More time crept by. We worked our way through all the Beaurain, Bayeux, Stamford Bridge and Hastings data, and wrote the presentations. In the end, North, Sykes and Bashford took them to Thirsk. Lingoss went with them. The Chancellor received them kindly, they were on their best behaviour and everything went well which, according to Dr Bairstow, went a long way towards reconciling them to the cost of St Mary’s restoration.

Of course, our supply of work dried up. The techies were the only people employed at the moment, busy rebuilding Hawking, repairing the pods that had survived and cannibalising the ones that hadn’t.

SPOHB – the Society for the Preservation of Historical Buildings turned up, all of them wearing their traditional combination of drab knitwear and expressions of rigid disapproval. We continued the St Mary’s tradition of ignoring them. They fired off a series of punitive memos, heading each one with their logo and the information that this communication had originated from the BDSM department. Everyone got really excited. Speculation was rife as to what they were wearing under those cardigans until we discovered the letters stood for Building Design and Site Management.

There wasn’t anything for us historians to do. The more technically minded among us were allowed into Hawking in an unskilled capacity – holding tools, carrying stuff around, suffering the occasional mild electric shock, making tea. The rest of us assisted Dr Dowson to re-catalogue the Archive, or indulge in a little extreme gardening under the watchful eye of Mr Strong.

Months passed. Spring turned into summer and probably wished it hadn’t bothered. I’ve never seen so much wind and rain. They had real problems getting the roof back on Hawking. Summer began to turn into autumn. Leaves fell early from the trees and lay in soggy piles everywhere. Mr Stone raked them away and then there were frosty cobwebs every morning. Leon had been gone for nearly six months. Matthew had almost stopped asking where he was. I concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other and just getting through each day and I wasn’t the only one.

Morale was at an all-time low. We’re St Mary’s. We tend to be reasonably cheerful even when things aren’t going well because things not going well is our default state. It wasn’t that people were gloomy, but somehow, the spark had gone. Despite all our efforts, there were mutterings. I was concerned enough to mention it to Dr Bairstow, who said nothing, but looked thoughtful.

And then, one day, about a week later, he sent for me. I thought, initially, that he wanted to ask me again about my plans for the future – something he had heroically refrained from doing since our interview with the Time Police – but this was something completely different.

‘Hello, Max. Come in and sit down.’

‘Good afternoon, sir.’

‘How are things out there?’

‘Not too bad, sir. The Technical Section is working like stink and the rest of us are going slowly mad looking for something to do. I’m pleased to be able to report – possibly for the first time ever – that everyone’s reports are written up, all filing up to date, the Archive re-catalogued, and all side-saddle hours completed and logged.’

‘Yes,’ he said thoughtfully, and then stopped.

I sat and waited. I had nowhere to go and nothing to do when I got there. That was my life now.

‘I’ve been thinking, Max. I have an idea, which I’d like to run past you.’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Out of respect, I have waited a while to say this, but I think the time has come for us to draw a line under past events. This does not mean we forget what has happened, or those who have gone, but I think it’s time to move forwards again. The work in Hawking is nearly complete and we should have four, if not five, working pods very soon now. I have been thinking that, as a reward for everyone’s hard work, we should have a small event to celebrate. Something for people to enjoy. I do not, however, wish to seem insensitive, and I would, therefore appreciate your thoughts.’

What did I think?

I sat quietly in that familiar room, looking at the patch of sunshine on the faded carpet. He’d had his clock repaired. The old familiar tick was back and in some small way, I felt comforted. I heard myself say, ‘I think that’s a good idea sir. You’re right. It is time. Did you have anything specific in mind?’

He leaned forwards. ‘Actually, yes. I am concerned at our current lack of impetus. What this unit needs is a little healthy competition. Nothing too strenuous, of course,’ he said quickly, possibly remembering that the St Mary’s response to anything even remotely competitive is to form the appropriate number of teams, spend ten minutes hurling insults around, and then knock seven bells out of each other. Quarter is neither expected nor given.

I ventured to express a few misgivings. ‘An excellent suggestion, sir, but I can’t help remembering last year’s trebuchet versus ballista tournament, when Mr Keller broke his arm and we inadvertently demolished Mr Strong’s potting shed. It was only due to the greatest good fortune and the call of nature that he wasn’t in it at the time.’

He waved this aside as irrelevant. ‘No one is more aware of the competitive nature of my unit than I, Dr Maxwell, but I hope to neutralise our more savage instincts by proposing a pleasant, gentlemanly game of croquet. In authentic costume, of course. To be followed by afternoon tea on the terrace.’

