by Mike Kent
‘Cartwright, Sayers, Kent,’ he announced. ‘Is that any of you? Probably the lot who left this morning. I am continually forwarding mail.’
I raised my hand. ‘I think that one’s mine,’ I said.
‘Are you Cartwright, Sayers or Kent?’
‘Kent.’
‘Mother worried about you already, is she?’
Duggan looked at the Major and grinned. ‘His mother said she’d come down for a visit, if that’s alright with you?’
Major Beddington looked puzzled for a moment. Then he stared at Duggan coldly.
‘You’ll have no time for visits here, my lad. No time at all. You won’t have much time for jokes, either. Right, leave your kit here and we’ll move into the Oak Room for a moment.’
He led the group along the hall and into an attractive sunlit room, converted as a lounge and filled with deep and comfortable easy chairs. The parquet floor and furniture in the room had been lovingly polished to perfection, and on the large table in the centre of the room there were numerous magazines about country life and a huge empty glass ashtray, as polished as the table itself. The shutters on the windows had been pushed back to their fullest extent, offering an exquisite view of the ornamental gardens at the back of the Hall, contrasting sharply with the rugged fields and woodlands beyond. The Major stood in the centre of the room and ushered the group around the table.
‘You’ll sleep between two and four men to a room. Letters can be collected from the table outside, though if your women can’t stand to be parted from you for five days without putting pen to paper it’s a good job you’re not staying here for a fortnight, hmm?’
He looked round at us, eyebrows raised, mildly amused by his attempt at humour.
‘Do we have any free time?’ asked Michael MacKenzie, a Scottish student from the main biology group whose passion was countryside rambling and wild flower gathering.
‘All depends what you mean by free time,’ the Major replied. ‘If you mean do you get ten minutes after the evening lectures to get some fresh air into your lungs before you go to bed, then the answer is more or less yes. If you mean do you get time to wander around this lovely building aimlessly discussing the sort of philosophical claptrap students usually witter on about, the answer is no. You are here on a concentrated course, paid for by money from the public purse. I have no desire to see the money wasted.’
‘Do you have a television?’ asked Charlton. ‘I mean, for those rare occasions when we do have a moment to relax?’
‘We do not,’ the Major replied emphatically. ‘We have an excellent library filled with books instead. Right, follow me. And bring your kit.’
He led us out of the room and up the stairs, where he pointed out the bedrooms. As we walked along the corridor, Duggan and I stayed close to each other near the back of the group, hoping to be allocated the same room.
‘You’ll find your way about soon enough,’ the Major said. ‘The two lavatories are on the ground floor, and there are bathrooms at each end of the corridor. But don’t use them unless it’s essential.’
‘What, the toilets?’ asked Barton. ‘I’ll never last the whole week.’
There was a ripple of laughter. The Major’s face remained stonily immobile.
‘I was referring to the baths. I would prefer you not to use them.’
‘Is there a reason?’ asked Daines politely.
‘There are several extremely good reasons. Firstly, after a day in the field students invariably leave them in a filthy state and that creates a lot of extra work for the cleaners. Secondly, central heating was installed in this building recently and at the moment the plumbing rattles like a dying tractor. Thirdly, students sometimes think they can lie in there for hours doing nothing except wasting time.’
‘Thank you,’ said Daines softly.
‘Right. I might add that the air here is fresh enough to stop you smelling for at least a month, provided your mother has given you enough clean underwear, so you won’t need a bath anyway. Now I shall leave you to unpack. Make sure you are on time for the meal. Latecomers will go without.’
The room Duggan and I were using could quite easily have slept six. There were four beds, one in each corner, and we spread our belongings out on the two beds that wouldn’t be used. The room was attractively decorated in a delicate pastel blue and the late afternoon breeze moved the white lace curtains restlessly against the windows as clean air breathed softly into the room.
‘God, the beds are a bit hard,’ said Duggan, pushing his mattress gingerly with his fingers. ‘I wonder if they got them from a prison camp.’
