Sir Jonathan rose and aimed with his trousers.
The Simian Sleuth fell dead.
I had never felt more alive in my short life. The colours and the fragrant air, the shafts of sunlight falling through the high branched trees, each one rainbow-hued and magical.
‘Wait ‘til I tell the daddy of this,’ I said. Because it occurred to me, probably for the first time, that I would have a rare old tale to tell when I returned to Brentford.
Whether of course any of it would be believed, was quite another matter. But. But if I had some souvenir of my adventures. Something that just had to be real. Something genuinely not-of-the-Earth. I could donate it to the British Museum and have a photograph of it in the book I would definitely be writing about all of this. And when I was grown up and famous, I would buy –
– and then I stopped and held at my head. My thoughts were whizzing wildly about, moving too fast and banging all together. This was all rather too much to take in. Perhaps I should just take heed of Barry’s advice. I should close up the hatch, sit down and await his return.
Or I could have just a little look around.
‘Just be brave, you foolish fellow,’ I told myself.
And I took myself a stroll in the Garden of Eden.
If you are sufficiently articulate you can find words to describe the beauty of something. You can speak of its colour and its form and of its aesthetic. But some things have a beauty that is beyond words. It can only be experienced, it can never be described.
The leaves were green, the grass was too, the flowers were multi-coloured. Huge bee-like insects drifted from bloom to bloom and things that might have been birds cried out in the tree tops.
I had a wander and crunched through the vegetation. And then it occurred to me that perhaps I should take off my boots and my socks and go barefoot instead. So I did so.
And then, as I pattered along, my toes squeezing grass and the balls of my feet enjoying the soft warm soil, it occurred to me further that what would be absolutely wonderful and indeed completely suited to this scene of biblical Eden would be to throw off this inappropriately martial uniform and caper about in my underpants.
And so I did this too.
But then –
And yes, I confess it, for it just seemed the right thing to do, I pulled down my undies and kicked them away and wearing nought but my birthday suit, I did a little dance.
Pretty Polly Packet didn’t dance. In the annals of Music Hall history, her act was unique. She impersonated boxes and she did it very well.
Her ‘turn’ consisted of her taking to the stage and challenging the audience to name any kind of box or crate or container, coffer, case or carton. Pitty box, band box, hat box, snuff box, pepper box or cardboard box or even letter box. And she would impersonate it there and then and she did so to much acclaim.
Few could fault her impersonation of the Chancellor of the Exchequer’s despatch box, nor Napoleon’s portmanteau. Folk spoke in hushed tones regarding her artistic rendition of Queen Victoria’s pencil case and when she did the sea chest of the late Lord Nelson audiences rose to their feet.
Naturally, upon Earth at the Hackney Empire, a less sophisticated audience called out for a kind of box that Polly Packet refused to impersonate publically. But here aboard The Leviathan, the toffs called for her to do dressing cases, button boxes, wine crates and Fortnum & Mason Christmas hampers.
Polly did not disappoint and the toffs cried out for more.
‘I must confess,’ said Lady Agnes. ‘That I greatly preferred the Dancing Dog of Dagenham.’
Sir Jonathan Crawford perused the face of a certain watch which had once belonged to a certain Sherlock Haines. ‘It will soon be time for the star turn,’ he said, and he poured out more champagne.
The star turn stood in her six star dressing room.
And had a poet viewed her there, he would no doubt have taken out his pen and knocked out something like this:
Her young and slender body clenched
Within a chiffon gown.
Her snow-white hair was spiralled into curls.
Her emerald eyes were ringed by kohl.
Her lips were red with cochineal
About her neck there hung a string of pearls.
Upon her dainty fingers
There were many precious rings.
The gifts of popes and potentates
And commodores and kings.
About her dainty ankles
Clung jewel-encrusted bands
Which had travelled through the realm of space
From far exotic lands.
In a far away and exotic land I danced about like a loon in my bare skuddies. Through shafts of rainbow light and all about.
It was wonderful. And quite poetic too.
I danced through glades and leafy bowers
About the tree trunks’ wooden towers
O’er the soft and scented grass
A thorny bush pricked me in the –
I paused somewhat in my muse and stared.
Between the trees I saw a rolling meadow and on this meadow many grazing forms.
I stepped lightly upon my unclad feet and took myself to this meadow.
There to behold a green and glorious flock of vegetable lambs.
24
The tiny creatures in the meadow ate without a sound. So I walked in the silence of the lambs. Here and there one raised its head to briefly glance at me, but none showed any fear at all and I knew I would never do them harm.
They closely resembled the lamb that I had seen in the Brentford garden of Lady Agnes Rutherford. Vivid green with silky wool, attached by a slender stalk to a kind of seed pod. And I saw many such pods lying round and about, waiting, no doubt, to sprout lambs.
In this wonderful meadow, there seemed to be no danger of the lambs exhausting their food supplies and starving to death. For to my utter amazement I saw that the grass, once eaten, was miraculously replenished. I sat down on my bare behind and stared about in awe.