I blinked. ‘Are you giving us the afternoon off, sir?’

‘I believe that is what I said. Thursday next, I think, if the weather holds. See to it, Dr Maxwell.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Obviously, despite his best intentions, it was never going to end well, but I don’t think any of us realised quite how bizarre the afternoon was going to be. Even by our standards. But I’m always being told off when I run ahead of myself.

I made sure I got to Wardrobe ahead of the crowd, snagging myself a rather pretty tea-gown in pale blue and turquoise. I didn’t intend to play, but I didn’t intend to burden myself with corsets either, and the loose tea-gown was perfect. Matthew immediately defected to the Security team, where they decked him out in knickerbockers and a cap. I wasn’t sure whether his function was first reserve or mascot.

I’m not familiar with the rules of croquet – or indeed any game that involves hitting a ball with a stick. Golf, tennis, hockey, cricket – they all look the same to me. It’s only the shape of the stick that’s different. Unless you’re the Queen of Hearts, of course, when you get to play with flamingos instead. Interesting idea, but difficult to organise at such short notice.

We set up tables and chairs along the terrace. A croquet … pitch? … court? …whatever … had been laid out. We had six teams and the smart money was on the Wardrobe Wanderers, who were generally reckoned to be unstoppable and led by Mrs Enderby herself, decked out in a high-necked blouse and long, full skirt. Her bustle was assumed to be weaponised and was being given a wide berth.

There would be a number of preliminary heats, then we’d pause for afternoon tea – the word sumptuous had been used several times – before the Grand Final. A small cup was to be presented to the winners by Dr Bairstow himself, stunningly attired in a crimson and cream striped blazer and crisp cream trousers. He sat with Mrs Partridge, who looked cool and elegant in white and carried a pink parasol.

Everyone, competitors and spectators alike, had made an effort with their costumes. I was wearing my pretty tea-gown with my hair coiled up in an elegant knot. And no corset. You can’t eat afternoon tea in a corset.

Nearby, Miss Sykes wore a saintly expression and a pretty pink dress with more ruffles than was probably legal. Miss Lingoss, always different, had chosen a striking crimson affair, with her corset worn over the dress, which, I have to say, was a huge improvement on the way Victorian and Edwardian ladies wore them. Her hair was teased up to a height that Marge Simpson would envy. Even the men had shown willing, all of them in crisp white shirts and flannels, tied around the waist with old school ties. One or two souls not sensitive to public opinion wore straw boaters.

We arranged ourselves at the tables. I sat with Peterson, Lingoss and a blushing but delighted Dottle. We poured ourselves glasses of lemonade, made from an authentic recipe – Peterson surreptitiously added something from a small flask – and we watched the bloodbath begin. It was a knockout competition – sometimes quite literally – and the last two teams standing would slug it out on the green velvet perfection of Mr Strong’s beloved South Lawn.

The History Department crashed out in the first round, but Miss Sykes’s parting shot had led to Mr Evans staggering from the field, temporarily hors de combat and vowing future retribution, so we didn’t feel all honour had been lost.

Peterson and I took advantage of the lull caused by the medical section getting people back on their feet again to take a walk around the lake. We paused by the willows and looked back at St Mary’s. Just for once, it wasn’t raining, the building glowed in the afternoon sunshine, the birds were singing, the swans were all safely at the other end of the lake. It was a lovely peaceful scene. Even the wounded had stopped bleeding.

‘Enjoying yourself?’ he said, as we slowly skirted the willows. In this dress, I had to do everything slowly.

‘Yes,’ I said, quite surprised to find I was. ‘Are you?’

He nodded. ‘It’s good to do something just for fun, don’t you think?’

‘I do. I’d almost forgotten what fun is.’

‘Me too. It’s nice to see you smile again. Max, I wanted to ask you…’ He stopped.

‘Yes?’

‘I wanted to ask if … if you’ve made up your mind about letting the Time Police take Matthew.’

I wasn’t sure that was what he had originally meant to say.

‘No. I mean, no, I don’t think so.’

‘Do you mean you haven’t made up your mind or you don’t think you’ll send him.’

‘I don’t know.’ I tried to keep my voice steady. ‘I honestly don’t know. I only know he’s all I have left of … of Leon.’

‘I understand,’ he said, and we walked in silence for a while. ‘On the other hand,’ he continued, struggling for a lighter tone, ‘if you do send him then his drinking from the toilet will become someone else’s problem. That’s got to be a temptation.’

‘It certainly is.’

He touched my hand. ‘Is everything all right with you?’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘it is. Everything is absolutely fine.’

