At a time like this!
And me in a strange pair of underpants, a sprout in my head, my feet catching fire, wondering how my older self could ever have been so –
STUPID!
‘Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa,’ I went.
The Pilgrim plunged into the sun.
‘Aaaaaamen,’ was the last thing I said. Amen.
‘Armadillo,’ said Sir Jonathan Crawford.
He was breakfasting now with the toffs and titled ones in whose company he had travelled to The Leviathan aboard the HMSS Lovely Lovely Owl.
John ‘Boy’ Betjeman was there. Lord Binky Hartington, the honourable Crichton, the roguish Atters and Carrington Hanky-Panky-Poo, of the Sussex Panky-Poos.
They were adorning the White Star Breakfast Buffet and Grill, on level thirty-nine. Silver service, gourmet food, lemon trees, orange trees, cherry trees and peach trees, potted palms and willows too, arranged to charming effect. The furniture was swank and modern. Sleek chairs of chromium and cowhide. The table tops supported by legs of glass which created the most pleasing effect that they somehow hung in the air.
‘Armadillos,’ said Sir Jonathan Crawford once gain. ‘Crusty little nubnunks that scuttle about like bandy-legged butlers.’
‘Know the fellas well,’ said the roguish Atters. ‘Bagged a few in the Americas on a big game hunt last year. Had a motor cycle helmet made out of one. Can vouch for their inefficiency in regards to cushioning the head. Came a cropper, terrible business.’
‘You wore one on your head whilst riding a motor bicycle?’ queried John ‘Boy’ Betjeman.
‘Me? Heavens no. Had the mater test it out for me. Shortly after the pater croaked from eating the poisoned mushrooms. I thought those red and white fellows might have appeal, had the pater try them out. Dreadful business. Dreadfully sorry and all that. Dreadfully grateful for the inheritance though.’
‘I went up to Oxford with your older brother Charlie,’ said Lord Binky Hartington. ‘Suppose he must have inherited half. Suppose he urinated same against the baronial buttresses.’
‘Such was no doubt his intention,’ said Atters. ‘Tragic business though. I felt certain that bungee rope was of sufficient strength to carry his weight.’
‘Would you care to hear more of my lyrics?’ asked Boy Betjeman. ‘I’ve done another verse.’
‘This that Nostradamus tosh?’ asked the honourable Crichton.’ Something about boxing in Tibet with the lamas, wasn’t it?’
The Boy took out his notebook and made notes. ‘This is the second verse,’ he said. ‘It’s about the magician, Cagliostro.’
‘Saint Skaliwagg preserve us,’ said Atters.
‘Saint Skaliwagg?’ asked the honourable Crichton.
‘Patent saint of knee-tremblers, or some such rot,’ said Atters.
‘I’ll begin now,’ said Boy Betjeman and did so:
‘Cag-li-ostro
He never ever lived in Moscow.
It’s very doubtful that he owned a crossbow.
Cag-li-ostro.’
‘Oh bravo,’ said Carrington Hanky-Panky-Poo of the Sussex Panky-Poos. ‘Cracking stuff, Boy. Leaves those American wallahs Ezra Pound and T.S. Eliot with egg on their faces, eh?’
‘Got any more then, Boy?’ asked Atters, sniggering behind his hand.
‘Francis Bacon,’ said Boy Betjeman.
‘Who he?’ asked Atters.
‘Philosopher, statesman and occultist,’ said the Boy.
‘Let’s be having him then.’ Atters struggled to contain his mirth.
‘Francis Bacon
He wrote Shakespeare, if I’m not mistaken.
Liked his cocktails stirred and never shaken.
Francis Bacon.’
The toffs clapped loudly, disturbing other breakfasters.
‘I am humbled,’ said Lord Binky Hartington, ‘to be in the presence of greatness. Do you really think you can trust a singer to give your words the necessary gravitas and expression?’
‘The Poppette is to sing them,’ said Boy Betjeman.
‘The Poppette?’ said Sir Jonathan Crawford.
‘With Louis Armstrong’s band at Queen Victoria’s Double Sapphire Jubilee ball. And I have an invite, naturally.’
‘Naturally,’ said Sir Jonathan Crawford. Who did not have an invite.
