Time and Time Again

5

THE PROGRESS OF the day had done nothing to lighten the skies over Trinity College. If anything, the storm raging above Great Court was gathering force. A rare warm thermal current, lost and directionless in the climatic chaos that had torn it from its ancient course, had brought rain among the snow and hail. The icicles hanging from the fountain in the middle of the quad had turned to silvery waterfalls, a grey and grimacing stone overbite of drooling needle teeth.

In the Master’s Lodge Professor McCluskey had been occupying her preferred position of hogging the fire while she told her story. Now she stumped across the room to the window and rubbed a spy hole in the condensation to look out.

‘Blimey,’ she muttered, peering into the violent and sodden gloom. ‘Now that is blooming weather.’

‘Never mind about the weather,’ Stanton replied. ‘Are you seriously telling me that Isaac Newton wrote you a letter?’

‘Yes, he did,’ McCluskey answered, throwing a triumphant fist into the air. ‘Not me personally, of course. The letter he left with Richard Bentley was addressed to the Master of Trinity, New Year’s Day, 2024. It was a sacred trust, to be handed down, unopened, from Master to Master until the appointed date. Imagine how surprised Bentley and old Isaac would have been if they’d known that three hundred years hence the recipient of the letter would be a woman! Now that would have shocked the crusty old buggers. Newton saw plenty standing on the shoulders of those giants he talked about but I doubt he foresaw that the Master of Trinity would be a smokin’ hot babe.’

McCluskey drew a pair of pendulous breasts in the film of water on the window, adding the curves of an hourglass figure on either side. ‘Good story, eh?’ she remarked, turning back towards the room. ‘Perfect for Christmas, don’t you think?’

‘Yeah, and I think “story” is probably the operative word here. Are you seriously telling me that the Masters of Trinity have held in their possession a letter and a box of papers from Isaac Newton for three hundred years and kept it secret?’

‘Of course,’ McCluskey said with genuine surprise, ‘just as I did after I took up my position, waiting for the appointed time. We are all Trinity men, even when we’re women. We had been given a trust.’

‘And not one of them, out of all those masters, even read it?’

McCluskey began clearing up the remains of the breakfast.

‘It’s possible, I suppose; took a peek and resealed it. But they would never have made what they saw public because to do so they’d also have to make public their betrayal. And since the information Newton left us is extremely time specific, there was nothing in it for them anyway. Finished?’

Stanton grabbed the last bit of bacon from his plate before handing it to her.

‘Nothing in it for them beyond a document of incalculable historical value,’ he said.

‘This is Cambridge, Hugh. Documents of incalculable historical value are pretty common here; we don’t get as excited about them as most people do. Newton sent lots of letters, many considerably pottier-sounding than the one I’m telling you about and most of them are gathering dust in the College library. People only ever want to see the Principia anyway. Just like they go to Rome and spend their entire holiday queuing to stand in a crowd and stare at the roof of the Sistine Chapel while the whole Ancient Empire lies scattered at their feet. Anyway, the point is the letter is genuine. I had it carbon-dated and the handwriting checked against known sources.’

‘OK then, I’ll buy it, professor,’ Stanton said. ‘So what did Newton say in his letter?’

‘I’ll read it if you like.’

McCluskey reached for the mantelpiece and took a creased and yellowing parchment from inside a Toby jug of William Gladstone. Then she dug a pair of thick, plastic reading glasses from the pocket of her greatcoat, blew a few strands of tobacco from the lenses and holding them before her face like pince-nez began to read.

‘To Whomsoever be Master of Trinity on New Year’s Day 2024 … That’s me!’ she said, interrupting herself gleefully. ‘Pretty cool, you have to admit. Newton wrote to me!’

‘Yes, I get it, prof.’

‘Just saying,’ McCluskey replied sniffily before turning once more to the letter … ‘Greetings! From three hundred years ago!’

‘Wow,’ Stanton observed.

‘Wow indeed,’ McCluskey agreed. ‘But it gets wowsier. Sir, be you old? Be you with few earthly ties? If so, then the contents of this box belong to you. Otherwise I charge you find another who is without dependants and pass this box to him for it is his business and not yours …’ McCluskey paused to refresh herself with tea and cognac. ‘Bit of luck I fitted the bill, eh? If I had a hubby and thirteen grandkids, I suppose I’d have been honourbound to pass it on.’

‘And would you have done?’

‘Don’t know. Fortunately I wasn’t put to the test. I think Newton knew he was on pretty safe ground there. Most of us Oxbridge Death Eaters are married to the gig … anyway, he goes on. Then, let you, or your designate, search about within the University for Professors and Fellows who are also with few ties. Find ye patriots and men of conscience. Find Classics scholars and those who have studied history, also mathematicians and Natural Philosophers. Men who have spent their lives in consideration of the Universe and its workings. And let them be old, their time remaining among earthly cares short. Find ye these companions even if you must include men of Oxford to do so. Oxford, Hugh! Imagine that? From a Trinity man! You can see how seriously he was taking it.’