‘Good. Now tell me the truth.’

We walked a little further. ‘I’m not sure I can put it into words, Tim. When I first came to St Mary’s, I was alone. A solitary unit – and happy to be so. And then, over the years, things got … switched on. I learned to trust people. I met Leon. There was love. Marriage. Family. I was all set for a life I never thought would be mine, and I was right. Nothing ever came of any of it. Look what happened. Everything is gone. Just ripped away. But I can’t go back to the way I was. I’ve opened myself up. Made myself vulnerable.’ I swallowed. ‘It’s … painful.’

‘You still have Matthew.’

‘But not for long, I suspect.’

‘You don’t have to do it. They can’t take him against your wishes.’

‘They’ll give him an education. He’ll be safe. He can be himself. He’ll never have to pretend or lie. And he doesn’t like me, Tim. Oh, he tolerates me and sometimes, in the evenings, we have a bit of a chat, but he’s not warming to me. He probably never will and I don’t know what to do about it. And the non-mother half of me says to let him go. He’ll be happy. Even the mother half of me suspects it’s a good idea.’

‘But what do you want to do.’

‘It’s not what I want. That doesn’t really come into it. I can’t keep him here just to make me feel better.’

‘What does he say?’

‘I haven’t asked him yet.’

‘But you will.’

‘Yes, I will. I promised I would. I’ll have to pick a moment when he’s not too displeased with me, otherwise it looks as if I’m sending him away out of spite. Sadly, those moments are few and far between.’ I smiled a wobbly smile. ‘I’m not a very good mother.’

‘I don’t agree,’ he said. ‘You’re not a conventional mother but that’s not to say you’re a bad mother.’ He stopped walking. ‘Actually, Max, I was going to ask you if perhaps…’ and he stopped, staring over my shoulder, apparently struggling for words. ‘Bloody hellfire! … What? … What?‘

Long dress notwithstanding, I swung around. Now what?

It takes a lot to catch St Mary’s off balance. Over the years, we’ve been attacked, blown up, gassed – several times actually, because Professor Rapson just can’t work out where he’s going wrong – mobbed by swans, crushed and drowned by a runaway monolith, the list is long and we’ve risen above all of it. We’re St Mary’s, we say, and our proud boast is that we can handle anything, and that’s true, but you can imagine my surprise and consternation when, out of the blue, a bloody great teapot materialised. Right in front of us. Right in the middle of the South Lawn and flattening a croquet hoop at the same time.

We’re supposed to be a professional organisation. We’re supposed to swing into action like a well-oiled … something or other, all ready to deal with whatever threat is presenting itself. We drew nearer for a better look. Yes, I know we should have let the Security Section deal with it but it was teapot, for crying out loud.

All conversation stopped dead. In itself a remarkable event. As a measure of our consternation, one or two people nearly put down their cups of tea. Apart from the distant sound of a car changing gear somewhere, there was complete silence. I’m sorry to say that far from springing into action like a well-oiled thingummy, we froze with our mouths open. Yes, I know, but you try having a giant teapot drop into your front garden and see how quickly you can get your mouth closed.

I stared at the … contraption. The word that sprang to mind was ‘steampunk’ and I don’t even know what that means. If it means a twelve-feet-high precarious-looking structure, bulbously teapot in shape then yes – steampunk. An extrusion on one side looked like, but couldn’t possibly be, a spout and a corresponding bulge on the other side resembled the handle. I had no idea what it could be made of, but I do know it was painted in shades of khaki and brown that were blistering and peeling away – where they weren’t scraped off altogether – and with an amateurishly rendered Union Jack on the side. Significant dents and dints indicated some major collisions. It didn’t appear to be making any sort of noise, but then in my experience, most teapots don’t.

Not a solitary soul moved. Even the birds had shut up. I’ll say it again. We had a twelve-foot-high teapot standing on our croquet lawn.

Anyway, while we were all sitting there, gaping like a bunch of idiots, a hatch lifted up, and a head appeared out of the top, peering around, rather like a cross between a submarine periscope and a meerkat.

As Mr Evans said afterwards, all right, yes, he probably should have done something, but it’s quite difficult to feel threatened by something that looked like a giant, patriotic, tea-dispensing appliance from his Great-Aunt Jemima’s best dinner service.

The head looked around for a minute, caught sight of us, stared hard at our Victorian attire, and then said, ‘Damn and blast.’ Bending back down to address someone still inside the machine, he shouted, ‘You’d better get up here, Mikey. We’ve gone wrong somewhere.’

