Now, however, they seemed completely overawed by the sight of the newcomers, and it required someone of my calibre to take the reins. Unfortunately, I was constrained by the cabinet’s recent injunction. We had agreed unanimously not to make any sort of approach to the railwaymen. My present visit was in a strictly personal capacity and therefore I needed to maintain a low profile.
A brief hiatus ensued, during which Gadwall looked at me and I looked at him. Then suddenly there was a nearby kerfuffle. I glanced around and saw Gallinule advancing through the throng in his finest crimson apparel. Without so much as a nod in my direction he spoke directly to Gadwall.
‘Gallinule at your service,’ he said. ‘May we introduce our company?’
In a veritable coup de théâtre he then proceeded to introduce Ortolan, Pukeka, Rosella, Mitteria, Chiurlo and Penduline. (Mestolone was nowhere to be seen.)
Gadwall regarded the entourage in solemn silence for several moments. They were attired in all manner of outlandish clothing, yet his face betrayed neither astonishment nor curiosity.
‘What is your business?’ he enquired.
‘The world, sir, is our business,’ replied Gallinule.
‘Then you may wish to attend one of our pavilions,’ said Gadwall. ‘As you can see, preparations are already under way.’
Indeed, the preparations Gadwall referred to were going on apace. Within minutes of arriving the men in olive drab had begun unloading the carriages. In a highly organised operation out came boxes, crates and large bundles of fabric. Very soon a site had been cleared and rows of bell tents erected. These appeared to be for purposes of accommodation, but beyond them some much larger tents were gradually being hoisted into position.
A good part of the crowd had started slowly to disperse, having evidently lost interest after the train’s glorious arrival. A substantial number remained, however, and they seemed almost mesmerised by the frenetic activity they were witnessing. Such industriousness was seldom seen in Greater Fallowfields, and for some it was plainly a fascinating spectacle. Gallinule and his colleagues had soon embarked on a guided tour of the new encampment. In the meantime I decided to take the opportunity to slip quietly away. Privately I suspected Gallinule was on the verge of becoming unstuck. It was obvious to me that he’d only come along to test the market for theatre tickets. Somehow, though, he’d managed to convince Gadwall that he was a man of local importance; and he was now being entertained accordingly. I had no doubt that his acting abilities would enable him to wriggle out of any impending situation, but I didn’t want to be involved.
I wandered along the platform, peering casually through each carriage doorway as I passed. Some interiors were stacked full of equipment; others were virtually empty. The final carriage, I noticed, was not included in all the hustle and bustle. The men in olive drab uniforms did not venture near, and nothing was being unloaded. Nonetheless, I sensed that there was somebody inside.
As I drew near a man appeared in the doorway and looked out. He, too, was dressed in olive drab, but his demeanour was somehow different from the others. There was a certain stillness about him as he observed the unflagging toil of his compatriots. When he saw me coming he directed his gaze at me. I perceived straight away that he was carrying out a visual assessment: it was almost as if he was deducing my worth from my physical appearance. In other words, he was weighing me up.
Then he beckoned me over and spoke. ‘Give me a hand here, will you?’
I glanced into the carriage and saw behind him a large wooden trunk with brass handles at each end. Evidently he had misjudged me: it was quite obvious he thought I was some kind of court functionary who would jump at his every command. Or perhaps he even took me for the station porter! Either way, I decided to play along with the whole game. After all, there was no harm in offering help to a newly arrived traveller.
‘Certainly,’ I said, reaching in and grasping one of the handles.
Together we slid the trunk towards the doorway. Then, with a grunt or two, we heaved it down on to the platform.
A few seconds went by as I stood waiting in silence. An acknowledgement of some sort was all that was required, yet the man did not thank me for my assistance. Instead, to my surprise, he put a silver sixpence in the palm of my hand.
‘There you are,’ he said.
Naturally, I was flabbergasted. It was one thing to be mistaken for a servant, but entirely another to be treated as one. For a moment I gazed speechless at the man, who had already moved away and was attending to other business inside the carriage. It was plain that he regarded the transaction as a matter of course, while from my point of view it was practically an affront. Indeed, such conduct was unheard of throughout the empire.
