Free No Time Like the Past by Jodi Taylor Page B

amazing.
    Ten miles of displays, according to the statistics. Over a hundred thousand exhibits from fifteen thousand exhibitors around the world. Britain, of course, head of the empire and host nation, occupied the biggest space, but almost every nation was there. Flags hung above individual exhibitors in a riot of many colours.
    ‘Elephant!’ said Roberts, and he and Schiller disappeared towards the Indian exhibit.
    ‘The Koh-I-Noor,’ said Clerk, and seizing Van Owen’s arm in not quite the approved Victorian manner, they too disappeared into the crowd.
    The noise was tremendous. Hundreds, possibly thousands of people milled around us, but there was no impression of overcrowding. People moved smoothly from one exhibit to the next, or paused to greet friends and show off the latest fashions. Most were family groups, headed by father and mother and accompanied by what seemed vast numbers of tiny replicas, which I subsequently discovered to be children. These pale copes of their parents seemed very well behaved although that might possibly be due to the enormous amount of clothing weighing them down.
    We walked a little further down the central aisle, pausing by the steam hammer exhibit. Yes, Sands was limping a little and leaning on his ornate walking stick, but he seemed very cheerful, bright-eyed, and interested.
    Well, here we go.
    I indicated that our route was up to Mr Sands.
    ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘I think we’ll check out the South Side first, then up the stairs, up one side of the gallery, down the other, back downstairs again, pause for a quick cup of tea and then finish up with the North Side. What do you say?’
    ‘The cup of tea appears a little late in the schedule and we’ll delete the word “quick”, but otherwise, fine.’
    We set off and I forgot all about the tea. It was fabulous. All of it. Wonderful. An Aladdin’s cave full of treasures and wonders and delights and magic and light and colour. I was entranced.
    The plan went straight out of the window in our excitement.
    We saw the Machinery in Motion exhibits. Huge machines from all over the world. Steam hammers, printing presses, pumps, looms, massive machinery, all pounding away. Valves hissed. Pistons … pistoned. I assumed that was their function. Sands gestured with his stick, explaining all the workings to the tiny female brain, exactly as every other man-sized little boy was doing to his female companions.
    From there we zigzagged haphazardly to the South Side of the exhibition area and saw fabulous shimmering fabrics from every corner of the Empire and beyond. There was furniture, made from exotic woods. Jewellery, china – even musical instruments.
    Upstairs was a special area devoted to French velvets and lace and opposite that, on the North Gallery, fabulous examples of stained glass coloured the floor with their rich, dark colours.
    Brilliant glass chandeliers hung above our heads, winking and gleaming in the bright sunshine.
    Further along were even more musical instruments. At the invitation of a smiling exhibitor, I sat at a beautiful harpsichord, inlaid with mother of pearl. I dredged through my childhood memories and played ‘In an English Country Garden’, very badly. He tried so hard to induce Mr Sands to buy one for his talented and lovely – I saw him falter on the word ‘wife’, mentally substitute ‘sister’, lose his nerve, baulk at ‘mother,’ and settle for ‘charming companion’. Mr Sands declined, but politely.
    ‘I’ve been well brought up,’ he said, as we moved away.
    ‘But not by me,’ I said, feeling that the mother issue should be made absolutely clear.
    I couldn’t help staring back wistfully at the little harpsichord. I wondered what had happened to it. Had it survived the two hundred years between then and now? Was it perhaps in a museum, somewhere? Was it someone’s cherished possession? Who played it now? I’d never know.
    We strolled back downstairs again, intending to spend