Surveying us all, he cleared his throat and, enunciating carefully, said, ‘Good afternoon. Er … jolly topping weather, what?’

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ muttered Peterson, ‘Come on, Max. Let’s go and see what’s happened now, shall we?’

‘Try keeping me away.’

We walked slowly towards the teapot, with Evans and the rest of the Security Section pulling themselves together and approaching from the other side. They might have looked more professional if they had put down their slices of Victoria sponge, although Evans and Cox had had the forethought to pick up their croquet mallets. Since the intruders were some ten or twelve feet off the ground, it was hard to know their intentions.

Peterson halted and looked up at them squinting into the sunshine. ‘Identify yourselves.’

The head beamed. ‘Um … well… I know you’re not going to believe this, but…’ he paused impressively, and then announced sonorously, ‘we’re from … The Future.’

Somewhat taken aback by the lack of response, he continued valiantly. ‘We come in peace. We mean you no harm.’

‘Someone should explain it’s likely to be the other way around,’ I muttered. ‘Do you think he’ll ask to be taken to our leader?’

‘Not if he’s got any sense.’

‘We’re…’ he paused even more impressively, obviously playing some sort of trumpet fanfare in his head, ‘… Time Travellers!’

‘Yawn,’ said Sykes, behind me.

Well, I suppose it had to happen sometime. According to the Time Police, the secret of time travel was – sorry, will be – public property, with amateurs zipping about all over the place trying to shoot Hitler, prevent the assassination of a US president – nine at the last count, and four in the last twenty years, so they’re not doing that well – unexecute Mary Stuart, change the final score at Bosworth and now, apparently, visit St Mary’s. You can see why, of course. St Mary’s Institute of Historical Research. First and best. Where it all started. I stood with Peterson in the warm afternoon sunshine and we waited to see what would happen next.

‘Er … my name’s Adrian and this is…’ another head popped up alongside, ‘this is Mikey. We’re awfully sorry, but we seem to be in the wrong place. We’ll be off. So sorry to have disturbed you. Good afternoon.’

Well, they had lovely manners.

‘Not so fast,’ said Peterson. ‘Get your arses down here right now, the pair of you.’

‘Well, that’s not very Victorian,’ said Mikey.

‘Neither am I,’ said Peterson. ‘Get yourselves down here now before I have the pair of you shot.’

‘Oh. OK then,’ said Adrian, not particularly fazed by the threat. ‘You might want to stand back a little.’

‘Why?’

A heavy wooden ladder was heaved out of the hatch and thudded to the ground, missing his head by inches. By the time Peterson had recovered, Adrian was carefully climbing down, closely followed by Mikey.

Seen close up, they were much younger than I had first thought. Adrian was tall and gawky, wearing a long leather greatcoat. Mikey was smaller and wore what looked like a genuine WWII leather flying jacket. They both wore flying helmets and, for no discernible reason that I could see, goggles. I doubted either of them was out of their teens. Which wouldn’t go down well with Dr Bairstow.

Men might be from Mars and women from Venus, but Dr Bairstow is from St Mary’s, the centre of the universe and, as far as he’s concerned, teenagers are from the other side of the Ort cloud. He has frequently been heard to express his astonishment that SETI are concentrating their search for extra-terrestrial life in space, when everyone can see there are several billion aliens (or teenagers as the rest of the world refers to them) already inhabiting Planet Earth.

The two of them stood in front of us, staring around in open curiosity.

‘Where are we?’

‘Where are you supposed to be?’

‘St Mary’s Institute. We wanted to see where it all started.’

‘I don’t believe this,’ said Bashford. He glared accusingly at Evans. ‘We’re supposed to be a top-secret establishment and we’re easier to get into than that new nightclub in Rushford.’

‘Not the Golden Pussy?’ said Keller.

‘I think you mean the Black Cat.’

He grinned. ‘I know what I mean.’

I cleared my throat. We were, to all intents and purposes being invaded by what looked like a collection of giant dustbins held together by a paperclip, and our Security Section was busy discussing Rushford’s one and only nocturnal entertainment establishment. The Black Cat could supply the discerning patron with exorbitantly priced drinks, energetic young ladies and their poles, and gambling facilities for the inexperienced. The Security Section had taken out block membership. They thought Dr Bairstow didn’t know.

‘This is St Mary’s,’ said Peterson, because there was no point in denying it. For a start, there was a bloody great sign on the grass verge outside the gates.

They stared at us and our costumes. ‘But…’

‘Croquet tournament,’ said Peterson, putting them out of their misery. ‘Mr Evans, if you would be so good.’

He stepped forwards. ‘OK guys – you probably know the drill. Assume the position. Are you armed?’

