by Mike Kent
‘And cowshit…’ Barton muttered.
‘I’m sorry? Anyway, we must get on or we’ll get nothing done at all this morning. Major Beddington will give you much more detailed advice, of course, as soon as you get there. And just think. Much of what you do could be adapted into very interesting studies for children as well. Even very young ones.’
She looked at her watch, turned to the blackboard, and chalked a heading on it.
‘And now we really must get on. Last week we were discussing the molecular structure of an organic compound. I want to do a little more on that before the coffee break, and then you can finish the microscope work you started.’
An hour later, during the coffee break, Gerry discussed the prospect of our course with us. He sounded a little envious.
‘It’ll be great if you get this weather,’ he said enthusiastically, echoing Miss Bottle’s words. ‘And Dorset, too. It’s bound to be better than that place in Wales one of our groups went to. They said it was like being in Colditz.’
‘I thought Elderberry Hall was for geography students too?’ Duggan said.
‘It is. They had to go to Wales because they were putting central heating or something in at Elderberry Hall. Mind you, isn’t Elderberry Hall the place where…’
‘Where what?’
‘Well, I think the meals might come as a bit of a shock.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Somebody in our group was talking about it. I don’t think they believe in overfeeding students. Still, that won’t do you any harm, eh? It’ll be a sort of health spa week, too.’
He prodded Duggan’s stomach and smiled. ‘Of course you’ll have to watch out for Miss Fosdyke. Her reputation…’
‘Who’s she?’
‘I’ll say no more’, he said darkly, putting his mug down and gathering his notes together for the next lecture. ‘Anyway, a couple of mature scientists like you two should find it all most fascinating. You’ll see what I mean.’
He laughed heartily at some private joke.
Although it rained for much of the next fortnight, the brilliant sunshine had returned by the day of departure. Even Duggan looked more optimistic as he threw a bottle of suntan lotion on top of the clothes in his holdall.
‘You never know, we might even get a chance to use it,’ he said. ‘Now then Mike, I suppose it’s okay if I rely on you for soap, tooth paste, after shave, corn plasters, underwear and a goodnight kiss?’
‘Of course.’
‘And you’re taking spare pyjamas, are you?’
‘No. Why, are you?’
‘I’m afraid I shan’t be taking any pyjamas at all.’
‘Where’s yours, then?’
‘Milly offered to iron them yesterday and she burnt a hole in the crutch. I had to scrape them off the ironing board. They look ridiculous.’
‘You mean you’ve only got one pair?’
‘Yes, and everybody’ll be able to see ‘em through the hole in my pyjamas.’
‘God, you sound like David Barton. I meant one pair of pyjamas.’
‘Of course. Haven’t you?’
‘What do you do when you’re washing those then?’
‘Sleep in my tie. Of course, I don’t really mind doing that at Elderberry Hall, providing you don’t really mind either.’
‘Who said you’ll be sleeping with me?’
‘Well, I might not be, of course. I might be sleeping with Major Beddington. Or the mysterious Miss Fosdyke, perhaps. Now there’s a thought!’
‘You don’t even know who she is yet.’
‘True. Anyway, we’ll find out this morning. Are we taking all these books? Where did you get them all? Don’t tell me, Samantha…’
‘Yes. We’ve got them for three weeks.’
‘Let’s hope nobody else in Westminster wants a library book on flowers. You’ve got the entire natural history section here. What did she do? Smuggle them out?’
‘I don’t know. We just have to make sure we don’t lose any.’
We pushed our bags out into the corridor, where Milly was leaning on her mop and staring out of the window. She jumped as the Duggan’s bag shot between her legs.
‘Ad enough, ‘ave yer, darlin’?’ she called, recovering her composure. ‘Packed yer bags, ‘ave yer?’
‘It’s the pressure of work,’ said Duggan. ‘We need a break. We’re shooting off to the South of France for a few days.’
Milly dumped the mop back in her bucket, and leaned against the wall, always ready to while away a little time in conversation.
