it could have been interesting, but at this moment, Mrs Partridge re-entered, clutching a file, which she put in front of Dr Bairstow. He opened it and spread the papers across his desk.
‘Dr Maxwell, I don’t know what you’ve been told, but perhaps you could tell me what you do know.’
He’d called my bluff.
‘Absolutely nothing,’ I said. ‘I heard the name mentioned and wondered. I’m also curious about the large numbers of staff here. Why do you need security or technicians? And why do people need to know I haven’t had “the interview”? What’s going on here?’
‘I’m quite prepared to tell you everything you want to know, but first I must inform you that unless you sign these papers, I shall be unable to do so. Please be aware these documents are legally binding. The wording seems to be obscure legalese, but, make no mistake, if you ever divulge one word of what I am about to tell you now, then you will spend the next fifteen years, at least, in an establishment the existence of which no civil liberties organisation is even aware. Please take a minute to think very carefully before proceeding.’
Thinking carefully is something that happens to other people. ‘Do you have a pen?’
The obliging Mrs Partridge produced one and I signed and initialled an enormous number of documents. She took the pen back off me, which just about summed up our relationship.
‘And now,’ he said, ‘we will have some tea.’
By now, afternoon had become early evening. This was taking far longer than a simple researching job warranted. It was becoming apparent this was not a simple researching job. I felt a surge of anticipation. Something exciting was about to happen.
He cleared his throat. ‘Since you have not had the sense to run for the hills, you will now have the “other” tour.’
‘And this is the “other” interview?’
He smiled and stirred his tea.
‘Don’t you ever think that instead of research and archaeology and, let’s face it, guesswork, how much better it would be if we could actually return to any historical event and witness it for ourselves? To be able to say with authority, “Yes, the Princes in the Tower were alive at the end of Richard’s reign. And this I know because I saw them with my own eyes.”’
‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘It would; although I can think of a few examples where such certainty would not be welcomed.’
He looked up sharply.
‘Such as?’
‘Well, a certain stable in Bethlehem for instance. Imagine if you pitched up with your Polaroid and the innkeeper flung open the door and said, “Come in. You’re my only guests and there’s plenty of room at the inn!” That would put the cat amongst the pigeons.’
‘An understatement. But you have nevertheless grasped the situation very clearly.’
‘So,’ I said, eyeing him closely, ‘maybe it’s good there’s no such thing as time travel.’
He raised his eyebrows slightly.
‘Or to qualify further, no such thing as public-access time travel.’
‘Exactly. Although the phrase “time travel” is so sci-fi. We don’t do that. Here at St Mary’s we investigate major historical events in contemporary time .’
Put like that, of course, it all made perfect sense.
‘So tell me, Dr Maxwell, if the whole of history lay before you like a shining ribbon, where would you go? What would you like to witness?’
‘The Trojan War,’ I said, words tumbling over each other. ‘Or the Spartans’ stand at Thermopylae. Or Henry at Agincourt. Or Stonehenge. Or the pyramids being built. Or see Persepolis before it burned. Or Hannibal getting his elephants over the Alps. Or go to Ur and find Abraham, the father of everything.’ I paused for breath. ‘I could do you a wish list.’
He smiled thinly. ‘Perhaps one day I shall ask you for one.’
He set down his cup. With hindsight, I can see how he was feeling his way through the interview, summing me up, drip-feeding information, watching my reactions. I
Vidiadhar Surajprasad Naipaul