The Great St Mary's Day Out

by Jodi Taylor

Genres: Time Travel; General Fiction

Synopsis

A Chronicles of St Mary's short story that is sure to entertain. If you love Jasper Fforde or Ben Aaronovitch, you won't be able to resist Jodi Taylor. Astonishingly, Dr Bairstow has declared a holiday. Even more astonishingly - he's paying for it. Needless to say, there are strings attached. They have to record the 1601 performance of Hamlet, with Shakespeare himself in the role of the Ghost. It doesn't go well, of course. With Dr Bairstow and Mrs Mack turning a simple visit to a street market into a public brawl, Professor Rapson inadvertently stowing away on a vessel bound for the New World, and Shakespeare himself going up in flames, it would seem that Max, of all people, is the only one actually completing the assignment. Readers love Jodi Taylor: 'Once in a while, I discover an author who changes everything... Jodi Taylor and her protagonista Madeleine "Max" Maxwell have seduced me' 'A great mix of British proper-ness and humour with a large dollop of historical fun ' ' Addictive. I wish St Mary's was real and I was a part of it' 'Jodi Taylor has an imagination that gets me completely hooked ' 'A tour de force'

Release date: January 1, 2019

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 55

Sample

––––––––

I walked Matthew around St Mary’s because a few things needed to be made clear.

‘All right, people. This is a baby. A small human. His name is Matthew and he is not to be floated across the lake in a Moses basket just to see if it could have happened. Nor is he to be stuffed into a warming pan and smuggled into someone’s bed. He is not to be dangled off a balcony and presented to the Welsh people as a non-English-speaking Prince of Wales. Permission to include him in any of the imaginative events currently being planned by the History Department is to be sought from his father, Chief Farrell, and good luck to anyone trying that. He is not to be used as a paperweight. Or ballast. Or a draught excluder. Everyone clear?’

You have to tell people these things. Especially at St Mary’s.

It was a golden time for me. In every sense of the word. Autumn wasn’t giving in to winter without a fight. The trees glowed in the late sunshine – gold, russet, red and orange. In a week, the leaves would begin to fall and Mr Strong, our caretaker, would gather them up for burning, bringing the sharp smell of bonfires on the breeze.

The three of us, Leon, Matthew and I, were back at St Mary’s. Without ever having left, actually. Dr Bairstow had requested we remain here while the vexing question of Clive Ronan was resolved. For our own safety. I wasn’t bothered and Leon was in full ‘Anyone Messing With My Family Will Regret It’ mode, and we lived happily in a small suite of rooms up in the attic, so no one could be disturbed by a crying baby.

In fact, he rarely cried – which, as Leon said, just went to show our son was a born historian and already completely failing to live up to popular expectations. He was a happy baby, placidly accepting being passed from person to person, smiling up at whoever happened to have custody of him at the time. He had his favourites, of course. He adored Mrs Enderby, Head of the Wardrobe Department. It was mutual: she was always running him up dinky little clothes to wear. Peterson claimed Matthew was easily the best-dressed person in the place, but since that place also contained Bashford, Markham and Professor Rapson – who frequently had to be sartorially checked over before he ventured out in public – this wasn’t the achievement it seemed.

Matthew’s second favourite, astonishingly, was the multi-hued Miss Lingoss from R&D. He would gaze, big-eyed, at whatever hair colour and style she had adopted that particular day, and she, black-leather clad and embellished with chains and safety pins, would beam back at him.

Leon went back to work shortly after Matthew was born, and I wafted around the place for three or four months, playing with Matthew, painting, and generally getting on people’s nerves. The usual maternity-leave activities. I was determined to make the most of things before I went back to work.

My return happened a little more quickly than I had expected. But in a good way.

Occasionally, very occasionally, the Boss finds some money tucked away somewhere and gives us a bit of a treat. Rumour has it that he deposited a penny in an obscure foreign bank some ten centuries ago, and is quietly reaping the benefits today. Unlikely, but in our job, we’ve learned never to rule anything out.

However he found the money, find it he did, and suddenly he was calling an all-staff briefing in the Great Hall, and announcing a forthcoming assignment, which would be open to anyone who cared to avail themselves of the opportunity.

Standing on the half-landing, with shafts of sunlight highlighting the last defiant remains of his hair, he began to bring up a series of images on the screen.

‘June, 1601.’ He paused, surveying the rows of upturned faces before him.

Silence greeted his remark. If he has a weakness, it’s that he’s a bit of a showman, and he does tend to dole out information in tiny dollops. We’ve learned not to play along.

‘London,’ he said, piling on the narrative tension.

He began to flick through various images, inching painfully along the information highway before finally arriving at his destination.

‘Ladies and gentlemen – the Globe Theatre.’

Oh, wow! A chance to see the Globe Theatre. The real Globe Theatre, I mean. Not the very excellent replica we see today, but the actual Globe itself. Shakespeare’s Globe. Performing Shakespeare’s plays. In a contemporary setting. By conte. . .