On the other hand, it occurred to me that this unexpected turn of events could resolve an embarrassing problem at a stroke. Whimbrel had failed persistently to return the stipendiary sixpence I’d lent him. Moreover, I had no inclination to ask for it back. Now all of a sudden there was a sixpence lying in the palm of my hand. Here was a chance to receive recompense indirectly. Besides, it would be awkward trying to return the offering. In the next instant the man closed the carriage door, leaving me standing alone on the station platform. Without further debate I slipped the coin into my pocket and headed homewards.
Dusk was falling, although it was barely past midday. In the distance the lights of the capital were gradually beginning to glow and there was a definite feeling of seasonal jollity in the air. I had to admit that I now felt fairly pleased with the outcome of my morning jaunt. Not only had I witnessed the arrival of the first scheduled train, but I’d also been fully reimbursed with my stipendiary sixpence. All at once I felt like an officer-of-state again. No longer was I dependent on Brambling’s begrudged generosity: I now had a sixpence of my own!
As I continued walking I began to conjecture what the others did with their stipends. I knew that Whimbrel dutifully fed his sixpence into the observatory telescope, and I assumed Sanderling was saving his for when he finally tracked down those elusive dancing girls. I had no idea, however, about the spending habits of the remaining officers. I then fell to pondering whether Smew still claimed his official payment as librarian-in-chief. I concluded that he probably did, and that most likely he’d taken the liberty of raising it to a shilling, or maybe even half-a-crown. Such, he might argue, were the prerogatives of regency.
Meanwhile, I had no doubt that Wryneck kept his money in a piggy bank.
With these idle thoughts in mind I reached the outskirts of the royal quarter. What luck to be given a new sixpence on the eve of the twelve-day feast! I paused beneath a lamp post and removed the coin from my pocket. This was the first time I’d examined it properly and I was startled to discover that it wasn’t a sixpence at all. Lying in the palm of my hand was a type of coin I’d never seen before. In size, weight and shape it was identical to an imperial sixpence. It even glimmered the same way in the lamplight. Nevertheless it was clearly something quite different. I held it nearer to the light and inspected it closely. The design was simple. On one side was a hammer and anvil; on the other were three words: CITY OF SCOFFERS.
Chapter 18
When the first day of feasting arrived I realised I hadn’t made any festive arrangements. I’d been so busy with the orchestra, the railway and so forth that I hadn’t noticed it creeping up on me. Most of the populace, of course, had all manner of preparations in hand: windows were decorated with brightly coloured lights, doors were garlanded, log fires were kindled, plum puddings were mixed and gooseberry pies were baked. The objective was to eat, drink and be merry, and consequently the public houses were expecting to do a roaring trade.
I should add, though, that the twelve-day feast was actually a misnomer. Celebrations rarely extended beyond the third day; after that the holiday subsided into a kind of limbo as the supply of cakes and ale slowly dwindled and people contemplated returning to work. The only citizens who customarily took the full twelve days wer
e the postmen, so I was surprised when a card was delivered that very first morning. The postman who brought it informed me that mine was the only call he’d made today; furthermore, he’d had to rise from his bed especially to make it. I pointed out that I’d also had to rise from my bed especially to answer his knock, but he seemed unimpressed. He wished me a ‘fruitful feast’ and went on his way, presumably in the direction of the Maypole.
After he’d gone I opened the card. It was from Smew. Apparently he was holding a grand reception from three until five in the afternoon. The venue was the reading room of the great library, and I was invited. This more or less eliminated the other possibility open to me; namely, that of joining Gallinule and his companions in their chosen hostelry. I could imagine the sort of day that lay ahead of them and it was not uninviting. The drink flowed unusually freely when Gallinule was ‘in the chair’, and a pleasant time was therefore guaranteed. At the back of my mind, though, was the question of finance. I could hardly show up at the Maypole with my newly acquired coin and try to get it past the publican. Also, I might be put under pressure to purchase a ticket for the company’s forthcoming play. Once more the problem came down to money. The price was sixpence; and sixpence I didn’t have. As much as I wanted to see this tragedy, I didn’t savour the prospect of sitting in a pauper’s seat.