‘I’d dearly like the Poppette to picnic in my punt,’ said Atters.
‘I would escort her to Afghanistan and take her up the Khyber,’ said the honourable Crichton.
‘I would place her inside a big bass drum,’ said Binky Hartington,’ and accompany her to the arctic circle.’
His friends looked on. One shrugged.
‘There to bang her rigid,’ said Lord Hartington. Bowing then to thunderous applause.
‘Gentlemen, gentlemen, please,’ said Sir Jonathan Crawford. ‘We would all like to find ways to entertain this delightful creature. But Count Rostov, as you know, is most protective.’
‘There was an attempt made on the count’s life last night,’ said the honourable Crichton. ‘Just after the Poppette’s performance at the Music Hall.’
‘Really?’ said Sir Jonathan Crawford. ‘How so?’
‘Someone placed an exploding whoopee cushion on the seat of his sedan chair.’
‘He has a sedan chair?’ said the roguish Atters. ‘Now that is a sound enough conveyance. Couple of strong colonials to freight a chap around town. Think I might acquire one myself.’
‘The count has four pony girls to carry his,’ said the honourable Crichton. ‘Happily they weren’t hurt when the bomb went off.’
‘And the count?’ asked Sir Jonathan Crawford.
‘Wasn’t there,’ said the Crichton. ‘He was in the Poppette’s dressing room, his servant Gurt sat down in the sedan chair and boom.’
Sir Jonathan Crawford gave his fine moustaches a twirl. Lady Agnes had got in rather early with her first assassination attempt. He would have to buck his ideas up before she had a second go.
‘Must love you and leave you chaps,’ said Sir Jonathan Crawford. ‘Things to do, places to be.’
‘And a count to kill,’ he said beneath his breath.
26
‘Wake up, chief. Wake up.’
‘What? Where? When? Who?’
‘Come on, chief. Wake up, we’re here.’
‘Why? When? What?’
‘All very pertinent questions, I am sure, chief. But now’s not the time to be asking them.’
Of a sudden I became fully awake and glanced about somewhat in shock.
I was in my hammock, aboard The Pilgrim, and dressed now in my uniform and boots. I did blinkings of the eyes and murmurings of confusion.
Then I said, ‘Oh I see,’ and I drew out the last word ‘seeee’ to suggest that I saw.
‘You do see, do you, chief?’ Barry asked.
‘I do indeed,’ I replied. ‘It has all been a dream. We are still on The Pilgrim, but it hasn’t yet reached the sun.’
‘You do draw the most interesting conclusions, chief. But I will have to disillusion you of that one.’
‘Then we are going back to The Leviathan.’ There was hope in my voice, a hopeful hope.
‘No, chief,’ said Barry. ‘Not that either. As I told you, we’re here.’
‘And where exactly is here?’ I swung down my legs from the hammock. Someone had polished my boots. But surely my boots had been left upon Venus. But –
‘Never mind any of that now,’ said Barry. ‘We’re here and that’s all that matters, isn’t it?’
I shook my head and said, no it was not. ‘Where precisely is here?’ I asked the sprout.
‘On the other side of the great lens, chief. You might choose to call it Paradise.’
‘Paradise?’ I said. ‘Oh no,’ I said. ‘Are you saying that I’m dead?’ (I said.)
‘Not a bit of it, chief. You are as right as a nine penny piece, whatever that might mean.’
‘So, I am alive in Paradise?’ I became very confused.
&n
bsp; ‘The other side of the great big lens,’ said Barry.
And now I made a deeply frowning face. ‘There actually is a big lens?’ I said.
‘Some people believe it’s a star,’ said Barry the sprout.
‘Some people? Some people?’
‘You’d be surprised what people believe,’ said Barry.
‘But the sun, the burning star? The sun is not a sun at all, it really is a great big lens?’
‘Your conversation is becoming a tad repetitive, chief. The sun is not a star. It is a big lens.’
‘Hold on a minute,’ I said to Barry. ‘When did you find this out?’
‘I’ve always known it, chief. I’m a holy guardian sprout from God’s kitchen garden. You hardly forget where Heaven is, especially if you’re brought up there.’
