Everyone deserves to get away for a bit. Even the miscreants at St Maryâs.
Astonishingly, Dr Bairstow has declared a holiday. Even more astonishingly â heâs paying for it.
Needless to say, there are strings attached. The trip is to record the 1601 performance of Hamlet , with Shakespeare himself in the role of the Ghost.
It doesnât go well, of course. With Dr Bairstow and Mrs Mack turning a simple visit to a street market into a public brawl, Professor Rapson inadvertently stowing away on a vessel bound for the New World, and Shakespeare himself going up in flames, it would seem that Max, of all people, is the only one actually completing the assignment.
Dramatis Thingummy
Matthew Farrell - Small human.
Max - Head of History Department. Wife. Mother. Bemused.
Leon Farrell - Husband and hero.
Dr Tim Peterson - Deputy Director. Would-be husband.
Mr Markham - Unlikely Shakespeare enthusiast. Even more unlikely Ghost. Husband status still unknown.
Miss Lingoss - Multi-coloured member of R&D. A steady hand with a recorder. No husband.
Dr Bairstow - Director of St Maryâs. Definitely not a husband.
Major Guthrie - Recipient of an unfortunate blow to the head early on in the story. Possible future husband.
Mrs Mack - Deadly with a skillet and not just in the kitchen. Husband lost in tragic circumstances.
Mrs Enderby - Head of Wardrobe Department. Husband status unknown.
Professor Rapson - Head of R&D. Trainee stowaway. Not a husband.
Dr Dowson - Librarian and Archivist. Not a husband either.
Mr Evans - Security Guard. Unaware of the true meaning of nursery rhymes. Not a husband.
Mr Keller - Security Guard. Not a husband.
Miss North - Historian. Doesnât need a husband. Can probably self-reproduce.
Miss Sykes - Historian. Trainee Apocalypse. No husband yet, but Bashford should watch his back.
Mr Atherton - Historian. Was a husband. Prefers being an historian. Less stress.
Rosie Lee - PA to Max. Doesnât have a husband and doesnât want one thank you very much.
Dr Helen Foster - About to acquire a husband. To the general astonishment of all.
William Shakespeare - Husband, and playwright.
The cast of Hamlet . Rogues, vagabonds, cutpurses, prostitutes, sailors, market policemen, stinkards, an abandoned wife and seventeen children.
The Great St Maryâs Day Out â a short story
ââââââââ
I walked Matthew around St Maryâs because a few things needed to be made clear.
âAll right, people. This is a baby. A small human. His name is Matthew and he is not to be floated across the lake in a Moses basket just to see if it could have happened. Nor is he to be stuffed into a warming pan and smuggled into someoneâs bed. He is not to be dangled off a balcony and presented to the Welsh people as a non-English-speaking Prince of Wales. Permission to include him in any of the imaginative events currently being planned by the History Department is to be sought from his father, Chief Farrell, and good luck to anyone trying that. He is not to be used as a paperweight. Or ballast. Or a draught excluder. Everyone clear?â
You have to tell people these things. Especially at St Maryâs.
It was a golden time for me. In every sense of the word. Autumn wasnât giving in to winter without a fight. The trees glowed in the late sunshine â gold, russet, red and orange. In a week, the leaves would begin to fall and Mr Strong, our caretaker, would gather them up for burning, bringing the sharp smell of bonfires on the breeze.
The three of us, Leon, Matthew and I, were back at St Maryâs. Without ever having left, actually. Dr Bairstow had requested we remain here while the vexing question of Clive Ronan was resolved. For our own safety. I wasnât bothered and Leon was in full âAnyone Messing With My Family Will Regret Itâ mode, and we lived happily in a small suite of rooms up in the attic, so no one
Astonishingly, Dr Bairstow has declared a holiday. Even more astonishingly â heâs paying for it.
Needless to say, there are strings attached. The trip is to record the 1601 performance of Hamlet , with Shakespeare himself in the role of the Ghost.
It doesnât go well, of course. With Dr Bairstow and Mrs Mack turning a simple visit to a street market into a public brawl, Professor Rapson inadvertently stowing away on a vessel bound for the New World, and Shakespeare himself going up in flames, it would seem that Max, of all people, is the only one actually completing the assignment.
Dramatis Thingummy
Matthew Farrell - Small human.
Max - Head of History Department. Wife. Mother. Bemused.
Leon Farrell - Husband and hero.
Dr Tim Peterson - Deputy Director. Would-be husband.
Mr Markham - Unlikely Shakespeare enthusiast. Even more unlikely Ghost. Husband status still unknown.
Miss Lingoss - Multi-coloured member of R&D. A steady hand with a recorder. No husband.
Dr Bairstow - Director of St Maryâs. Definitely not a husband.
Major Guthrie - Recipient of an unfortunate blow to the head early on in the story. Possible future husband.
Mrs Mack - Deadly with a skillet and not just in the kitchen. Husband lost in tragic circumstances.
Mrs Enderby - Head of Wardrobe Department. Husband status unknown.
Professor Rapson - Head of R&D. Trainee stowaway. Not a husband.
Dr Dowson - Librarian and Archivist. Not a husband either.
Mr Evans - Security Guard. Unaware of the true meaning of nursery rhymes. Not a husband.
Mr Keller - Security Guard. Not a husband.
Miss North - Historian. Doesnât need a husband. Can probably self-reproduce.
Miss Sykes - Historian. Trainee Apocalypse. No husband yet, but Bashford should watch his back.
Mr Atherton - Historian. Was a husband. Prefers being an historian. Less stress.
Rosie Lee - PA to Max. Doesnât have a husband and doesnât want one thank you very much.
Dr Helen Foster - About to acquire a husband. To the general astonishment of all.
William Shakespeare - Husband, and playwright.
The cast of Hamlet . Rogues, vagabonds, cutpurses, prostitutes, sailors, market policemen, stinkards, an abandoned wife and seventeen children.
The Great St Maryâs Day Out â a short story
ââââââââ
I walked Matthew around St Maryâs because a few things needed to be made clear.
âAll right, people. This is a baby. A small human. His name is Matthew and he is not to be floated across the lake in a Moses basket just to see if it could have happened. Nor is he to be stuffed into a warming pan and smuggled into someoneâs bed. He is not to be dangled off a balcony and presented to the Welsh people as a non-English-speaking Prince of Wales. Permission to include him in any of the imaginative events currently being planned by the History Department is to be sought from his father, Chief Farrell, and good luck to anyone trying that. He is not to be used as a paperweight. Or ballast. Or a draught excluder. Everyone clear?â
You have to tell people these things. Especially at St Maryâs.
It was a golden time for me. In every sense of the word. Autumn wasnât giving in to winter without a fight. The trees glowed in the late sunshine â gold, russet, red and orange. In a week, the leaves would begin to fall and Mr Strong, our caretaker, would gather them up for burning, bringing the sharp smell of bonfires on the breeze.
The three of us, Leon, Matthew and I, were back at St Maryâs. Without ever having left, actually. Dr Bairstow had requested we remain here while the vexing question of Clive Ronan was resolved. For our own safety. I wasnât bothered and Leon was in full âAnyone Messing With My Family Will Regret Itâ mode, and we lived happily in a small suite of rooms up in the attic, so no one
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