I looked again at Smew’s invitation and decided I had no alternative but to accept. Indeed, it struck me that it would have been churlish not to. Here I was, being invited to the most prestigious social event of the season, one that was likely to be the envy of many, yet I was considering giving it a miss! I chided myself for being so foolish and set about getting ready.
The card said three o’clock but I determined to make my entrance at half past. Turning up any earlier would have made it look as if I had nowhere else to go, aside from which I wanted to avoid the awkwardness of being first to arrive. As it happened I need not have worried: that particular honour fell upon Sanderling. At three thirty I walked into the reading room to find him attired in his smartest dandy coat, and doing his best to converse with Wryneck. I could see immediately that he was struggling. The two of them appeared to be discussing the numerous portraits hanging around the walls, but there was a very obvious distraction. Close by stood a table laden with glasses, all brimming with wine, and as yet untouched. Poor Sanderling was plainly undergoing a mild form of torture. I watched with interest as he nodded and concurred with Wryneck, all the time casting glances at the wine as though he feared it would suddenly vanish. Meanwhile, Wryneck explained each painting down to the last tiny detail, before steering his hapless pupil towards the next masterpiece, and then the one after that. I wondered how long Sanderling would be able to bear being deprived of the drink that was so near and yet so far. Soon Whimbrel joined me, quickly followed by Dotterel, Brambling and Garganey. These last three were slightly damp. It was now raining outside, apparently, as well as being dark and gloomy. Exactly why our ancestors established the feast at this dismal time of year I didn’t know, but I presumed it was because they needed an excuse to stay indoors.
I glanced around at my companions and noticed that Dotterel seemed rather ill at ease. There was evidently something bothering him but I didn’t get the chance to find out what. Next moment Smew emerged from within some inner sanctum wearing the ceremonial crown and looking unquestionably regal. He regarded the little gathering for some moments, and then spoke.
‘Why, Wryneck,’ he said, ‘aren’t you going to offer our guests some wine?’
‘Ah, yes,’ Wryneck answered, ‘I was so absorbed with the royal paintings that I clean forgot.’
For some reason the wine glasses ranged along the table were of many different sizes. They stood there glowing under the chandelier and I thought they looked most enticing. The larger glasses were towards the back; the medium and small ones nearer the front.
‘Like a drink, Sanderling?’ said Wryneck.
‘Yes, please,’ came the reply.
Wryneck turned and selected the smallest glass and handed it to Sanderling. Whether he did it on purpose I couldn’t tell, but I found I was unable to continue witnessing Sanderling’s torment. Instead I joined a short queue comprising Dotterel, Garganey, Whimbrel and Brambling. Wryneck favoured us all with large measures, but for himself he chose a glass of equal size to the one he’d given Sanderling.
Smew waited gracefully until last.
The eight of us must have looked quite magnificent as we stood assembled in our courtly attire, each holding a glass of the empire’s finest wine. Here we were, the very cream of imperial government, enjoying one another’s company in a library of international renown. All the same I couldn’t help thinking that there was some special element lacking from the occasion. To put it another way, there was no sense of allurement: no sparkle. I was unable to put my finger precisely on what we were missing, but the feeling persisted nonetheless.
I was then struck by an unrelated secondary thought. It occurred to me that we might all be expected to exchange gifts at some stage during the afternoon. A cold chill ran through me as I realised I’d made no provision for this whatsoever. Realistically, I couldn’t envisage Dotterel or Garganey producing a sackful of carefully wrapped parcels out of the blue. On the other hand, I would not have put it past Whimbrel to distribute presents left, right and centre just for the sake of it. How embarrassing, then, to be unable to offer anything in return.
I was still considering my options when Dotterel cleared his throat and addressed Smew directly.
‘Smew,’ he said, ‘there’s a matter of great urgency which I think demands the immediate attention of the cabinet.’
‘Not now, Dotterel,’ said Smew.
‘But it’s most important.’
‘Not now,’ Smew repeated. ‘It will have to wait.’
‘You mean until tomorrow?’ Dotterel enquired.
‘I mean until after the twelve-day feast.’
‘It can’t wait twelve days!’