‘I don’t suppose you’ll get much chance to use it.’
‘No, it doesn’t look like it. Who’s your letter from?’
‘Samantha. She misses me.’
‘Rubbish. I bet the council wants the bloody books back. Now, where do you think the electric socket would be?’
‘There aren’t any sockets in the bedrooms. There’s a notice about it in the hall.’
‘You’re joking! What do I do? Plug my razor into a tree?’
‘The shaving sockets are in the bathrooms.’
‘Sod it, then. I’ll grow a beard.’
We finished unpacking and walked back downstairs to the library. The shelves were crammed with books on every aspect of biology, botany and field science, and down the centre of the room was a long table scattered with recently dissected plant life. A new chalkboard, filled with delicate sketches of plant sections, had been screwed to the wall near the door. Through the windows, I could just see several of our group still lying on the lawn stripped to the waist soaking up the last of the sun.
A door from the back of the library led out into the new laboratory. Reference books had been stacked neatly on the tables, and above the work benches lining the walls were newly fitted adjustable lamps for microscope work and close observation of specimens. Charts of Dorset’s natural history filled any available wall space, and rows of bottles lined the shelves and cupboard tops, each one carefully labelled and stored out of reach from the rays of the sun. A huge aquarium stood on the front desk, and what appeared to be the stomach of a pigeon had been stretched and pinned to a drawing board beside it. There was a strong smell of formaldehyde in the room.
‘Can’t stand this sort of thing,’ Duggan grimaced, looking at the bird distastefully. ‘Cutting up frogs and worms to look at their nervous systems and lacerating the innards of birds. It’s a bit Burke and Hareish, isn’t it? I never enjoyed doing it at school.’
‘Let’s go and sit on the lawn before dinner. It’s probably the only chance we’ll get.’
‘Good idea. God, I’m starving!’
‘That’s the fresh air. Perhaps we’ll have jugged hare. Or salmon. Freshly caught.’
Duggan chuckled. ‘I doubt it. We’ll probably have that bloody wood pigeon.’
A gong sounded from the entrance hall and the group filed into the Cedar Room, where tables to seat four had been arranged, in the manner of a small countryside hotel dining room. The country air had sharpened appetites mercilessly, especially since most of us had only eaten a meagre packed lunch on the coach. Samuel Charlton sat down opposite me and rubbed his hands vigorously in anticipation.
‘I’m ready for this!’ he said eagerly. ‘I hope it’s a roast.’
As soon as everybody was seated, two very thin waitresses swept into the room and began to serve the high table occupied by Major Beddington, Miss Fosdyke, and another woman we hadn’t met earlier. Charlton peered impatiently over the top of his chair to see what was on offer.
‘They don’t eat much,’ he said. ‘Look.’
I glanced across to the Major’s table and saw that the waitress had put down a plate of pilchards, four tomatoes, a bowl containing several boiled potatoes and a plate with three tiny oatmeal buns.
‘I exp
ect he’s probably on a special diet,’ said Duggan drily. ‘He’s probably got ulcers from wondering if somebody’s turned the bath taps on and used a pint of illegal hot water.’
‘You’d think he’d be starving after being out all day,’ said Charlton, eyeing the waitress approaching their table. ‘Unless he had a massive lunch or something.’
‘Move your arm, please,’ said the waitress very softly, as if she was serving a meal in church with the service in progress. She placed a plate of pilchards near Duggan’s elbow.
‘That’s not too bad, then,’ Duggan said, pulling the plate carefully towards his own. ‘Any potatoes?’
‘I’ll bring them in a moment,’ the waitress whispered, turning to another table. ‘You can be serving the pilchards out while you’re waiting.’
‘Serving them out?’ Duggan said, aghast. ‘Serving them out to who?’
‘The rest of the table, of course. They’re for the four of you.’
‘You mean serve them out between all four of us?’
‘Of course. What did you think I meant?
