We bustled inside, depositing our gear in the lockers. The console sat under the wall-mounted screen, which currently showed us a view of scurrying techies heaving their kit back behind the safety line. The two seats bolted to the floor were lumpy and uncomfortable, but life’s essentials – a kettle and a couple of mugs, were present and correct. Since this was my pod, there would be chocolate biscuits around somewhere.
Bunches of thick cable ran up the walls and looped across the ceiling. Lights flashed among the mass of dials, gauges, and read-outs on the console. The whole effect was shabby hi-tech. Dilapidated and scruffy. Just like us. Actually, just like all of St Mary’s.
As Chief Technical Officer, Leon was checking over the coordinates. ‘All laid in. And for your return jump, too.’
‘Thank you very much,’ I said, seating myself in the left-hand seat and giving everything the once over.
‘Take care,’ he said, as he always did.
‘Of course,’ I said, as I always did.
He smiled for me alone and disappeared out of the door, which closed behind him.
I glanced at Markham. ‘All set?’
‘Ready when you are.’
‘Computer, initiate jump.’
‘Jump initiated.’
The world went white.
There were many people on the streets today, but this was London and there were many people on the streets every day. Given that this was Coronation Day, however, there were not as many as there could have been. To distract the crowds from any possible scenes his wife might make, a whole programme of public events had been laid on away from Westminster Abbey. There was to be a balloon ascension from Green Park. Even a herd of wooden elephants were to be rowed up the Thames. Something I thought would be considerably more entertaining than watching Prinny and his fat friends.
At this early hour, I found the temperature agreeably cool. We stood for a moment, inhaling the pleasant smells of fresh bread and – for the first time that I could remember on an assignment – coffee. Oh – and horses, of course. Hot, excited horses always have a strong olfactory presence. The streets were already deep in muck. Crossing boys were everywhere, industriously sweeping paths across the road for a carelessly tossed penny. I was glad of my ankle-length skirt and sturdy half boots. No historian ever goes anywhere wearing inadequate footwear: it’s just asking for trouble.
Towards Westminster Abbey, the streets were cleaner – they’d obviously been swept for the occasion – but more crowded.
‘Keep your hand on your holiday money,’ advised Markham, piloting me through the crowds.
‘What?’
‘Pickpockets.’
‘Ah,’
I’ve always regarded Westminster Abbey as an old friend.
‘I’ve been here before,’ I confided to Markham, as we elbowed our way through the enthusiastic crowds to get a decent view. ‘Eight hundred years ago. My first proper assignment. Peterson and I were here as the first stones were being laid. Just before the Confessor died.’
‘Really?’ said Markham, fending off a man who wanted to sell us a flag. ‘How did that go?’
‘Quite well, actually. A bloody great block of stone missed us by inches and Peterson peed on me.’
‘A big success by History Department standards, then.’
Having achieved our objective, we stood quietly, waiting. I had my recorder to hand. A stun gun and pepper spray nestled in the pretty reticule dangling from my wrist. We were ready to go. And there was not as long to wait as I had thought. Possibly thinking a timely arrival might mean easier access, the queen had arrived early. A clatter of hooves and a coachman roaring to small boys to get out of the way, announced the arrival of her carriage. An anticipatory stir ran through the crowd, all of whom knew she hadn’t been invited. This was going to be good.
Dear God she was fat. And what was she wearing? Thankfully, someone had prevented her from adopting her usual style of dress, because there were occasions on which she had been seen in public with her dress open to the waist. Presumably, in deference to the solemnity of the occasion, she’d toned it down a bit, but not by much.
She wore a voluminous white satin gown, gathered under her massive bosom and falling to the ground, ending in a demi train. Her dark hair – too dark to be natural, surely – was skewered to the top of her head with nodding white ostrich feathers. Corkscrew ringlets framed her already flushed face. A hideously ugly diamond necklace did nothing to obscure the huge amounts of chest on view. Equally ugly diamond bracelets cut into the mottled flesh of her plump arms. Various brooches were scattered across the vast expanse of white satin. I swear, if she had stood in front of a mirror and said to her maids, ‘Just throw everything at me and pin it where it sticks,’ she couldn’t have made a worse job of it. It must have broken their professional hearts to send her out looking like that.