‘Of course not,’ said Adrian, indignantly, turning to face the teapot and raising his arms, obviously well acquainted with the procedure.

I found myself alongside an anxious looking Mikey. ‘I’ll do this one,’ I said. ‘Arms in the air. Anything in your pockets?’

‘Um, a compass, some string, matches, my notebook, a small mirror, spare socks, two pens, my piece of cheese…’

‘Cheese?’

‘To replace the salt. Sometimes, after a jump, we feel a bit wobbly.’

‘Oh?’ said Peterson, sharply. ‘How wobbly.’

‘Just a bit sick, sometimes.’

I’d finished with Mikey. ‘All clear.’

‘Can I have my cheese back?’

‘No,’ I said, dropping it onto the grass. The ants could have it.

‘My cheese,’ cried Mikey, stricken.

‘I’ll get you another lump,’ I said, feeling as if I’d just drowned someone’s kitten. ‘What are your feelings towards Double Gloucester?’

‘Cheddar,’ said Adrian, over his shoulder.

‘Boring,’ said Mikey. ‘Wensleydale.’

I glanced towards Mrs Mack and she got up.

Peterson was talking to Dieter, who disappeared, signalling to several techies to follow him.

Adrian drew himself up. ‘Take us to your leader.’

‘Love to,’ said Peterson. ‘This way.’

As we set off, Dieter and his team passed us, clutching bits of technical equipment and a wand, which they began to wave around.

He looked at the ladder and then at Adrian. ‘All right to go in? I’d really like to have a look inside.’

‘Of course,’ said Adrian amiably. ‘Be our guest.’

I was torn between watching the enormous Dieter negotiate the ladder and then squeeze himself in through the hatch, or seeing what our two guests and Dr Bairstow made of each other. Dr Bairstow won. He always does.

I performed the introductions. ‘Sir, may I introduce Adrian and Mikey. Adrian and Mikey, this is Dr Bairstow.’

They just stared at him, speechless, for once. Talk about shock and awe.

I think he completely took the wind out of their sails by asking them to join him for tea.

‘Oh, wow!’ said Mikey, staring around in amazement. ‘Tea at St Mary’s. With Dr Bairstow. Awesome! Thank you, sir.’

I could see Dr Bairstow thaw a little at this blatant admiration. He doesn’t get a lot of that. On the other hand, of course, pants-wetting terror is usually his preferred effect.

‘Max, Dr Peterson, would you care to join us?’

We settled ourselves down and continued with what was, according to Mrs Mack, the highlight of the afternoon. The tables were laden with four different types of sandwiches, scones with jam and cream, cheese scones with savoury butter, slices of quiche, Victoria sponge, Battenburg and jam tarts. All along the terrace, I could hear happy chatter and the chink of teaspoons in saucers. The English Tourist Board could have bottled us and sold us abroad and made a fortune. England at its most traditional.

Somewhat to our surprise, having loaded his plate with as much as it could hold Adrian pulled out an old-fashioned alarm clock – the sort with the big double bell on the top – and set it on the table in front of him.

I have to say, they both of them looked pale and heavy-eyed so perhaps they needed help staying awake. Like the dormouse at the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party. Please don’t tell Dr Bairstow I referred to him as the Mad Hatter.

Tim was eyeing the clock. ‘What’s that for?’

‘We only have two hours.’

‘Until what?’

‘Until the Time Police catch us. Sometimes a little longer – sometimes a little less – but usually about two hours. So we set the clock and when the alarm goes off – so do we. We have our own dedicated Time Police unit, you know. There’s four of them after us. And they haven’t caught us yet,’ he added proudly, if a little thickly, because all teenagers can eat and talk at the same time. It’s just a bit messy for everyone else. ‘Sometimes,’ he continued, ‘we leave them a note telling them where we’re going next and, every Christmas, we leave them a card with season’s greetings, so they know we’re thinking of them.’

I spared a moment to picture the Time Police reaction to this cheeky gesture of goodwill. Because if they were ever caught, it would no longer be a laughing matter … Not for these two, anyway. And they were so young.

‘How do they find you?’ persisted Peterson.

‘We don’t know,’ said Mikey cheerfully, barely visible behind a plateful of sandwiches and jam tarts. I had the impression the abandoned lump of cheese now lying forlornly on the grass was less than a memory.

‘I think I can answer that,’ said Dieter, appearing as if by magic. No mean feat when you’re that big. He was waving his wand around like a Teutonic Gandalf at Minas Tirith. ‘You have a radiation leak.’