‘Are yer darlin? And my aunt’s the Queen Mother. Where yer goin’, then?’
‘On a field study.’
‘Yeah? What’s that?’
‘We’re going to study things in a field.’
‘Are yer now? Dirty couple of sods then, aren’t yer! I ain’t studied nothin’ in a field since I was sixteen, but I ain’t got anythin’ worth studyin’ these days.’
‘It’s part of our course. For science. We’ve got to look at cowshit.’
‘Ave yer, darlin’? Well you shouldn’t ‘ave much trouble recognisin’ it. Can’t see what it’s got to do with teachin’, though. Unless you’re gonna teach an ‘erd of cows. Sounds a waste of public taxes to me.’
She sniffed and took out her packet of tobacco.
‘I shan’t enjoy it without you,’ said Duggan. ‘Do you want to climb in my suitcase?’
She laughed abruptly. ‘Chance ‘ud be a fine thing, darlin’,’ she said, and coughed her way back along the corridor.
A large, comfortable forty seater coach was already waiting outside the main gates and there was plenty of room to spread out inside. A few students were already sitting inside reading magazines and papers, but most were still carrying bags and cases across the quadrangle or talking to each other in small groups. The driver took the bags as they arrived and pushed them into the boot, while dodging the four different sized nets that Samuel Charlton was carrying.
‘You all going fishing then?’ he said to Charlton. ‘I thought you lot had to do some work up here?’
‘Butterflies,’ Duggan explained. ‘We’re rather hoping to capture a cosmolyce boeticus.’
‘Are you mate? Well don’t set it on me. You’d better put that net on the rack with the others. If you’re lucky you might get an eyeball on the end of it as well.’
‘Really?’ said Duggan, ‘Thanks very much.’
‘That’s all right, mate. Just watch it isn’t mine, that’s all.’
Miss Bottle had come to see the group off, and she hovered between the doorway and the driver, checking names off against her list and making sure nothing had been overlooked or forgotten.
‘Simon’s gone a bit overboard, hasn’t he?’ Duggan whispered. ‘All he needs is a bloody harpoon gun.’ He nodded towards Daines, who was packing a wide stream net, rubber swimming flippers, a case of specimen bottles and a collapsible fishing rod onto the luggage rack.
‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘But I bet we’ve got more books than he has.’
The driver pulled the door shut, Miss Bottle waved frantically, and the coach edged its way out into the morning traffic. The sunshine was already very strong, and though all the windows had been opened, the coach soon slowed to a crawl as it joined the heavy traffic through the centre of London. The Thames sparkled lazily as the coach inched its way over Westminster Bridge and around Parliament Square, and it wasn’t until mid morning, when the motorway was reached, that any real progress could be made. The driver switched on his radio and a crackle of music mixed with the hum of the engine. I put down the crossword I’d been solving, settled further into my seat, and gradually drifted into sleep. I was awakened two hours later by the brakes being applied sharply. I sat up quickly, wiped the sweat from my face, and stared out of the window. The c
oach had obviously left the motorway some time ago.
‘It’s all right,’ said Duggan. ‘A lorry pulled up a bit dangerously in front. Do you want all your cheese sandwiches?’
‘Not really. Where are we?’
‘Salisbury. Not too far now.’
The coach sped through Stockbridge and turned off the main road at a signpost saying Blandford Village. By now, the heat in the coach was overwhelming and the atmosphere uncomfortably stuffy. Few students at the college ever went to bed early, and our group was no exception. Most were still asleep and I noticed that Simon Daines’ wide stream net had fallen off the luggage rack and neatly across his head, like an over-sized hairnet.
The coach suddenly slowed down, negotiated a small roundabout, and then picked up speed again, running easily along a recently widened lane shadowed by oak and beech trees. I drifted back to sleep again and was abruptly woken up half an hour later by the driver turning the volume of the radio up to a deafening level. Then he switched to public address and called through the microphone.
