The Steam-Pump Jump

by Jodi Taylor

Genres: Time Travel; Science 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. Not one to let being banged up in Sick Bay stop her, Max has had a brilliant idea. But she needs Markham to execute it on her behalf. The subject of this cunning plan is Peterson, struggling with another bereavement and not doing very well. What's needed to get him through it is sympathy, sensitivity, tact and understanding. Step forward Mr Markham, for whom sympathy, sensitivity, etc., are things that happen to other people. Combine a fanatic from R&D, a head of Security with his own problems, a steam-pump, two historians who can't even be in the same room as each other, some fractious Protestants and a large body of very dirty water. Told in Markham's own words, this is the story of an intervention - St Mary's style. 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: 69

Sample

‘Trust me,’ said Maxwell, weakly. ‘Get this wrong and you won’t live long enough to regret it.’

I was indignant. ‘Well, there’s a nice thing to say. Out of the goodness of my heart I’m visiting you on your Bed of Pain and barely have I started on your grapes than you’re hurling threats at my head. I liked you a lot better when you were unconscious.’

She waved that aside. Conscious or not, historians never hear anything they don’t want to. ‘I need you to do me a favour.’

I sighed. ‘I wondered why you’d adopted the conciliatory approach.’

‘The what?’

‘You know. The conciliatory approach.’ I adopted a typically historian falsetto. ‘Oh, Markham, how lovely to see you. Thank you for obeying my peremptory summons. You’re looking very handsome today. Have a grape.’

Being an historian was hurting my throat so I reverted to my usual voice – mellifluous but masculine. ‘A bit of a revolutionary concept for you, but have you ever tried… oh, I don’t know… actually being nice to the people you want to do something for you?’

‘I am being nice to you. It’s not my fault you’re too thick to notice.’

I decided to move the conversation on before she demonstrated her niceness by walloping me round the side of the head with something heavy, or I just strangled her.

‘What do you want, Max?’

‘I want… I’d like you to do me a favour.’

‘Yes, we’ve covered that.’

She addressed me in what she probably imagined was a conciliatory tone.

‘Would you like a grape?’

‘I am Head of the Security Section,’ I said with dignity. ‘The calls on my time are many and important. Can we get a move on, please?’

She made a rude noise and shifted uncomfortably in her bed and I remembered she was an invalid and I should probably be nice to her, not least because if she suffered some sort of relapse then we’d have Hunter in here and everything would turn out to be my fault again.

‘Do you need anything?’ I said, effortlessly showing her how conciliatory should be done. ‘Pillows plumping? Glass of water? Bedpan?’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Well, I’m visiting the sick and that’s what you do.’

‘You come near me with a bedpan and I’ll shout for Hunter.’ She threw a grape at me and it stung.

I rubbed my cheek and told her it was a good job she wasn’t on the active list and therefore revenge was, temporarily, off the table. ‘Anyway, what’s this assignment all about? For a start, is it even legal?’

‘What do you care?’ She passed me the file. ‘But yes, Dr Bairstow has cleared it and his initials are on the assignment sheet if you want proof.’

I flipped through the file. ‘Who’s going?’

‘Peterson and Lingoss – in their capacity as the brains of the team.’

Well, that was hurtful. ‘Anyone else?’

‘Miss North and Miss Sykes.’

‘Bloody hell, Max. Cruel and unusual.’

‘Clerk and Prentiss are on leave and Atherton and Bashford are at Whitehall, watching Elizabeth Fry address Parliament.’

‘Why?’

‘Because,’ she said with exaggerated patience, ‘if you want to see anyone address Parliament then you have to go to Whitehall, don’t you? Tell me again how you came to be Head of Security.’

‘Merit and achievement,’ I said, loftily. ‘As opposed to the workings of the History Department, who generally promote the last person left alive and then buy in a new lot. Anyway, what’s the rush?’

‘No particular rush,’ she replied innocently. ‘But it’s the duty of every department head to adhere to their authorised schedule and with me stuck in here I don’t want us getting too far behind.’

‘Good job you didn’t fall on your arse,’ I said. ‘Otherwise you might not have been able to talk out of it.’

For a moment I thought I might end up wearing the entire fruit bowl but then she remembered she wanted something from me and slid her eyes from side to side in the manner of one suffering nystagmus. I stared at her, wondering if she’d inadvertently inhaled something from R&D – trust me, that has happened – and whether I should summon aid.

Looking over her shoulder, she whispered, ‘There’s no one else here, is there?’

Well, of course there bloody wasn’t, but falling off the roof had given her a pretty major concussion so, just to show willing, I got up and looked under the bed.

‘Nope – no one here but us chickens.’

‘The thing is …’ she said, trying to shunt a little closer.

‘Yes?’

‘The thing is…’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Max, if you don’t get a move on, your bones will have knitted and then you can lead the assignment yourself. In fact, that’s a brilliant idea. You lead the assignment and I’ll get on with the rest of my life.’

She ignored all of that. ‘The thing is …’

‘Oh God, are we back to that again?’

‘Keep your voice down or we’ll have Hunter in here wanting to know what’s going on.’

‘And she won’t be the only one.’

‘All right. All right.’ She looked around again as if someone might have slipped into the room while we were talking and were even now concealing themselves in the wardrobe.’

To show I was not to be trifled with, I folded my arms and waited.

‘Well…’ she said reluctantly. ‘It’s Peterson.’

She sat back . . .