‘You’re joking.’
‘I most certainly am not!’ she answered firmly, looking mildly hurt. On the table opposite, Barton stared at the pilchards in disbelief and prodded one with his spoon.
‘Oh come on love,’ he urged. ‘You can’t just give us this. Food is a major part of my life.’
‘And sex,’ the student beside him added.
‘And sex. But right now I’m just hungry. You can’t expect these pilchards to go round four people.’
‘Why not?’
‘My God,’ laughed Duggan hollowly, ‘and I thought this plate was just for me!’
‘Who do you think you are, dear?’ said the waitress, her temper rising visibly. ‘Royalty?’
Other students began to object in voices that rose to a steady grumble, until Major Beddington stood up and walked over to Duggan’s table.
‘Is there something wrong?’ he asked.
‘It’s this lot, Major,’ said the waitress awkwardly. ‘They don’t think they’ve got enough to eat, that’s all.’
‘Really? I fail to see anything wrong with the pilchards.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with them,’ Duggan said. ‘There just aren’t enough of them, that’s all.’
The Major leaned across the table and examined the plate. ‘I can’t see why not. There are two each. That should be ample, in my view.’
‘Must be a bad year for pilchards, then,’ Barton muttered.
‘Well, that’s all you’re going to get, young man,’ the Major said firmly, giving Duggan an icy stare. ‘They are standard rations and nobody has ever complained before. Of course, if you are used to stuffing junk food inside yourself several times a day it is possible your stomach will notice the difference. However, after your very moderate stay here I venture to suggest you might emerge as a leaner and fitter man. Angela, furnish this table with a dish of potatoes and leave them to it.’
‘Yes Sir.’ She went back into the kitchen and returned with a small bowl of steaming boiled potatoes, which she placed in the centre of the table.
‘And that’s all there is,’ she said stiffly. ‘If you don’t like it I’ll give them to a table that does.’
Duggan chewed heavily on a slice of brown bread, and poured a little water into the glasses on the table. I picked my glass up and sipped the water miserably.
‘Don’t drink too much of it, Mike,’ Duggan muttered. ‘You’ve probably got to bathe in it as well.’
‘Didn’t Gerry say something about the food?’
‘Even Oliver Twist would have said something about this stuff. Maybe we could alert the Red Cross or something. Get a few food parcels flown in. I really don’t know if I can handle a week of this.’
A moody silence hung over the dining room as each person tried to make the meal last as long as possible, while the waitresses stood by the door and watched until every morsel had disappeared. Then, silently and efficiently, they removed the empty plates and dishes from the tables. There wasn’t a scrap of food remaining on any of them.
‘I shouldn’t imagine they have to do any washing up here,’ said Charlton. ‘The plates probably get licked cleaned by ravenous visitors.’
The second and final course came almost immediately. One of the waitresses wheeled a trolley from table to table, depositing four bowls and a dish containing a brown, jelly-like substance.
‘I don’t think I can manage any more, love,’ said Duggan, smiling at the waitress and sitting back in his chair. ‘I’ll just have a tiny slice of the blackforest gateau.’
‘Just a coffee and a cigar for me, please,’ said Barton.
‘You’ll have this and like it,’ the waitress snapped, slapping four spoons on the table and staring at him angrily. ‘And there’s no more of that, either.’
The brown substance in the large bowl resembled a strain of matured junket that had gone watery round the edges. Duggan stared at it in disbelief.
‘It’s a local speciality, actually,’ said Barton.
‘Really?’ Duggan replied sarcastically. ‘What do they call it?’
‘Cowshit.’
‘Yes. I thought they might.’
A murmur of laughter rose from the next table. One of the group had removed a small purple flower from a pot on the window sill and planted it in the middle of the dessert, pointing out the advantages it had over regular fertiliser.
I felt a deep flush of sympathy for the plant.
Half an hour later, we assembled in the laboratory, hungry and restless, to listen while Major Beddington outlined the form the course was going to take.