‘What?’ I went. ‘WHAT?’
‘Oh little sprout of God,’ said Barry. ‘Farrowed be thy name.’
‘You knew?’ I made those gagging, croaking sounds. ‘You knew all along that we were heading towards a big lens and not a burning star.’
‘Of course I did, chief.’
‘But you let me go on believing –’
‘Everyone has a right to their own beliefs, chief. Who am I to take issue with someone’s beliefs?’
‘You rotten little, stinking little, treacherous little –’
‘Chief,’ said Barry. ‘You are now in the realm of God. You really shouldn’t use that horrid language.’
‘I’m grassing you up,’ I said. ‘God won’t think your sneaky games are funny.’
‘God does have a sense of humour, chief. He did invent the camel, after all.’
‘I can’t believe this. I just can’t believe this.’
‘Well, that’s a new one on me, chief. An atheist in Heaven.’
‘Not this, you!’ and I folded my arms and made my huffiest face.
‘That face is lost on me, chief,’ said Barry. ‘And now I think you should give your hair a comb and your face a wash and I’ll introduce you to God.’
‘You will introduce me to God?’ I said. ‘But I am still alive?’ I said. ‘And so I should wash my face and comb my hair?’
‘And best have a wee wee too while you’re at it. Just to be on the safe side.’
‘This is some kind of wind-up, isn’t it?’ I stalked over to the porthole and peered out to see what lay beyond.
Then I gave a kind of a whistle. Then I returned to my hammock and had a sit down.
‘It’s ……… it’s……. but there……’ I managed to say.
‘Some call it Heaven, some call it Paradise, I call it home sweet home.’
I had to give my chest a squeeze for all of a sudden my heart was beating fast.
I took deep breaths, climbed once more to my feet and walked once more to the porthole and peeped out.
Beyond there lay a golden world, with golden grass and a golden sky and golden folk and golden roads and trees of gold and birds of gold and gold and gold and gold and gold and –
‘– gold,’ said Barry. ‘It is a bit ostentatious, I suppose. But after all He is God. And if God wants to live in a golden world, who are we to stop him?’
‘Where are the cabin boys?’ I asked the sprout.
‘Gone to meet God, I suppose, chief,’ Barry said.
‘And Professor Mandlebrot?’
‘Well, he’d be meeting the boys.’
‘I think he’s met the boys already,’ I said.
‘Yes, but not in his real capacity,’ said Barry.
‘I will have to ask you to explain that,’ said I.
‘Well, chief, when you first saw Professor Mandlebrot, what did you think about him?’
‘Short,’ I said. ‘Very short.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Rather fat.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Red face, big beard. Looks a lot like Father Christmas,’ I said.
‘Or perhaps somebody else. The big somebody else.’
‘Eh?’ I said. ‘What?’ I said. ‘He?’ I said. ‘Pardon.’
‘Professor Mandlebrot is God,’ said Barry. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t recognise Him. There’s pictures of Him all over the place on Earth. On the Sistine Chapel ceiling, and in illustrated Bibles and didn’t Charlton Heston play Him once?’
‘Charlton Heston played Moses,’ I said. ‘And for that matter, Professor Mandlebrot can’t be God. He’s too short and he has that silly squeaky voice.’
‘Size isn’t everything,’ said Barry. ‘And I should know. And it is just a popular misconception that God has a big booming voice. God has a nice high Heavenly voice. It’s the Devil who has a deep dark down-below voice. You don’t know very much.’
‘I know I’m going to grass you up,’ I said. ‘And then we’ll see if God shares your sense of humour or not.’
‘God can be quite vindictive,’ said Barry. ‘I wouldn’t go getting his rag up if I were you.’
‘No! No! No!’ I said. For I had a few doubts left in me. ‘If Professor Mandlebrot is really God, why did he need a spaceship to travel to Heaven?’
‘He doesn’t,’ said Barry.
‘Then why did He need you to rescue Him from the Venusians?’
‘He didn’t,’ said Barry.
‘Then why did He allow the Venusians to take Him prisoner?’
‘Ah,’ said Barry. ‘Now that is a question.’
‘And I’d like an answer to it.’
