23. ST MARY’S INSTITUTE OF HISTORICAL RESEARCH INCIDENT REPORT
Competition entry by Jo Jones
A Globe(al) Catastrophe
TO: Dr Bairstow
FROM: Mr Fernsby
INCIDENT REPORT
For the record, this was not my fault. Unwilling to apportion blame, I do, however, believe our colleagues in R&D could exercise a tad more restraint before testing their…theories. If not for their attempt to recreate the Vesuvius eruption, Miss Bland and I would not have crossed paths; ergo, no security breach.
Attached is the transcript of events from my recorder with several explanatory asides.
Assuming the figure rushing toward me to be my associate and anxious to leave before the mayhem occurring in the Great Hall reached Hawking, I rushed her to the pod. Noting her attire, it occurred to me that standards in the Wardrobe Department had fallen somewhat in the absence of Mrs Enderby. Regrettably ignoring her many protestations, I initiated the jump. The world went white.
I exited the pod, gratified we were exactly where we should be, thanks to my meticulous calculations.
“Was there always a river here?”
“What?”
“And these buildings?”
“While acknowledging the rushed nature of our departure Miss Montgomery, surely you at least skimmed the data stack?”
“Bland.”
“Excuse me?”
“Ottolie Bland. And you are?”
“Not Eloise Montgomery?”
“No, I’m sure you’re not. I, however, am Fundraising Officer for the WI, that’s the Women’s Institute, here to see Dr Bairstow.”
“Oh no. No, no, no. Get back in the pod.”
“Pod? What’s a pod? Other than a seed case for peas, obviously.”
I propelled her back inside. “Stay here. Touch nothing. I’ll be back.”
“Absolutely not, Arnie. Aside from the ghastly smell, I have a scheduled appointment and it is rude to be late. As is not introducing oneself.”
What to do? Return to St Mary’s and rid myself of this turbulent priest, aka Fundraiser? But…I would lose my pet project. I would be blamed and ridiculed. I would forever be Fernsby of the WI and suffer cake-related wisecracks.
“Ignatius P Fernsby.”
“P?”
“I’m sorry?”
“P. I myself was not burdened with a middle name.”
“Patrick.”
I sighed. “You may accompany me, Miss Bland, on condition you say nothing and do exactly as instructed.”
“And my appointment?”
“I…will explain to Dr Bairstow.” Somehow.
“Then, lead on, Macduff.”
Appropriately, if unintentionally, she misquoted Shakespeare’s Macbeth.
We proceeded without further conversation until a high-pitched whistle pierced the air.
“What the…Is that you?”
“That would be my hearing aid.”
“Your…?”
“Hearing. Aid. The battery needs replacing.”
She removed the offending item. “I can still hear, just talk loudly and enunciate.”
Very shortly thereafter, I almost jumped out of my breeches when she let out a squeal.
“Is that…the Globe?”
“Um…”
“It looks remarkably accurate.”
“Um…”
“I’m very impressed that St Mary’s has constructed a replica of the original Globe Theatre and indeed of Southwark. Are you reenacting one of the great man’s plays? Which one? My favourite is The Taming of the Shrew.”
Obviously. Still, I fairly whooshed with relief. Reenactment! I just might get away with this. “Henry VIII.”
“Hmm, not his worst I suppose. Who are you playing?”
“I’m…observing.”
“So you’re dressed like a Renaissance-era peasant, why?”
I had no explanation.
“Oh, I see. Everyone’s in costume. How marvellous.”
Thank goodness one of us was thinking clearly. I hurried into the theatre, hoping her ruffled blouse and long skirt wouldn’t look too out of time.
Act 1 was already under way. Given her previous complaint, Miss Bland seemed surprisingly oblivious to the stench of the locals, which made the pod’s eau de cabbage seem more like potpourri. All was proceeding as expected. Until…
“Ooh, who’s playing Shakespeare? I mean the likeness isn’t that great, but it’s clearly meant to be him.” She took off.
Still recording, but needing to prevent her from interacting with the most famous man here, I hustled after her.
“Hello. Ottilie Bland. Great costume.”
“Well met, fair mistress. William Shakespeare at your command.” He bowed low, kissing her hand.
Oh dear God. His love of both flattery and women clearly overrode his shock at her bold approach. She actually giggled.
“I pray thou art enamoured of mine humble offering?”
“Oh indeed, sir. Tis most pleasing to mine ears.” At least now she was behaving in a way less likely to cause suspicion.
“I am right glad to hear it. Art thou here unaccompanied?”
Lecherous old fool. “Forsooth sir, she most surely is not. Pray excuse us.”
I led her back to our original position, wondering how the hell she could hear what he was saying.
“How the hell could you hear what he was saying?”
“Lip reading. Isn’t this fun? Do you do this sort of thing often?”
“More than you can possibly imagine. Do. Not. Move.”
She stuck her tongue out. I chose to ignore that as the cannon appeared.
“I’ve lost it!” She wailed.
“Not at all. You’re doing splendidly,” I murmured vaguely, eyes fixed on the stage. It was almost time.
“I must have dropped it.”
“Dropped it?”
“My hearing aid! I can’t leave it here.”
About that, she was 100% correct. Juggling the recorder while attempting to prevent the now-kneeling Miss Bland from being trampled by fellow theatregoers, I fervently wished hearing aids were still the size of ear trumpets.
“Thomas! Put that not to thy lips!”
Suspecting that that was the lost device, I nudged Miss Bland in the direction of the weary mother admonishing her bored son.
She barged her way through, much like Mr Markham on Pancake Tuesdays.
“Young man, hand that over immediately. It is not a mint humbug!”
The boy, understandably confused by these words, howled mightily. Again, much like Mr Markham on Pancake Tuesdays. His mother, affronted that this strangely attired foreigner would dare address her beloved angel in this manner, lunged forward. Miss Bland snatched the humbug, I mean hearing aid. I tackled the mother as she swung at Miss Bland. Recording ceased. The howling crescendoed. The crowd began pushing and shoving, if for no other reason than this act was a little tedious, boring even. As the fracas edged closer to the stage, the actor beside the cannon slipped, presumably distracted by the commotion. With an alarming bang worthy of R&D, the cannon misfired just as history, but sadly not I, recorded. Henry VIII strode majestically onstage. Courtiers bowed and scraped. Minstrels played tunelessly.
Someone yelled “FIRE!” Someone screamed. Me, as it turned out, as burning thatch landed on, and set fire to, my breeches. Thank goodness Mrs Enderby is on holiday. She would not be amused.
Grabbing a flagon of ale, Miss Bland doused the flames inching towards my…parts. Trying not to dwell on the potential damage I might have suffered without her unorthodox actions, we hot-footed it back to the pod. My pre-programmed return coordinates preventing the dreaded emergency extraction, the world went white.
CONCLUSION
Nurse Hunter’s examination detected a very mild head trauma incurred during a fainting spell, possibly brought on by fright after the controlled explosion in R&D, which explains Miss Bland’s hallucinations. Her assertion that the world went white (twice) and the absence of a replica of the Globe Theatre on our grounds substantiate this diagnosis.
The security breach has been successfully averted.
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