Lies, Damned Lies, and History(51)

Anyway, the Chief Technical Officer worked all day in Hawking. My husband returned late in the evening, climbed into bed, and curled himself around me as I lay and stared into the darkness.

The three of us, Peterson, Markham and me, were completely isolated.

Guthrie, bitterly hurt and disappointed, could barely bring himself to speak to Markham, and the rest of the section lined up behind their commanding officer. All the nasty, dirty jobs around the unit that had hitherto been shared out among them with scrupulous fairness were now detailed in their entirety to Markham. He became increasingly dirty, increasingly smelly and increasingly cheerful, confiding to us during what was by now our traditional post-dinner drink, that it pissed people off no end if, far from regarding yourself as being punished, you show them you’re actually having a cracking time. That was his public face. I suspected that privately, just like Peterson and me, he was lonely, tired, and unhappy. I had no idea how his relationship with Hunter was progressing. He never said, and I never asked.

Peterson, still at least a member of the History Department, put on a brave face and uncomplainingly did everything that was asked of him. Which wasn’t much. Nothing was happening – all assignments were on hold – our future was looking very shaky and people felt it was our fault. Which it was. I saw him uncomplainingly photocopying, filing, and making people’s tea, and was proud of him.

Dr Dowson, hearing from somewhere that I was looking for a place to work, had smiled gently at me, and shown me to a quiet table in the Archive. It was set back in the little-used Cretan pottery section, well out of public view.

‘It’s a quiet table,’ he announced, in case I hadn’t noticed that fact. ‘In the Cretan pottery section,’ he’d added. ‘Not used much.’

I nodded drearily and then, because I didn’t want to seem ungrateful, managed a small smile.

He patted my shoulder and left me, and there I sat all day, alone in the silence, full of humiliation and resentment.

After a day or so, I realised he’d actually done me a great favour, because I wasn’t dealing well with this. I didn’t have Markham’s cocky bravado or Peterson’s patient dignity. I was a maelstrom of badly contained emotion.

Guilt, obviously, because of what we’d done.

A kind of perverse pride, because of what we’d done.

Defiance, because I was in the wrong and I knew it.

Shame and even more guilt, because of what we’d done to St Mary’s and Dr Bairstow.

Fear for the future, and what it could hold for me.

A dreadful feeling of isolation, because I wasn’t a part of St Mary’s any longer.

Hurt, because no one from the History Department came anywhere near me.

Together with a whole raft of random, unfocused resentment just to fill in any gaps left.

I’m not good at handling emotion. I dealt with all the above by trying to ignore it. I wasn’t the slightest bit successful and after I’d spent yet another afternoon with tears rolling down my cheeks and plopping on to my paperwork, I came to see what a favour Dr Dowson had done me by shoving me in this out of the way spot.

Because of what had happened to Sands, I had thought Rosie Lee might hate me, but far from it. Or no more than usual.

‘He’s happy,’ she said, when I hesitantly enquired after him. ‘But, on the other hand, he’s happy wherever he is.’ She paused to contemplate this phenomenon. ‘He misses the place, of course, but he’s not sitting around being melancholy.’

Was she having a go at me? Of course she was.

‘What’s he doing these days?’

‘Well, at this very moment, he should be picking Benjamin up from school.’ Benjamin was her son. ‘They’ll go to the park for an ice cream they think I don’t know about, and a bit of a kick around. Then he’ll take him home and they’ll work on their Lego model of the proposed Mars habitat. Then I’ll arrive and they’ll attempt to explain the mess. I’ll glare at the pair of them – for all the good it will do – then we’ll have something to eat. I’ll take Benjamin off to bed and David will get on with his writing.’

‘His writing?’

‘He’s writing a book,’ she said, obviously feeling her fears over her ex-boss’s intelligence had been fully justified.

I remembered Sands’ long and entertaining reports. His account of Viking life in Jorvik had been submitted in the form of a saga.

‘Lo! In days long gone

Did the shining people-folk

Of St Mary’s

Venture forth

To toil for truth’s treasure

Amid the fair-faced folk

Of Jorvik.

Clerk the commander, clear eyed and calm,