Hugh shrugged. He’d always found the supposed rivalry between the two ‘elite’ universities a boring and unconvincing affectation. As far as he was concerned, they were just two halves of the same grimly pleased-with-itself institution. The way they went on about hating each other was really just a way of reminding the rest of the world that no one else mattered.

McCluskey continued: ‘When once assembled, ye band of venerable brothers shall, with due solemnity, convene a secret Order. And that Order shall ye name Chronos after he who was God of Time. Let ye Companions assemble in attire befitting your academic standing and the solemnity of the occasion. Feast you well so that you may be in good cheer. Open then the packages of papers which I do bequeath you and in the order I command.

‘Act then according to your conscience as all good men of Trinity have ever done and I hope ever shall.

‘Your servant,

‘Isaac Newton.’

McCluskey folded the parchment and put it back in the Toby jug. ‘Interesting stuff, eh?’

‘Well, if it’s true it’s bloody amazing,’ Stanton replied. ‘So what was in the papers?’

McCluskey smiled. ‘You wish to join the Order of Chronos?’

Stanton shrugged. ‘I presume you want me to join since you’ve brought me here and told me this much, and since I am a single man without dependants and therefore have clearly been picked to fit Isaac Newton’s requirements.’

Picked to fit Isaac Newton’s requirements?

He could hardly believe he was saying such a thing.

‘Well,’ McCluskey said, ‘let me tell you. Last January I did as Isaac told me, I chose my companions. All donnish, dust-covered sad acts like me, with no life but College. And I convened the dinner. Did it just as Newton said, with “due solemnity”: candles and prayers and some nice music and an excellent meal, and when we’d finished eating we opened his papers.’

‘Quite a moment,’ Stanton said.

‘Yes. Quite a moment.’

McCluskey put down her glass and fetched from a corner of the room a wooden box about the size of a piece of cabin luggage, dark oak and bound with steel bands. She placed it on the footstool between herself and Stanton.

‘The package of papers was in that?’

‘Yes, it was. Newton’s box, kept safe in the attic of this lodge for three hundred years.’

‘A lot of papers then?’

‘When you’ve heard what they describe I think you’ll agree he was astonishingly concise.’

Setting her pipe once more between her teeth and reaching down over her vast bosom, Professor McCluskey lifted the lid and drew out a second yellowing parchment.

‘The first thing we found was a question,’ McCluskey said, handing the parchment to Stanton. ‘A historical question, accompanied by a stern warning not to delve further into the papers until we’d answered it.’

Stanton looked down at the parchment. ‘The same question you asked me.’

‘Exactly. If we could revisit one moment from the past and change something, what would it be? Right up my street, eh? It’s almost like the old boy knew I’d be the one to get his letter.’

‘And did you come up with an answer?’

‘Yes, we did. Pretty quickly, as a matter of fact.’

‘And?’

McCluskey sucked her teeth for a minute. Stanton could see that she was absolutely revelling in the moment.

‘Well, it has to be a date of European significance, doesn’t it?’ she said eventually. ‘Or possibly American. Let’s face it, for better or worse the last half dozen centuries on earth have been shaped by what we like to call Western civilization. Do you agree?’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘Of course you do. I gave you a First, didn’t I?’

‘Two one.’

‘At any rate you’re not a complete idiot.’ McCluskey reached under the tails of her greatcoat and rubbed at her huge buttocks, which were no doubt getting extremely hot, positioned as they were right in front of the fire. ‘So tell me, Hugh. When did it all go wrong? When did Europe lose its way? When did its worst ideals triumph over its best? When did its wilful vanity and stupidity conspire together to destroy its beauty and its grace? When did it exchange its power and influence for decadence and decay? When, in short, did the most influential continent on the planet wilfully and without duress screw up on a scale unequalled in all history and in one insane moment go from hero to zero, from top dog to underdog? From undisputed heavyweight champion of the world to washed-up, penniless has-been, collapsed, bloodied and brain-dead in the middle of the ring having punched itself to death?’

The freezing rain outside was turning once more to hail. It came smacking at the windows in great flapping sheets, squall after dirty squall. There was lightning too, periodically illuminating the deep and gloomy clouds. Without a clock it would have been impossible to know what time it was. Or what season. Not that there were seasons any more.

‘You’re clearly talking about 1914,’ Stanton answered quietly.

‘I can’t hear you, Hugh, the storm’s too noisy.’

Hugh raised his voice, staring McCluskey in the face and giving his answer as if it was a challenge.

‘1914 is the year Europe screwed up.’

‘Exactly,’ McCluskey exclaimed. ‘History’s greatest single mistake and the one that could most easily have been avoided was the Great War.’

Stanton took his dirty teacup back from where McCluskey had stacked it and having rinsed it out with a soda siphon helped himself to another shot of cognac. It was Christmas after all.