‘Okay, lads. Wakey wakey. You’re here. Elderberry Hall Holiday Camp. Wake up, unless you want to travel back to town with me.’
He nudged his coach through enormous wrought iron gates and into a wide gravel drive that lay between extensive and beautifully maintained lawns. Elderberry Hall sat imposingly at the end of the drive, a large brown-stoned early eighteenth century country house in an excellent state of preservation. The main frontage had all the features a wealthy family might have demanded of a typically well designed home; large windows, gables and pinnacles of local stone mellowed to a rich golden brown, with large, formal garden areas around it. The house had been extended, but tastefully and in keeping with the grand style of the main building. At the right hand end of the Hall, a modern but carefully integrated study-laboratory had been added.
The smell of freshly cut grass mingled with the scent of honeysuckle and jasmine as we climbed down from the coach, pulled our bags onto the grass verge, and sat down on them for a while, welcoming the opportunity to sit in the fresh air and enjoy the warmth of the late afternoon sun.
‘Well, this is rather fine,’ said Daines, putting a pair of sunglasses on and staring contentedly into the distance. ‘What it must have been like to be monied and influential two hundred years ago, eh? I think I shall rather enjoy this.’
‘Think of the parties you could have in here,’ said Barton. ‘Perhaps we can have one on Saturday night. I’ll ask the Major when I see him.’
‘You can ask him now,’ said Duggan, nodding towards the entrance. ‘This has got to be him.’
An extremely tall man in a shapeless brown jacket and thick brown twill trousers came out of the doorway and hurried purposefully down the steps towards us. His thinning silvery hair blew gently around the sides of his freckled, sunburnt head and he moved very quickly, carrying a clipboard and pen in his right hand. Though I guessed he was probably in his middle fifties, he looked exceptionally fit and strong, and his long legs travelled over the ground in careful, measured strides.
‘Right, you lads, come along, hurry up, thought you were never coming,’ he called in a loud voice. ‘Look, don’t leave your kit there. Can’t you see the grass has just been mown? Put it up by the entrance while I talk to you.’
The bags and cases were moved nearer the great oak doors, while the Major watched, hands on hips and his legs astride. When he was satisfied that the group was attentive again, he took a cherrywood pipe from his cavernous jacket pocket, pushed a handful of tobacco into the bowl, and set light to it with a match. Then he carefully pushed the spent match all the way into the earth at the edge of the lawn.
‘Right then,’ he said, raising a huge, very muddy wellington-booted foot and lowering it onto Duggan’s suitcase. ‘We’re all here now, are we? Twenty eight of you, isn’t it? One botany man coming tomorrow? Well, he’ll just have to make up tonight’s work when he gets here. Stand by your kit, will you?’
He called a register of everybody’s name. Then he prodded Duggan’s suitcase, as if to test its breaking strain, upended it and sat down on it. Presuming this to be a signal to follow suit, everybody else sat down too. The Major spoke again, his strong mellow voice and careful enunciation making him clearly audible across the lawn.
‘It can’t have escaped your notice, gentlemen, that this is an historic building in an excellent state of repair. It dates from 1756. We like to keep it in that condition and we therefore have strict rules for its use. You may use the drawing room, the library, and the front lawn. You may not use the Great Hall, the Oak Room, or the formal gardens. Meals are served in the Beech Room. You may not be in the bedrooms during the day unless it is essential, you may not smoke in the building at all, and you may not bring drink, food, portable audio equipment or members of the opposite sex into the building without my personal permission. Since this is a male student group, this eventuality will not be an issue, of course. You must be in by ten, because the doors are locked at ten by the warden. For those of you interested in history, you’ll find booklets available which detail the history of the Hall. They are very reasonably priced.’
He paused to stand up and grab at a flying insect which seemed to be attempting a forced landing on his forehead. Trapping it neatly between his fingers, he held it a foot away from his face and examined it carefully, screwing up his wrinkled eyes. Then he opened his fingers gently and watched it fly away before speaking again.
