The Great St Mary's Day Out by Jodi Taylor Page B

gobby bunch sometimes, and if he waited for the noise to die down then we’d all be there forever. ‘So, if those wishing to participate in this treat could give their names to Dr Maxwell by close of play today, please. Report to Mrs Enderby for costume fittings, collect your background research tapes from Dr Dowson, read up on the play itself, and report to Hawking Hangar at 11:00 two weeks from today. Any questions?’
    I really don’t know why he bothers with that last bit. He was already halfway up the stairs and picking up speed. Popular opinion has it that once every couple of years Thirsk University compels him to attend a series of seminars on Modern Management, through which he sits, unspeaking and rigid with disapproval, until their nerve fails them and they return him to us, possibly even less modern than he was before he set out. However, since he can’t bear to waste the money, he forces himself to implement one or two very minor changes every year, such as remembering to command us to sit down – especially if we’ve been wounded – or asking if anyone has any questions. It is always clearly understood that no one ever will. Have any questions, I mean. He did once utter the memorable phrase, ‘Please remember my door is always open,’ and it would be hard to say who had been most traumatised by this remarkable statement.
    However, as usual, there were no questions and we were left to discuss what amounted to a works outing amongst ourselves.
    â€˜I’m not going,’ said Bashford, firmly. ‘I suffered enough at school. Long boring afternoons reading endless verse. Even the flies on the ceiling died in self-defence.’
    â€˜Me neither,’ said Clerk. ‘Couldn’t stand it at school; hated it on TV; see no reason why it should be any better in the rain, sitting on seats designed to numb your bum in seconds. Not my idea of a holiday.’
    â€˜Philistines,’ I said, turning to Markham. ‘What about you?’
    â€˜Are you serious?’ he said, his eyes shining and his hair even spikier with excitement. ‘Course I’m going. Who wouldn’t?’
    Peterson stared at him. ‘ You like Shakespeare?’
    â€˜Oh, yeah,’ he said with enthusiasm. ‘ Hamlet ’s not my favourite, of course. I prefer A Midsummer Night’s Dream or The Tempest , but that bit where he stabs Polonius in the arras...’
    He mimed stabbing Polonius in the arras.
    â€˜When did you ever read Hamlet ?’ demanded Peterson.
    â€˜At school. Didn’t you? And I’ve seen several versions of the play. Not live, of course. Can’t afford it on my wages.’ We all looked nervously over our shoulders, but Dr Bairstow really had gone. ‘Olivier, Tennant, Branagh, all the greats, and now I’ll get to see Burbage. And Shakespeare himself. Although as the Ghost he’ll probably be all muffled up so I won’t be able to see his face at all, but even so ... I must see if Hunter wants to go as well,’ and he disappeared.
    â€˜He never fails to astound me,’ said Leon, watching him elbow his way through crowds of chattering people.
    â€˜Nor me,’ I said. I pulled Leon to one side and lowered my voice. ‘Did you ever discover his marital status?’
    Not so long ago, we – Leon, Markham and me – had been having a perfectly normal conversation about whether Peterson would survive his proposal of marriage to Dr Foster, or whether the worryingly long silence from her office was due to her having murdered and possibly eaten him, when Markham had suddenly let slip that he himself was married. To Nurse Hunter. They’d been married for years. He said. We didn’t know whether it was true or whether he was just winding us up and, so far, all our efforts to pin him to the wall and beat the truth out of him had been unsuccessful.
    Leon shook his head. ‘These are deep waters in