Lies, Damned Lies, and History(9)

‘Well,’ I said to Markham – and you’d really think I’d know better by now – ‘that went well.’

Hardly were the words out of my mouth than a portly man, red-faced in the heat, and trying to attract the attention of someone I couldn’t see, barged into me, and knocked my recorder right out of my hand.

Normally, I have it looped around my wrist, just in case this does happen. I don’t know why I didn’t that day. I heard it hit the cobbles.

I tried to see where it went. I heard it again – being kicked along the ground. It was only a matter of time before someone trod on it and then I’d be in trouble.

I thought I saw it and bent forwards, trying to peer through people’s legs. The crowd was dispersing and everyone was milling around, collecting family and friends, and moving in a million different directions at once. Someone caught me a glancing blow and down I went.

I heard Markham yell, ‘Max.’

I ignored the splendid opportunity for a closer inspection of the filth-encrusted cobbles and rolled into a ball as feet and legs jostled past me.

I heard him again. ‘Where are you?’

‘Here.’ I was struggling to get up, ungracefully showing at least as much leg as the soon to be late Princess of Wales.

‘Yes, that’s very helpful. A little more information, please.’

‘Now then, m’dear,’ said a voice, and a large pink hand pulled me to my feet. ‘Give the lady some room,’ he roared and people did.

I came up, bonnet askew, dignity still in the gutter I’d so recently occupied. Smoothing down my clothing as best I could, and trying not to think of what Mrs Enderby would say when she saw I’d been sweeping the streets with her blue silk creation, I said, ‘Thank you, sir. I am much obliged to you for your kindness.’

Markham arrived, flushed and breathless.

‘Are you all right?’

I nodded. The large man, dressed in a blue serge double-breasted coat that made his broad chest look even broader, frowned severely in a way that implied Markham should be taking better care of me, touched his hat and departed.

‘I’ve dropped my recorder,’ I said, panicking like mad because it could be anywhere by now.

‘Right,’ said Markham, staring around. ‘No one’s likely to have seen it, let alone picked it up, so the worst that can have happened is that it’s been trampled. Dr Bairstow will frown at you but nothing worse than that.’

‘We must find it,’ I said, barely listening.

‘Yes, we must, but try to stay on your feet this time. People will think you’ve been at the gin.’

‘Oh, if only.’

He took my arm firmly. ‘You look left. I’ll look right.’

‘It’s not here. I heard it being kicked along the street.’

The crowds were thinning slightly. The ceremony itself would last six hours so most people were disappearing in search of entertainment, refreshment and a quiet corner where they could have a pee. Public toilets hadn’t turned up yet, so most people either splashed against a wall or crouched in the street. Where I’d recently been. I really wished I hadn’t just thought of that.

We were both lucky and unlucky.

Lucky, because against all the odds, we found it.

And unlucky, because as we hastened towards it, some ten or twelve feet away, someone else got there first.





Chapter Three

He was hatless and his long, lank hair hung around his face. He wore some sort of full-length, greasy greatcoat that smelled musty even from here. As I watched, he bent over and picked up my battered but still intact recorder, turning it over in his hands.

I stiffened.

Markham let go of my arm and strolled towards him.

‘Ah, sir, I see you have found it. My thanks.’

The man said nothing, staring at us suspiciously. Even though Dr Bairstow would kill me, I really hoped it was broken, because any moment now he would accidentally activate it, and we’d be projecting a ten-foot-high image of Princess Caroline’s bosom across the nearest building, and that really would take some explaining away.

The man, showing bad skin and worse teeth, stared at Markham for a moment and took to his heels.

Bollocks.

‘Go,’ I said to him. ‘I’ll follow. Keep your com open.’

He disappeared into the crowd and I followed as best I could. I could hear Markham puffing and cursing as I eased my way through. People here weren’t as polite as they had been at the Abbey. When I looked down, my lovely dress was smeared down the front with nasty-looking brown stains. With that and my tipsy bonnet, I probably looked like one of those Hogarth engravings depicting the working-class poor and their close relationship with the demon drink.