Dr Stone stood up, leaned over, and peered at the readings. ‘Right, you two.’

They clutched at their plates, not moving.

He beamed. ‘I’ve always wanted to say this: Come with me if you want to live.’

They picked up their plates, still stuffing sandwiches as fast as they could go. If they were permanently on the run from the Time Police, no wonder they were starving. Still, they seemed very cheerful about it. It was rather good to meet people for whom the Time Police held no fear.

‘The resilience of youth,’ said Peterson, watching them go. ‘Remember that?’

‘Not recently,’ I said.

Dr Bairstow said, ‘Mr Dieter, how bad is their leak? Should I be evacuating everyone?’

‘Low level, sir, nothing for us to worry about, but prolonged contact is not doing them any good.’

‘Can it be repaired?’

‘I think so, sir. Can you keep them out of the way for an hour or so?’

Dr Bairstow picked up their alarm clock. ‘You have forty-five minutes.’

‘In that case, sir, if you will excuse me – I have a miracle to perform.’

He set off at a trot, closely followed by his team. They climbed into the teapot – and to this day I’m still not sure how they all got in, especially Dieter – and we could hear the sounds of metal hitting metal, together with a great deal of cursing, indicating that the Technical Section was at work.

I sat back to think. Adrian and Mikey – only a hop skip and a jump ahead of the people who would imprison them for the rest of their lives if they caught them. If they didn’t shoot them first, of course. Never staying anywhere for longer than two hours. Trying to eat and sleep in two-hour bursts. Struggling to keep their teapot together. Yes, it was fun now, but what would it be in five years’ time? Or ten? Would they still be enjoying themselves then? Because they could never stop. The minute they stood still, the Time Police would have them.

I looked across the table to Dr Bairstow and said, ‘Sir…?’

He can add mindreading to his list of achievements. ‘You may, Dr Maxwell. Go and organise something.’

I gathered up my dress in two big bunches and galloped off. I raced to Sick Bay where they were receiving – according to Dr Stone – Dr Stone’s patented anti-radiation medication. I added a shower and having their clothes washed to the list of medical treatment they would receive.

And back out to Dieter, who had emerged from the teapot and was easing his back.

‘Dieter – safety protocols?’

He said carefully, ‘They don’t appear to have any.’

‘Really? Good.’

He sighed and rolled his eyes. ‘Typical historian. Not good, Max. Not good in any way. Not good at all.’

‘Yes, it is,’ I said. ‘It means they can still jump if I load them up with supplies.’

‘You do realise that’s one of the main reasons the Time Police are chasing them. Because they could, if they wanted, walk off with the ‘Mona Lisa’ while the paint is still wet.’

‘But they haven’t, have they? Plundered the past, I mean.’

‘Not yet,’ he said grimly, ‘but they’re only two skinny teenagers and this pod thing,’ he gestured behind him, ‘could be taken from them at any time and used by others for nefarious purposes.’

I was gathering up my skirts again, poised for departure.

‘Nefarious?’

He beamed. ‘The Technical Section’s word of the day.’

‘I thought you only understood words like hammer and thump and bro-ken.’

‘Not at all,’ he said looming over me. ‘I also know words like cheeky and bug-ger and push off Maxwell and let us get on with saving their lives.’

I paused. ‘That bad?’

‘It would have been. Turning up here today has probably saved them.’

And back to the kitchen, where Mrs Mack was ahead of me.

‘Care packages,’ she said, nodding towards her staff stuffing compo rations into a box. ‘And some fresh fruit. And chocolate. And a wheel of Wensleydale. They’ll eat well for a week, anyway.’

I just had time for a cup of tea myself before Dr Stone brought them back, considerably cleaner and, presumably, radiation free. Each of them was clutching a little bag of medication. Each had a radiation badge pinned to their front. They were still eating and talking. Simultaneously. We should recruit them into St Mary’s. They were certainly the Right Stuff.

We gathered outside their teapot.

‘Listen to me,’ said Dr Bairstow, and they did. ‘If your badge turns red, return to St Mary’s at once. If either of you are injured or sick, return to St Mary’s at once. If, at any point, you are in trouble or in danger – or more trouble or danger than you feel you can cope with – return to St Mary’s at once. We will do what we can for you. Now, your…’ he glanced up at the teapot, appeared to select and reject various words, finally settling for, ‘conveyance … has been serviced. The radiation leak that would eventually have killed you has been repaired. A week’s worth of rations has been loaded and you have been fed and watered. That should keep you out of trouble for the foreseeable future.’

