The Mata Hari Institute of Culinary Excellence

[Pleater]

The weather had changed to rain overnight, so the snow was gone and the air was warmer. We were no longer using the Saltire's steam generator for heating as the House is now at a most pleasant temperature, which it will retain for some time as long as we are careful.

At the invitation of the military several of the Saltires went over to the firing ranges to experience live firing. Luckily someone spoke them about it at breakfast, shortly before they left, and explained that it was the tanks which were the targets, so they would be wise not to be near one when the firing started. That made them quite thoughtful.

Those remaining in the House were busy readying their belongings for the journey and the laundry room was a hive of activity as new purchases were unpacked and pressed to be ready to wear.

The gardeners had inspected the damage, and were quite optimistic that in a decade or so there would be no trace of it remaining. The gazebo, under its multiple layers of paint, I had assumed was wooden, but in its burnt off state it was revealed to be rather good cast iron. The gardeners will clean it up and remake it, they say, as good as ever by the spring.

Matron has declared herself redundant now in Hamish's case, as he is holding court in his apartment apparently fully restored, though Mister Charles is seeing that he gets some beef tea mid morning just to be sure, and visitors are forbidden for several hours after lunch.

A thorough search has been made of the captain's quarters, to try to locate the rubber chicken he blames for his behaviour, but the security team reported that there is no sign of it there. However the keys to the weapons racks were found - in the sporran in his wardrobe. It was fortunate that the captain chose to wear dark leather yesterday.

I contacted the met office to request a date for the return trip of the Saltire, and they will inform me when there is an interval of settled weather predicted.

I suddenly found myself with nothing to do this afternoon, and so went home.
After some housework I sat down to sew for a while, and made good progress on a waistband until I was called to the House. The captain had been thought to be working in his rooms, but when afternoon tea was taken up he had been discovered locked in a wardrobe and somewhat rumpled. It seemed that a couple of the men had taken exception to his little joke about where to get the best view of the firing, and he had been thrown into the wardrobe shortly before their departure. He returned to the paper strewn desk and began to recalculate the weights for the flight home. He made light of what he called a prank, which was perhaps wise as he could have got several of his crew blown to pieces on the firing range.

[Pleater]

I had been vaguely aware that something odd had happened, and finally I realised that when the Saltire had arrived the first time, the captain was the one who spoke German - and then when they were away the man arrived who hated Australia due to his encounter with the sheep shears, and then the captain was the man who had wielded the shears - but then his victim was not here any longer.

I had sometimes glimpsed Mister Brown around the house and resolved to waylay him next time I saw him, but he came knocking at my office door, and when he came in he looked around anxiously. He was considerably singed.
He collapsed onto a chair. 'Thank goodness you're safe.' he cried, and then he coughed.
'That cushion is cream velvet. You might have chosen something more likely to resist stains.' I frowned.
'Sorry - the fire - the House -'
I administered water to drink.
'If you mean the Saltire, it proved possible to restrain the captain and the only damage was to the garden.'
'But the bombs?'
'The keys to the bomb racks were in his other sporran.'
He gave a great sigh and drank the water.
'You'd better get cleaned up. I'll show you where. You've been toasted - that sporran's done for.'
'It's alright, I'll not stop -'
'I have a question.'
'Er - yes?'
'Things have changed - people were here and now they aren't, and people are here that were not.'
'Ah. Yes. Well - you're on, or at what we call a pivot. Things happen around here.'
'They didn't use to.'
'Well - actually they did but until I pulled you into this stream, you were not aware of them. It's like taking a side step so you can see around a corner.'
'I bet it isn't.'
'Well it is sort of.'
'Never mind the flim-flam. What might have happened?'
'The House might have burned down, you might have fired the missile at the airship with the explosive still in it, or nothing at all, not here.'
'So is that man with the rubber chicken still on the loose and off his head? Is the other one still looking for the man who cut off his hair?'
'Ah - I know that one. The hair was never cut off - the captain is still the captain because he collided with a couple just before he reached the man dancing with his wife, and the shears went skidding away and were lost in the confusion. He was, therefore, not carted away in a strait jacket but available to come here.'
'But not at first.'
'Only after someone went along to get in his way.'
'Is this going to happen all the time?' I enquired sternly.
'Well - that is one of the difficult questions - however - you seem to be the one to deal with these things. It is a relief to be able to incorporate you into the time stream. I wasn't sure about the marines - but they seem to come with the territory.'
'If you are going to be around then it might be as well for you to have an office here - or maybe in the Rotunda. Somewhere you can take a shower, keep a spare set of clothes and anything else you might need.'
'The problem is that I can't seem to get here directly.'
'Does your thing use post codes?'
He nodded.
'We aren't a post code - there is one for the gate house, but not here. Actually, though - we do have a post office box number. Some of the guests require secrecy. You could try that.'
'Ha - going postal. I'll give it a try. And in return?'
'I'll let you know - though another Director would be good. There is too much to do.'
'I'll see what I can do.'
I picked up my clipboard to take to the nine thirty soviet, he rose and went out leaving only a ruined cushion and a used glass with a sooty handprint.
I followed him a few seconds later, but the corridor was empty. I went along to the board room, Carla was already pouring out tea, and Stephanie was setting up the projector screen, whilst Daphne was offering the basket of scones to Bronwen.
'Good morning, Ladies.' I greeted them.
'Ah - great news - the funding for the research program has come through.' Bronwen beamed. 'We have a slide show of the new building they want to put up for us.'
'That was items two and three.' Daphne tutted with mock severity, tapping the printed agenda.
I sighed, and sat down in my usual place half way along the table.
'It's about time,' I said.