Free No Time Like the Past by Jodi Taylor Page A

grinning.
    Leon stepped forward. ‘Much as I hate to break up this discussion on female apparel …’ He held up Van Owen’s muff. ‘A muff, Mr Lindstrom, is a cylinder of warm material or fur, into which the wearer can insert her hands to keep warm, or, if you are an historian, carry her own personal arsenal of pepper spray, stun gun, flick knife, flame thrower, and surface-to-air missiles.’
    I twinkled at him and said quietly, ‘Muff man?’
    ‘If you don’t know the answer to that one then I may have to initiate a rigorous refresher session tonight.’
    I caught my breath and turned away before my own muff burst into flames.
    Just time for one last word to the troops.
    ‘Right, you lot. I know we’ve been through this already, but a final reminder. This is a very rigid and very formal society. Everyone knows their place. Ladies, do not speak unless spoken to. Do not offer to shake hands. Do not make eye contact with members of the opposite sex. Curtsey when spoken to.
    ‘Gentlemen, raise your hats when speaking to ladies. You can get away with just a careless flick of the brim if speaking to a member of your own sex. Offer your arm to your partner. Steer her around obstacles and muddy ground, because, of course, she won’t be able to do that for herself. Victorian society genuinely feels that never having to open a door in your life more than compensates for not having your own job, your own money, or any sort of control over your own life, so remember that. Above all, be discreet with your recording. Any questions?’
    Nope. They were itching to be off.
    I turned to find Dr Bairstow at my elbow. Nothing strange in that – he often comes down to see us off. I suspect he just wants to reassure himself we’re actually off the premises.
    I waited, but he said nothing.
    Finally, I said, ‘Was there something, sir?’
    He seemed to debate with himself for a moment and then said, ‘No, I’ve just come to wish the History department well on its first full assignment after the Time Police.’
    ‘Thank you, sir.’
    He nodded. ‘Good luck, everyone,’ and stumped away.
    Inside the pod, I seated myself comfortably and said, ‘In your own time, Mr Sands.’
    The world went white.
    We landed in a very remote corner of the park; surrounded by sheds, outbuildings, compost heaps, and a great steaming pile of horse manure. Says it all, really.
    Sands looked at me. I nodded for him to continue. He verified we were in the right place, carried out the coms check and decontamination, and we were all set to go.
    We set off in our pairs – respectable middle-class Victorians come to celebrate the British Empire and, just for one afternoon, to identify with its glories. I could catch tantalising glimpses through the trees, and then, suddenly, there it was.
    Ahead of us, I could see a giant glittering structure, taller than the trees around it. In fact, in the centre of the ground floor, adjacent to the Crystal Fountain, real trees had actually been incorporated into the design. This was the snappily named Great Exhibition of the Works of Industry of All Nations. Dreamed up by Victoria’s husband, Prince Albert, to celebrate Britain’s success as a manufacturing nation, and all of it incorporated into a palace made of glass – The Crystal Palace.
    We paid the full price for admission – three guineas for gentlemen and two guineas for the ladies. There were days set aside for the hoi-polloi at vastly reduced entrance fees, but not today. I stood back and let Mr Sands pay for me. Commercial transactions were far beyond the capability of women.
    We entered through the West Entrance and stopped dead in astonishment.
    My first thought was that we really should have brought Kal on this one. With industrial history as her speciality, she would have loved this; but she was at Thirsk now, safeguarding our interests and terrorising harmless academics.
    I hadn’t expected to be impressed, but it was amazing. Absolutely bloody