They nodded, suddenly solemn. Adrian said, ‘On behalf of Mikey and me, thank you, Dr Bairstow. We didn’t know … about the leak, I mean. Well, we did, but we didn’t think it was that serious.’

Mikey nodded and beamed up at him. ‘Thank you, Dr Bairstow. You’ve been very kind.’

I don’t think anyone had ever accused him of kindness before. He put out his hand. ‘Good luck to the pair of you.’

‘Thank you, Dr Bairstow.’

‘Don’t thank me,’ he said sternly. ‘You’re going to need it. However, remember what I said. You are not without a refuge.’

Somewhere in Mikey’s capacious pocket, the alarm clock went off.

‘Time to go,’ said Adrian cheerily, and they climbed the ladder. Mikey hauled it up after them and they dropped it back into the teapot with a thud. Dieter winced.

They waved merrily and shouted goodbye and then the hatch closed. And opened again. ‘You might want to stand back a bit,’ shouted Mikey. And then the hatch closed again.

‘I would certainly advise that,’ said Dieter, ushering us all back to the terrace and the remains of our tea.

When we turned back – they were gone.

They’d cut it a bit fine, actually. I’d barely poured myself another cup of tea and picked up a salmon and cucumber sandwich when the Time Police turned up.

At least they’d learned not to come piling out of their pod, weapons raised, shouting at us to comply with a number of contradictory instructions.

We sat back and watched them cross the grass towards us. Mikey’s cheese lay in their path and appeared to warrant a good deal of attention.

As Adrian had said, there were four of them and they opened the conversation by demanding to know where we were hiding them.

Dr Bairstow sat back, so I gathered it was up to me and Peterson.

‘Who?’

‘Those two.’

‘Two who,’ said Peterson unable to resist.

‘Two renegades in a homemade pod.’

I was about to deny all knowledge when one of the cheese-fixated officers reported its radioactive qualities.

‘That proves it.’

‘Proves what?’

‘That they were here. Their pod leaks radiation wherever it goes. This cheese is radioactive. Therefore, they were here.’

‘Wow,’ I said softly, just to wind them up a bit. ‘This is advanced thinking for the Time Police.’ Because angry people don’t always think as clearly as they should.

Dr Bairstow decided to enter the fray.

‘My dear sir, you are aware we recently sustained enormous damage when our hangar and pods were involved in an explosion? There is radiation everywhere.’

‘Still?’

‘Certainly. I do hope that those of you who have plans for imminent parenthood have donned the appropriate protective gear. Thank you for pointing that out to us, however.’

The officer had been looking around. ‘Why is there a lump of cheese on the lawn at all?’

A good question, to which Dr Bairstow was more than equal. Raising his eyebrows, he said haughtily, ‘Forgive me, I thought it was perfectly obvious that we were holding a croquet tournament.’

‘So?’

‘Is it possible that you are unaware of the significance of cheese in a croquet tournament?’

‘It would appear they are, sir,’ said Peterson, with his, what idiots not to have guessed the significance of cheese in a croquet tournament expression. I have to say, that that one doesn’t get a lot of use.

‘But this cheese is radioactive.’

‘Of course it is,’ said Mrs Mack, standing up and entering the fray. ‘It’s a piece of the famous Rushfordshire Stinking Henry, a very old and famous cheese dating back to 1412. Legend says Henry V took vast quantities of it with him to France where the noxious fumes overcame all opposition and played no small part in his victory at Agincourt. Apparently the smell drove the horses insane with fear and they refused to approach the English lines resulting of course, in the famous English victory. As I’m sure you’re aware.’

St Mary’s sat, transfixed at this brilliance.

‘But why is it radioactive?’

‘If you’d been around since 1412 you’d be radioactive too.’

He looked around at the tranquil scene. St Mary’s having afternoon tea on the terrace. The croquet rackets … clubs … bats … propped against the wall, our walking wounded sitting down and scoffing afternoon tea and, most importantly, the complete absence of giant teapots in the landscape.

Mrs Mack hadn’t finished with him. ‘Would you like some tea before you go?’

He shook his head wordlessly.

She beamed. ‘Or a slice of cake?’

‘No. Thank you.’

‘Or we could make you up some sandwiches for the journey home.’

‘No.’

‘It’s no trouble.’

‘No.’

‘We have plenty to go around.’

‘Look, I said no. Are you deaf or what?’

Everything suddenly went very still and very quiet.

I stepped forwards. ‘Silly me – where are our manners? I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced, have we? You must allow me to present Theresa Mack, Kitchen Supremo and former urban guerrilla. Yes, that’s right, the Theresa Mack. The one who led the resistance in London. The one who commanded the Battersea Barricades. The one who turned back the Fascist forces.’

