sullen and half wild. It would also enable him to see how far he had come since those days. He might even learn to value his new life.

But . . .

I pulled him against the wall where we could talk quietly. Not that anyone could hear us above the racket in the Hall, but I always say better safe than sorry. And that’s about as close to Health and Safety as I get.

‘You must understand – this trip is for you only. You can go and see your friends, but when we leave they must stay behind. Do you understand why?’

He shook his head.

‘That is their life. That is the time in which they were born and that is where they must remain.’

‘I came here. Why can’t they?’

‘You were born here. In this time,’ I said, crossing my fingers behind my back because that wasn’t strictly true. ‘This is where you belong. You were stolen from us and Daddy came to rescue you. Remember?’

He nodded.

‘It’s good that you’re concerned about your friends. And we will take them some presents for Christmas – to make their lives a little easier. But at the end of the visit you must understand – they can’t come back with us. If you can’t understand that then you can’t come. I know that these are difficult things for you and perhaps it would be easier – less upsetting – for you to stay behind and I’ll take the presents to your friends and give them your love.’

‘No. I want to come.’

‘If you come – if you come – you must do exactly as I say, exactly when I say it. Do you understand?’

He nodded too easily.

‘No, I mean it. If I say run, then you run. So I’ll ask again. Do you understand?’

He nodded again.

I was still suspicious. We’d done this before when he defied me. When he would just refuse to budge, fold his arms, stare at me and look just like his father.

‘No, Matthew. This is not one of those times when I let you get away with it.’ I took a deep breath. ‘I will take you if you want to come, but only if I can trust you to do as you’re told. When I go out with Uncle Markham or Auntie Sykes they know this. You must too.’

He thought for a moment and then nodded. ‘OK then. Let’s go and talk to Mrs Enderby.’

We were in luck. Mrs Enderby, Mrs Midgley and Mrs Mack were sitting in the relative peace of Wardrobe, stitching together big red bows. That’s the problem with putting up decorations in something the size of our Great Hall. You can’t just shove a bit of tinsel on the mantelpiece and call it a day. You need to think big. These bows were for tying back the long curtains.

A large bottle of sherry nearby was evidence that they were already thinking big. That and their flushed faces, but on the other hand, it was very hot in here.

Mrs Enderby shot us her usual sweet smile. Mrs Midgley shot us her usual hostile glance. Mrs Mack remained on neutral ground and topped up her glass.

I made sure the door was closed and pulled out a chair.

‘At this time of year, we remember absent friends –’ I had a sudden flashback to Helen crumpling to the floor with that small neat hole over her eyebrow ‘– and Matthew has concerns about the ones he left behind. We all saw the state of him when he arrived here and there are two more like that where he came from.’

I saw Mrs Mack stir with alarm.

‘No, relax, I’m not proposing a rescue mission. We got ourselves into enough trouble last time.’

Some years ago, we’d lifted a contemporary from the war zone that was Troy. We’d saved his life but very nearly at the expense of our own.

‘I’m simply proposing we take them a little something to make their lives less . . . unpleasant. Mrs Mack, I was wondering if you could make me up a care package. Something that two . . .’ I glanced at Matthew ‘. . . three little boys would enjoy. They’ll be very cold and very hungry.’

She nodded, put aside her giant red bow and stood up. ‘Come and see me in half an hour.’ She disappeared out of the door.

Mrs Enderby tucked her needle into her cardigan and said, ‘Come with me, young man.’

They disappeared.

I looked at Mrs Midgley. Our housekeeper is always a bit of an unknown quantity. She looked back. I smiled at her because that usually works. People will do a lot to stop me smiling at them.

She sighed loudly and stood up. ‘Two blankets, yes?’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but not good ones because their last one was sold for gin.’

‘I understand,’ she said and then she too disappeared.

I followed after Matthew and Mrs Enderby.

She’d provided him with a shapeless brown hat, a thick, brown-flecked tweed jacket that belted around the waist, matching knee breeches, thick knitted stockings and a stout pair of shoes. Everything was slightly too big for him but we had no choice. We don’t cater for children.

‘An additional pair of socks should help with the shoes, I think,’ she said. ‘And turn back the cuffs on the jacket. Yes, that’s much better.’ She topped everything off with a thick muffler and some knitted gloves.

‘And you, Max, what sort of impression do you wish to make?’

I thought. ‘Well off, but not rich. Nothing that I’m going to get killed for. Warm, but able to move fast should I have to. Think middle-class, affluent, assured. I’m going to need some authority if we find ourselves in trouble.’ And once again I had a huge stab of guilt. Not over what I was doing – but the fact that Matthew was doing it with me.

I was handed a dark blue dress and matching pelisse trimmed with fake fur, a close fitting but plain bonnet, leather gloves, and a dark fur muff. I would wear my own boots. Just in case things turned nasty.

We couldn’t wear our costumes around St Mary’s, so we stuffed it all into a sports bag and set off for Mrs Mack, who was waiting for us. She’d packed two large cardboard boxes. ‘And when they’ve eaten everything in sight,’ she said, ‘they can flatten the boxes and sleep on them. Keep them off the floor. They’re biodegradable, so they shouldn’t do any harm. As far as I know, no one in the 19th century dies of cardboard box-related contamination.’

I peeped inside the boxes. There were four pies. ‘Two chicken and ham and two steak and kidney,’ she said. ‘Two giant slabs of Christmas cake. Bread rolls. Cheese. Apples. Chocolate. Tangerines. Mince pies. A bag of roast chicken drumsticks. Ditto of grilled sausages. And a flask of hot soup. Bring the flask back or don’t bother coming back at all.’

I nodded. ‘Thank you. This is marvellous.’

Matthew pulled my sleeve and gestured behind me. I wouldn’t have been surprised if it was Dr Bairstow – he knows everything that goes on in his unit before it even happens – you should hear Markham on the subject – but it was Mrs Midgley, with three old stained blankets. Refugees from one of the pods, I guessed.

‘Three blankets?’

‘Well . . . yes,’ she said in surprise. ‘One to be discovered and sold for gin, and the other two to be concealed and used for the benefit of two cold little boys. Don’t you think?’

I stared at her. ‘Brilliant.’ Which it was. I should have thought of that.

Actually, no. Not brilliant. We had two sports bags full of clothes, hats and gloves. We had two cardboard boxes stuffed full of good things to eat. And we had three good-sized albeit slightly smelly blankets. There was no way we were going to get this lot through St . . .