Was this, I wondered, the way life was supposed to be? Had been intended to be? As a divine creator had intended it to be? To live without care? Without fear? To be born, to eat, to grow, to be, to exist in silent bliss? It seemed to me these little beings had attained to a form of spiritual perfection.
And I know what you are thinking. You are thinking that this was rather deep stuff for a boy of my age. But these thoughts entered and filled up my mind and I could think of nothing else, other than how marvellous it would be not to be a little boy any more, but rather to be a vegetable lamb eating magical grass and no doubt filled with peace and bliss and things of a similar nature.
And the more I thought about these things the more I felt an empathy with these creatures. That I was now among them and could, if I tried very hard, even become one too.
And as these thoughts crowded into my mind and left room for no others, my gaze turned down towards my feet and I saw that they were no longer feet, but now instead two little hooves composed of silken hairs.
And a feeling of serenity and happiness filled me as I began to metamorphose.
From a naughty boy into a beautiful lamb.
‘My little lamb,’ said Count Rostov, to Sophia Poppette. ‘Is it your wish to perform before these people?’
He stood with her backstage amongst the ropes and props and theatrical oddities. Here a column from some Shakespearian tragedy. There a curious suit of clothes to be worn by a talented pig.
Beyond the curtained stage the crowd was chanting the Poppette’s name.
The beautiful being smiled towards Count Rostov. ‘They would have me play for them,’ she said.
‘But do you wish it, darling girl? A word from you and the curtain will not rise.’
‘You are so very kind to me, my uncle.’
‘I love you very much indeed,’ Count Rostov placed a hand upon her shoulder. ‘Soon she will come,’ he said to her. ‘Soon Our Lady of Space will manifest to us.’
/> ‘And only to us, my uncle?’
‘Perhaps to you alone,’ said Count Rostov. ‘Perhaps it is only you alone who are worthy.’
‘There is so much that I do not understand.’
‘You will understand all,’ said the count. ‘Now go before your public.’
She stood upon her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek.
Then danced away towards the stage and left him all alone.
Count Rostov wiped away a tear. ‘And where is Gurt?’ he cried.
I would never cry again, I knew.
I would never again feel fear, or experience want. I would become at one with this glorious planet.
I would know only bliss. Only bliss.
The audience knew only bliss, as Sophia Poppette performed.
To some she danced as Isadora Duncan. To some she sang as Jenny Lind, the Swedish Nightingale. Her acts of stage magic surpassed those of Maskelyne. Then her feet left the stage and she rose like an angel. The curtains closed and the crowd cheered on and on.
And on and on and on and on and –
‘Chief!’
I opened my eyes and stared in shock, into the face of Professor Mandlebrot.
‘Chief, I told you not to leave the ship!’ the words came from the professor’s mouth and now the professor’s hands shook me about.
‘And you’re in the buff,’ said Barry’s voice. ‘And the planet is swallowing you. Come on while you still can, back to the spaceship.’
‘Get your hands off me,’ I told the professor, or Barry who somehow was working that fellow. Somehow. ‘I love it here. I’m meant to be here. I’m staying here. Go away.’
‘You’ll be turned to compost, chief. The lambs will eat you up.’ The professor’s hands were upon me and I was being dragged up to my feet.
‘Leave me alone,’ I clawed at the ground. Ripping out clumps of grass, that grew back before me. I desperately tried to cling to the ground, to hang on to one of the tiny seed pods, to hang onto anything. Anything.
‘We have to go, chief, and quickly.’
My protestations fell upon deaf ears. Professor Mandlebrot scooped me up in his arms and ran with me back towards The Pilgrim.
Behind us ran the crew of silly boys. Somehow Barry had effected their escape also. Very enterprising of him I was sure, but I didn’t want to escape. I wanted to stay here in bliss amongst the magical lambs. So I struggled.
‘This is for your own good, chief,’ said Barry’s voice. And then the professor punched my gob and things went rather black.
I awoke in my hammock aboard The Pilgrim and I was to say the least furious. And when I glanced down at myself to find that I was no longer naked, but wearing someone else’s underpants, I was not only furious, I felt quite disgusted.
‘Bloody bastards,’ I said, for that was how I felt. ‘Dirty rotten bloody bastards, and as for that bloody Barry –’
‘– No thanks at all coming my way then, chief?’ said Barry, back inside my head, where I didn’t want him to be.
‘Thanks?’ I said. ‘For what?’
‘For rescuing you, chief. You left the spaceship when I told you not to –’
‘And it was the best thing I ever did in my life,’ I protested. ‘And I want to go back. Take me back.’
‘It was not what you thought,’ said the sprout. ‘You felt as if turning into a lamb would be a heavenly experience, didn’t you, chief?’
‘I did,’ I said and I swung my legs down from the hammock.
‘It wouldn’t have been,’ said Barry. ‘Quite the reverse in fact.’
‘Stuff and nonsense,’ I said to the sprout. ‘I know what I felt.’
‘Well it’s neither here nor there now, chief. We are well away beyond Venusian space-space and we certainly won’t be going back in that direction.’
‘Going back?’ I queried. ‘We won’t be going back? We are going back to The Leviathan right now, aren’t we, Barry?’
‘Well, chief –’
‘Well chief what?’