I stepped even closer and lowered my voice. ‘She could almost certainly kill all four of you where you stand, armed with nothing more than the sugar tongs too. So no sudden moves, eh?’

For a moment we all stared at each other. My back was to St Mary’s, but I just knew people were reaching for butter knives, croquet clubs, hairpins, parasols, whatever. Major Guthrie always used to say that anything can be used as a weapon. Someone scraped a chair as people began to stand up. It really looked as if we were going to be able, legitimately, to kick seven shades of shit out of the Time Police. What a great day this was turning out to be. I was suddenly feeling better than I had for ages. Tim caught my eye and we grinned at each other. This was how our lives should be – enjoying ourselves at St Mary’s and pissing off the Time Police.

Who were rapidly discovering that discretion was the better part of valour. No one wants death by sugar tongs at their post-mortem. They knew Adrian and Mikey had been here. Equally, they knew they’d missed them and they were long gone. And without leaving one of their famous notes, either. Their leader gave the word to withdraw. There were a lot of hard looks as they retreated back to their pod. Giving the cheese a wide berth, I was pleased to notice.

We smiled and waved as they left. Just to piss them off that little bit more, Evans instructed them to come back anytime and not to be strangers, do you hear?

Dr Bairstow sat back. ‘That went well, I thought.’

His good mood was still in evidence the next morning. I’d brought the casualty list down from Dr Stone. This had been our doctor’s first competitive event at St Mary’s and he was still in a state of mild disbelief.

Dr Bairstow, on the other hand, was very nearly jovial. It wasn’t every day he got to put one over on the Time Police.

‘What’s the damage, Max?’

‘Well, sir, working my way down the accidental injury list…’ I took a deep breath.

‘One sprained wrist.

‘One suspected case of tennis elbow.

‘One suspected case of trigger finger. I’ve no idea, sir. Please don’t ask me.

‘Sundry bruised shins and ankles – mostly the result of poor aim or lack of coordination, but I suspect one or two old scores may have been settled.

‘One suspected but very unlikely hernia.’

‘One black eye.’

I swiped to the next page on my scratchpad.

‘Working my way down the list of injuries incurred during disagreements over croquet protocols…

‘A number of bruises and black eyes.’

‘How many?’

‘More than two but less than four, sir.’

He seemed impressed, but whether that was because the injuries were so many or so few remained unclear.

‘Sundry lacerations.’

He nodded.

‘Working my way down the list of miscellaneous injuries, sir…

‘One case of mild sunburn.’

‘In this country?’

‘Apparently, sir.’

‘Goodness gracious.’

‘And um … one horse bite and some minor trampling.’

‘I am almost afraid to ask.’

‘Attempted retrieval of a lost ball sir. Turk took exception to Mr Bashford invading what he considers to be his personal space.’

‘How much space can a horse consider to be personally his?’

‘As far as I can ascertain, sir, an area covering most of Rushfordshire. There’s also a small sprinkling of alcohol-related injuries, sir, including Mr Keller falling over as he tried to take off his boots. No concussion.’

He muttered something about Edward II sustaining fewer casualties at Bannockburn. And he’d lost. ‘And damage to the building?’

‘Relatively minor, sir. Mostly, but not necessarily confined to, the occasional broken window.’

‘And?’

‘One or two items of furniture may have incurred minor damage during the action replays in the bar last night.’

‘So yesterday went well then?’

‘Indeed, sir. No one hospitalised, the building still standing, two charming new friends made, and the Time Police deceived.’

‘And the final score?’

‘The final result of the croquet match remains contested, sir, otherwise, St Mary’s – one. Time Police – nil.’

‘Have we learned anything from yesterday?’

‘Well, I think Mr Evans has learned not to stand behind Miss Sykes when she has a croquet club in her hand. And Miss Lingoss’s performance may have caused one or two people to revise their stereotypical opinion of the female inability to bowl overarm.’

‘I am almost certain yesterday’s game was croquet not cricket, Dr Maxwell.’

‘A temporary confusion on Miss Lingoss’s part, sir. Soon resolved and apparently no hard feelings afterwards.’

He sat quietly for a while, tapping his pen on his desk. I waited for what I knew was coming.

‘They were delightful young people, weren’t they?’

‘They were sir. And, thanks to St Mary’s, considerably less radioactive than they were this time yesterday.’

He leaned forward. ‘Do you think Adrian knows Mikey is a girl?’

I grinned at him. ‘I’d be surprised if Mikey knows Mikey is a girl, sir.’