‘We-ell,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Clearly it was an unprecedented world catastrophe, no arguing with that. But I’m not sure you can give it exclusive number-one status. There have been even worse bloodbaths since.’

‘Exactly!’ McCluskey cried out, doing a little dance on the rug. ‘And every one of them without exception was made inevitable by what happened in 1914. That was the watershed, the fork in the road. The Great War bequeathed us the terrible twentieth century. Prior to that point the world was an increasingly peaceful place in which science and society were developing towards the common good.’

‘You might feel differently about that if you were a Native American,’ Stanton suggested, ‘or an indigenous Australian. Or an African in the Belgian Congo—’

McCluskey actually stamped her foot in frustration.

‘Oh come ON, Hugh! I’m not saying anything was or ever could be remotely perfect. Nor am I suggesting that historical readjustment could ever change human nature. Men will always take what isn’t theirs, the strong will always exploit the weak – no amount of historical tinkering could ever stop that. What I am saying is that in the summer of 1914 the general tide of human brutishness appeared to be ebbing and an age of peace and international cooperation beginning. For goodness’ sake, they were having so many International Exhibitions they were running out of cities to host them! In 1913 they’d had one in Ghent, for God’s sake. A city that by 1915 would be pulverized into oblivion. This was the point at which European civilization, which had caused so much misery to itself and others, was just starting to get things right. Social Democracy was dawning; even the Tsar had his Duma. The vote was coming. Education, health, standards of living were all improving in leaps and bounds. The subject races of the great empires were setting up congresses and preparing themselves for self-determination. The flowering of arts and sciences in the capitals of Europe was more vibrant than at any time since the Renaissance. It was … beautiful.’

‘Well, I don’t know that I’d—’

But McCluskey was brooking no argument.

‘Beautiful!’ she insisted. ‘And then – suicide. The insane, perverse, wilful self-destruction of a collective culture that had been four thousand years in the making, smashed utterly almost overnight. Never to rise again, and giving way in its stead to a genocidal global hotchpotch of half-baked fanaticism from both left and right. The Soviet Union corrupting Marx’s great idea into a contagious global nightmare in which entire populations would be murderously enslaved. And the United States destined to take the worship of competition, consumption and excess to the current point of planetary extinction.’

Stanton stood up. It seemed the only way of getting a word in edgeways.

‘Now hang on!’ he said. ‘You can’t blame the Americans solely for the collapse of the environment.’

‘Not any more we can’t, but they started it. Who taught the peoples of the world to consume beyond their needs? Beyond even their desires? To consume simply for the sake of consuming. The world’s greatest democracy, that’s who! And look where that’s got us. I tell you, the Great War ruined everything. The lights went out and the brakes came off. Just try to imagine what the world would be like now if it had never happened – if the great nations of Europe had continued on their journey to peace, prosperity and enlightenment; if those millions of Europe’s best and finest young men, the most highly educated and civilized generation the world had ever known, had not died in the mud but had instead survived to shape the twentieth century.’

Stanton could see her point. All those names on the chapel wall just metres from where he sat and on every town memorial and village cross. What good might those young men have done had they lived? What evil might they have prevented? And in Germany? And Russia? Had their lost generations also survived, surely they would have stopped those morally bankrupt mediocrities who emerged from the rat holes and drove their nations towards absolute evil. Without the corrupting catalyst of industrial war, where might those countries have gone?

‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Can’t fault your argument. 1914 was the year of true catastrophe. So you answered Newton’s question. You got to delve further into his papers. What did you find next?’

‘What we found next was a sequence of four numbers.’

‘Numbers?’

‘Yes, numbers that were the end result of a lengthy and complex equation. Newton had written them on a slip of paper and sealed them in another envelope three centuries ago. And the sequence of those numbers was One Nine One Four.’

‘1914?’

‘1914 indeed.’

‘Isaac Newton predicted the Great War?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous! How could he have done that? He wasn’t a soothsayer! He was a mathematician, a man of science. He dealt in empirical evidence. He didn’t arrive at those numbers via some Nostradamus-style mystical mumbo-jumbo. He did the maths.’

‘I’m really not following, prof. Agreed, 1914 is a year of vast historical significance, but what’s that got to do with maths?’

‘All in good time, Hugh, all in good time,’ McCluskey said, draining her teacup and stretching broadly. ‘That’s enough for now. I need a nap. Can’t handle boozy brekkies like I used to.’

‘But wait a minute on, you can’t just—’

‘I’ve told you everything I am qualified to tell, Hugh. Bigger brains than mine must take over from here. Don’t worry, all will be explained after the service.’

She was already disappearing towards her bedroom.

‘Wait a minute,’ Stanton called after her. ‘What service?’

‘It’s Christmas Eve, Hugh. Carols at King’s, for God’s sake. Even a bloody atheist like you can’t miss that.’