‘Well, you can’t have one, chief. God has a reason for doing everything He does. Sometimes His reasons can be a bit confusing to the rest of us. And sometimes, and this is just between you and I, He does make the occasional mistake.’
‘Like bluebottles,’ I said. ‘There isn’t any point at all in bluebottles.’
‘Another popular misconception. But trust me on this, chief, there was a very good reason for us to be on Venus. The same as there is a very good reason for us to be here. And it will all be down to God, who made the past and the present and future.’
‘So God knew that I would be on The Pilgrim?’
Barry nodded in my head, which I found rather unpleasant.
‘In His guise as Professor Mandlebrot He picked all of the crew. God is a very nice fellow and He can be kind even to naughty little boys like you.’
My head now became full of questions.
‘All in God’s good time, chief,’ Barry said.
‘So can we go and meet God now?’ I asked.
‘Once you’ve had a wash and combed your hair.’
I stood upon legs that weren’t completely steady.
‘Right,’ I said and I went to wash my face.
Count Rostov rinsed his hands in a golden sink. He was a very fastidious count, was Rostov. He liked to keep himself clean. But as the count dipped his hands in the scented water of his golden sink, he glanced at his reflection in the looking glass above.
And viewed an expression he rarely viewed.
An expression, most expressive, of concern.
‘Someone tried to assassinate me,’ he said to his reflection. ‘Someone put a bomb inside my sedan chair.’
Count Rostov scrubbed at his hands, in the manner of Lady Macbeth, in that Scottish play written by William Shakespeare, not by Francis Bacon.
‘Someone wants to kill me,’ said the count. And his expression changed from worried unto wounded. ‘Why me?’ he questioned. ‘Why would anybody want to kill me? What have I ever done to upset anyone?’
He turned around to view his catspaw, Gurt.
Gurt was slumped in a wheelchair, swathed like a pharaoh’s mummy from his head to his toes in many linen bandages.
‘Why me, Gurt?’ he asked.
Gurt mumbled something that ended with, ‘master.’
‘Speak up properly when I ask you something,’ cried the count.
‘A mistake, master, a mistake,’ gasped Gurt. ‘Perhaps it was someone who had it in for me.’
‘Now that I can understand,�
�� said the count. ‘Because you are despicable. But why would anyone wish harm to a lovely chappy chumrade such as I?’
‘It is incomprehensible, master.’
‘Yes it is,’ the count agreed. ‘And most upsetting too. Now get up from that chair, you lazy wretch and fetch me a vodka and tonic at the double.’
Gurt struggled to rise from the chair and fell heavily to the floor.
Count Rostov dried his hands on a monogrammed bath towel. Took himself over to the fallen groaning figure and gazed down upon it.
‘I am going to give you a sound kicking now,’ said Rostov. ‘It’s nothing personal, you understand, just that I’m rather upset.’
‘Thank you, master,’ said Gurt, as the boot went in.
Lady Agnes Rutherford would never have kicked a servant. She would have considered that a very bad-mannered thing to do. She only had a single servant with her aboard The Leviathan and this was her much-loved monkey maid, Samantha.
Alone but for Samantha, Lady Agnes breakfasted in her cabin upon Corn Flakes and smiled prettily as her monkey maid poured her a cup of Earl Grey.
Before her on the doily-covered table lay today’s copy of the liner’s newspaper, Leviathan Life. Its front page headline read
ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT
UPON BELOVED COUNT
Lady Rutherford studied the paper with interest.
‘Assassination attempt?’ she said. ‘With an exploding whoopee cushion? Well, as that wasn’t me, it must have been Sir Jonathan. I shall have to pull my stockings up, or I will lose the contest.’
I had my boots on, so I couldn’t pull up my socks.
‘Ready?’ asked Barry.
‘I’m ready,’ I said.
‘Then let us go and see God,’ said my guardian sprout.
27
I was really quite unimpressed by God.
I mean, well fair enough, He was the Divine Creator and He did live in a golden realm with many golden angels, but He was rather small and He did have that silly voice.
And for that matter, regarding His golden realm, it was very gaudy and not very kind to the eyes.
But, all that said, He was God, so He did deserve some respect.
The Abominable Showman Page 16