‘Of course it can,’ said Smew. He had adopted a kind yet masterful tone of voice. ‘Nothing should be allowed to interrupt the festivities,’ he continued. ‘Affairs of state must be put to one side for the time being. So please, Dotterel, try to enjoy yourself and let’s hear no more about it.’
‘Very well,’ conceded Dotterel, bowing his head slightly and accepting a second glass of wine.
This was provided by Shrike, who had appeared as if from nowhere carrying a tray of drinks. After serving Dotterel he began circulating amongst the rest of us, and this time I was glad to see Sanderling receive the biggest glass of all. The general conversation then became much more convivial. Even Dotterel seemed to overcome his disquietude, if only temporarily.
The paintings lining the walls were not all portraits. Some of them depicted maritime scenes from the history of the empire. Sanderling now seized the opportunity to demonstrate what he had learned during his time at the admiralty. One enormous canvas showed a flotilla of sailing ships, merchantmen by the look of them, beating along some wild shore in search of a safe harbour. Taking Wryneck by the sleeve, Sanderling guided him over to the picture and started explaining it to him. Cleverly, though, he made no attempt to talk about artistic technique: brushstrokes, light, colour, perspective and so forth. This would have led him straight out of his depth. Instead he described how a ship actually sailed, commencing from first principles.
‘What you need to understand,’ he began, ‘is that the wind doesn’t simply blow the ship along. Rather, the ship takes the wind and shapes it to its own requirements.’
Wryneck stood listening intently as Sanderling outlined the basic laws of sailing. Dotterel and Garganey also moved a little closer, clearly impressed by Sanderling’s wealth of knowledge. It was a shame he had no ships with which to put it all into practice.
Whimbrel, Brambling and Smew, meanwhile, had become involved in a discussion about Smew’s pencil, which he always carried with him. He was well known for preferr
ing pencils to pens, and now he explained the reason why.
‘The mark of a pencil is softer and less intrusive,’ he announced. ‘Moreover, it can be rubbed out. Ink on the other hand cannot be erased, and if you happen to make a splodge you’re in trouble.’
‘Won’t you require a pen for your duties as regent?’ Whimbrel suggested. ‘Surely you’ll need one for signing decrees.’
‘It is not the pen that counts,’ replied Smew. ‘It is he who wields it.’
His words had the effect of silencing any further comment from either Whimbrel or Brambling, and after that the conversation became noticeably one-sided.
Finding myself alone I decided to go for a browse along the bookshelves, taking my glass of wine with me. Occasionally I selected a title, took down the book and read the preface. Then I put it back again and moved on. This proved to be quite a pleasant pastime. The royal collection was rich in variety: tomes on every subject stood side by side in silent ranks, all waiting to be read. After a while I came upon a book I hadn’t seen since I was a child. It was called Tales from Long Ago, and as I lifted it down I felt a curious wave of anticipation pass through me. I remembered this book in particular because it had a colour picture on every other page, so that each story was encapsulated in a few scenes. Sure enough, when I opened it there was a page of text on the left side, and an illustration on the right. To my surprise I recognised the first picture as if I had only seen it the previous day, rather than many years before. It showed three men gazing up at the night sky through a tall, narrow window. I was astounded at the familiarity of the detail; also, the brightness of the colours. The three men wore blue coats, their shoes were buckled and their stockings were white. The words of the story, however, were unfamiliar. Slowly, I turned to the next page. Here was a man in a rowing boat in the middle of a lake; on his head was a yellow crown. I examined the picture and noticed that one of the oarlocks hadn’t been drawn properly. Part of it was missing, which would have made the boat impossible to row. I recalled that this had baffled me throughout my childhood. Again, though, I had no memory of the story itself, and I began to realise that when I was young I couldn’t have read the book properly. I must have spent all my time looking at the pictures. I turned the pages, one by one, and yet more half-forgotten characters were revealed. Invariably they appeared startled, bewildered, surprised or jubilant. Hidden away inside this book, they’d worn the same expressions for years and years and years. At last I arrived at the final page. I paused for a long moment. Then, as I expected, I turned over and saw a man in a broad-brimmed hat. He was peering with astonishment at a silver coin in the palm of his hand.
A Cruel Bird Came to the Nest and Looked In Page 14