‘There will be evening lectures of course, and some of your time will be spent in the laboratory. You’ll need to carry notebooks and a pencil with you at all times, and each day I shall lecture immediately after the evening meal.’
He picked up one of the butterfly nets from the pile beside the cases and whipped it in the air like a riding crop.
‘Hmm. Well, I’m glad to see that you’ve come prepared. Now then, there’s a map of the sleeping accommodation on the notice board in the hall, but I’ll be escorting you to your rooms myself. The main meal is at six, and there will be packed lunches at mid-day to give us maximum time in the field. Kindly keep your bedrooms neat, tidy and in good order. The slightest damage will be charged to your college. No specimens from the field are to be taken into your rooms. Nor are Hall library books.’
He paused to check the notes on his clipboard.
‘Right, I think that’s about all for the time being. Except to say that my name is Beddington and our other resident lecturer is… ah… around here somewhere. Phyllis?’
He bellowed at the top of his voice, and looked around.
‘Miss Fosdyke is a specialist on plant life, as some of you may already know. One of the best in the country. She’s also damn good on ticks and mites if that’s your particular field. Phyllis!’
The bushes parted and a slight, roughly dressed middle-aged woman clambered out of them like a naughty child caught hiding. She was as suntanned as the Major, and had a scarf tightly tied round her head to protect her hair from the twigs and leaves she obviously relished clambering through in her search for new specimens. An ancient camera was hanging round her neck on a piece of string. She hurried towards the Major.
‘I’m sorry Andrew,’ she apologised. ‘There’s an awfully interesting specimen on the beech behind the clematis. Not absolutely certain what it is yet. Have to wait for the snap to be developed. I do hope I’ve wound the wretched thing on properly.’
She fumbled with the camera, squinted through the viewfinder and sighed.
‘It’ll probably come out black again,’ she said. ‘Can’t think why they make these things so awkward. I’ll just have to get one of those modern ones. Get the snap in a couple of seconds, then. Never as reliable as the human eye, of course.’
‘This is Phyllis Fosdyke,’ Major Beddington said again, standing out of the sunlight and surveying her as if he was seeing her for the first time. ‘She’ll be giving you your fi
rst session in the field tomorrow.’
‘She’s a bit old for it, isn’t she?’ said Barton innocently.
‘I rather think we’ll find it’s the common mealy bug,’ Miss Fosdyke said. ‘I really don’t think it could be phlloxera quercus. Not at this time of year.’
‘What?’ the Major snapped.
‘Mealy bugs,’ Miss Fosdyke repeated. ‘I can’t be absolutely certain at this stage. The snap should give us a definite answer. And who are these young men, Andrew?’
‘This week’s college group. Students from St James’s in London. They’re the reason I called you from the bushes. Is there anything you want to say to them?’
Miss Fosdyke put her head to one side, rested her chin on her fingers, pursed her lips and thought for a moment. ‘No, I don’t think so. Plenty of time for that later on.’
She frowned and disappeared back into the bushes. In the excitement of finding a rare bug it seemed she hadn’t really been aware of our arrival at all. The Major watched her departure for a moment and then waved his hand at the bags and suitcases.
‘Right, get your kit inside the house,’ he ordered. ‘I’ll speak to you again in the Oak Room. Follow me.’
Gathering our belongings, we followed the Major up the driveway and into the spacious hall. The interior of the house was immaculately preserved, with sections of ornate, decorative oak panelling and freshly painted white plastered walls. A wide curved staircase covered in plush green carpet led to the floor above, and vases of freshly picked flowers had been spaced at regular intervals, picked out by the rays of the late afternoon sun streaming brilliantly through the huge windows. An aspidistra stood at the foot of the stairs, and along the wall by the doorway stood an enormous mahogany table, its surface gleaming with polish. Three unopened letters lay on it. Major Beddington picked them up and put on a small pair of spectacles which seemed out of place on his rugged features. They slid to the end of his nose and perched there precariously.