Free The Very First Damned Thing by Jodi Taylor Page B

sort of compromise today, no. As I understand your function, it is to provide advice and information relevant to renovating a listed building. It is not to question the function to which that building should be put.’
    â€˜Well, actually …’ began the young man, who was pretty sure it was.
    â€˜The appropriate permissions have been acquired and the plans approved. There really is no more to discuss.’
    â€˜But …’
    â€˜I thought I had made it perfectly clear. This project must be completed by the date specified. A great deal hangs on this. I am sure you must be as committed to …’
    He pushed open a door as he spoke and stopped dead on the threshold.
    Contrary to the rest of R&D, which was almost permanently buried in miscellaneous clutter, this room was empty. Or rather, almost empty. At this moment and in this company, Dr Bairstow would have given a great deal of the money he did not possess for this room to be empty. Unfortunately, it was not.
    Messrs Markham, Ritter, Weller, and Evans, naked apart from inexpertly tied tea towels disguised as loincloths, stood motionless in each corner, apparently smothered from head to toe in a mixture of honey and slightly sour milk.
    The gently bred Miss Spindle, who had for years been strangely susceptible to men who wore astonishing knitwear, now began to perceive her horizons had been unnecessarily narrow and moved forward for a clearer view.
    Professor Rapson himself cut a magnificent figure, reclining on a gilded chaise-longue in the middle of the room. He wore a long black wig and a golden tunic and was, as far as Dr Bairstow dared ascertain, honey free.
    Dr Dowson, wearing a beekeeper’s mask, which was, mercifully, muffling his complaints, was busy decanting what looked like several thousand bluebottles into the room. ‘Are you ready?’
    With a gesture similar to Ramses unleashing his forces at the Battle of Kadesh, Professor Rapson indicated that he was indeed ready. An anticipatory buzzing filled the room. Most of it from the flies.
    Released from captivity, they zipped around for a few moments, presumably getting their bearings, and then, apart from one or two specimens who had fallen to the floor in excitement and were now on their backs waving their legs in the air, every bluebottle in the room settled on Professor Rapson.
    Dr Bairstow gently closed the door and ushered his bemused guests down the corridor.
    â€˜What on earth …?’
    â€˜Human flypaper,’ said Dr Bairstow in tones which gave them to understand they now had all the information they needed to know exactly what was going on.
    â€˜I’m sorry?’
    â€˜Human flypaper. One of the pharaohs – I’m sorry I can’t offhand recall which one – in an effort to keep the flies off his sacred self, covered his slaves in a mixture of honey and milk and stationed them around his palace.’
    â€˜But it didn’t work. Did it? I mean … that poor man … he was covered …’
    â€˜I expect it was his aftershave,’ said Dr Bairstow, taking full advantage of their momentary confusion. ‘If you could just sign here, please … and here … and here. Thank you so much.’
    Much of the structural work was completed and St Mary’s was, allegedly, weatherproof. Miscellaneous articles of furniture continued to mushroom. Literally, in some cases. Mismatched curtains adorned dusty windows. The acquisition of enough chairs for everyone to be able to sit simultaneously was celebrated by the first St Mary’s All Comers Yodelling Contest, in which a blushing Mrs Enderby was persuaded to present the prizes, although, as Major Guthrie commented afterwards to Dr Bairstow, the standard had not been high.
    The young man from SPOHB, sporting his most exciting knitwear, asked Miss Spindle for her hand in marriage and was politely but firmly rejected. It was subsequently discovered that she had cut her hair,