‘Well chief, we are not exactly going back as of yet.’
‘Which means?’
‘Which means, chief, that in fact we’re going forwards.’
‘Forwards? Into the heart of the sun?’
‘I did pass on your doubts to the professor.’
‘My doubts?’ I was fairly raving now, I make no bones about it. ‘They’re not doubts, Barry. They are facts. The sun is not a bloody lens, it’s a bloody star.’
‘I don’t care for this swearing, chief.’
‘I don’t care what you care for. A few days from now we will all be roasted to death.’
‘Oh no we won’t,’ said Barry.
‘We bloody will,’ I said.
‘We won’t chief. In a few days from now, we will not be.’
‘So we’re not heading straight for the sun.’
‘Well, we are doing that.’
‘But we won’t be roasted in a few days’ time?’
‘Definitely not, chief.’
‘You are prepared to promise me that? Hand on whatever heart you have, even without a hand?’
‘Certainly, chief.’
‘Cross that heart and hope to die? Again without the hand?’
‘You have my word on it, chief. We will absolutely not be roasted to death in a few days’ time.’
‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I am happy with this,’ I said too. ‘But just one thing,’ I also said. ‘Tell me truthfully how you can be so absolutely and completely sure of this?’
‘Because, chief, we will not be hitting the heart of the sun in a few days’ time. Because, according to my calculations, we will be hitting the heart of the sun in precisely ten minutes and thirty seconds from now.’
‘Ten minutes?’ I cried. ‘Ten minutes?’
‘And about ten seconds now.’
‘And –’ but I seemed to lose my voice.
And the ship sped on towards the heart of the sun.
25
‘We are doomed!’ I cried. ‘ALL DOOMED!’
And I found myself doing something that was new to me but not very helpful. I began to spin about in small circles a-flapping of my hands.
‘Ease up, chief,’ went Barry. ‘Getting giddy in here.’
‘You’ll be roasted ten minutes from now!’
‘Nine and a half minutes, chief.’
‘You useless little pus-filled bubo –’
‘Steady on there, chief.’
The temperature in the dormitory was really rising now. And through the row of portholes came a bright and golden glow.
‘This is your very last chance,’ I said to Barry. ‘If you wish to find favour in my eyes and retain my good opinion, remove us directly from this ship of death.’
‘Nicely put, chief, but no can do.’
‘What, are you broken, or something?’
‘Just following orders, chief.’
‘No you’re not!’ I shouted at Barry. ‘You are ignoring my orders.’ And I made tight little fists and shook them.
Well, I made one little fist.
Because my other hand, I found, had something in it.
Something that I had been clutching very tightly, although I had not been aware that I was doing so.
I opened my hand and turned my gaze to it.
‘Oh,’ said I in surprise.
And ‘No,’ said Barry. ‘You’re not supposed to have that, chief. You shouldn’t have taken that.’
It was a seed pod. A seed pod from Venus. A seed pod from which might grow a vegetable lamb.
‘Bad bad boy,’ said Barry.
‘Shut up you nasty green git!’ I replied. ‘I double, treble, quadruple order you to get us out of here now.’
It was getting hotter and hotter.
Brighter and brighter came the glow through the portholes.
‘I’m waiting!’ I shouted. ‘I’m still here, Barry.’
‘Only five minutes to go now, chief. Doesn’t time pass quickly when y
ou’re having a good time?’
‘Pencil,’ I shouted. ‘I’m finding a pencil. I’ll winkle you out and at least have the pleasure of mashing you up before I snuff it. You rotten bloody –’
‘Please, chief. Don’t be hasty.’
But hasty was all I could be – so I rampaged about the dormitory, searching for something slim and pointy to thrust into my ear.
‘You’ll get yourself brain damage,’ Barry said.
‘I won’t have a brain in five minutes’ time.’
‘Four minutes now,’ said Barry.
Rush and whizz and rattle-all-about-now went The Pilgrim. Things started going ‘ping’ and ‘clunk’ and making sounds suggestive of unredeemable damage and calamitous destruction. Then ‘crack’ went the glass in several portholes and ‘Ow’ went I in my bare feet as the metal floor began to get quite toasty.
And could I find a pencil? Or even a pointed stick?’
I could not.
‘Our Father who art in Heaven –’ I began.
‘Nice,’ said Barry. ‘Nice choice of prayer.’
‘Hallowed be thy name –’
‘I’ll kind of “la” along in the background, chief, as a sort of small choral accompaniment.’
‘You’ll get yours, you –’
‘Less than two minutes, chief.’
‘Thy Kingdom come. Thy will be done –’
‘Now you’re getting it, chief.’
‘On Earth as it is in Heaven.’
Forward forward forward rushed The Pilgrim. Drawn by titanic gravitational forces, down and down into the heart of the sun. Nose cone now beginning to glow, tail fins starting to twist. Foolish crew boys gaining sudden enlightenment and awareness of their impending extinction. Professor Mandlebrot buckled into the pilot’s seat, pressing forward the joystick with one hand while holding a nice hot cup of tea in the other.
A nice cup of tea!
The Abominable Showman Page 15