‘I advise you to make notes,’ he announced briskly. ‘I shall talk for an hour, and tomorrow we’ll start into the field as early as we can. There is a great deal to get through. Tomorrow morning we shall examine Rosepine Valley, Barrow Hill and Fletchers Wood, providing the weather holds.’
There was a light knock at the door, and Miss Fosdyke tip-toed into the room, apologising briefly and taking a stool near the door. Major Beddington waited until she was seated comfortably, and then began speaking again.
‘Right. Once we’re out in the valley the first thing we’ll need to do is an insect and animal count. That will probably take most of the morning. You might like to give the soil a going over with your testers while we’re out there. I presume some of you have brought your own testers?’
‘Did he say testes?’ asked Barton. ‘I’ve got my own set of them.’ Five students raised their hands tentatively.
‘I see. Hmm. I thought there would be more than that. We’ll just have to make do with what we’ve got. Phyllis, perhaps you’d be good enough to check on the state of the testers in the lab.’
Miss Fosdyke appeared flustered. She stood up quickly and moved towards the door.
‘Not right now, Phyllis,’ the Major said. ‘Tomorrow morning before we go will do.’
Miss Fosdyke’s cheeks reddened, and she hovered for a second, aware that everybody was looking at her. Then she sat down carefully on the stool again, her hands on her lap and her knees clenched tightly together.
‘Right. Now where was I? We shall be bringing back a number of specimens for identification in the lab. It will be worth your while writing half a page of notes about them. Remember, I shall want positive identification, not some half-baked theoretical claptrap. I shall also want to see your notes each evening. If you haven’t brought your own specimen bottles you can take a few from this cupboard here, but mind you bring ‘em back. Had a lot down here a few weeks ago who left half of ‘em in the valley. The locals thought the junkies had moved in. Breakages must be paid for, of course.’
He snorted contemptuously.
‘Now then, You’ll need to have a rough idea of what this county’s all about. I’ll put a fe
w jottings down on the board and you can copy ‘em down. They’ll give you some background information and help you with soil identification and so on in the morning.’
He opened a drawer and selected a stick of chalk, which snapped abruptly as he stabbed a heading on the blackboard. Tossing half of it back into the drawer, he began to scribble notes in tiny writing that was completely illegible from the back of the room. As he wrote, like a dying man anxious to scribble out a new will, he commented in short meaningless phrases about what he had written.
‘Small county, Dorset. Fertile valleys of course, well wooded… chalky uplands to the South East… fringed heathland… chalk hills running down to the coast. The Isle of Portland, of course. Actually a peninsula joined to the mainland by Chesil Beach… Portland fascinating, practically treeless. Predominantly agricultural country… clay soil on the South Western side…
He stopped and looked across at Michael MacKenzie, who had put down his notebook and was sitting with his arms folded.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ he asked. ‘No pen?’
‘I canna read your writing,’ MacKenzie said simply.
‘Why? Are you blind?’
‘No. It’s too small.’
‘Move to the front, then,’ said the Major dismissively. ‘Nobody has ever complained before.’
‘They probably never got from the house to the lab,’ said Barton grimly. ‘They probably died of hunger on the way.’
Major Beddington ignored him, and turned back to the blackboard. When he had covered it with notes and diagrams, he put down his piece of chalk and walked slowly round the room, looking over shoulders and scrutinising what was being written.
‘Right, when you’ve copied the notes you can study the maps of the countryside. You’ll find them in the drawers under the workbenches. Then I suggest you go into the library and sort out which books you need. Up here, there’s a wall chart Miss Fosdyke drew some time ago which shows you the local flora. I should make a few notes on that too.’
Miss Fosdyke shuffled self-consciously in her seat, smiled at him, and took the chart down for the group to pass around and copy. For half an hour, the silence was broken only by the rustling of pens on paper, and the loud ticking of a large wallclock above the blackboard. At nine o’clock, Major Beddington stood up and coughed loudly.