The Educated Ape & other Wonders of the Worlds (10 page)

Darwin
replaced the pineapple onto the table, much to the relief of Cameron Bell. ‘The
chickens consider it to be a lot more recent than that,’ he said. ‘They believe
the world began on the twenty-fourth of May in the year eighteen nineteen.’

‘That
date sounds familiar,’ said Cameron Bell.

‘And
so it should — it is the day on which Queen Victoria was born.’

Cameron
Bell refilled his champagne glass. ‘Priceless,’ said he. ‘And a fine tale, too,
Darwin. Well done with that.’

‘I am
not making it up,’ said Darwin. ‘The chickens take it very seriously. They
believe that there was
nothing
before the birth of Queen Victoria, that
this age sprang into being with her royal birth and that
nothing
existed
before it. And although I hate to say this, as a theory it is hard to argue
against.’

‘But
it is clearly ludicrous,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘You yourself live in Syon House,
designed by Robert Adam and built in the year seventeen sixty-two. There stands
your house as proof against that theory.’

‘On
the contrary. You believe in the omnipotence of God, do you not? That God, by
nature of being God, must be all-powerful, all-knowing, ever present and beyond
all but the tiniest bit of human understanding?’

Cameron
Bell looked hard at his partner and companion. ‘It is very clear to me,’ said
he, ‘that you have given these matters considerable thought.’

‘I
read the scriptures daily,’ said Darwin.

‘You
do?’

‘I
would know what I can of the truth. I would seek to know whether I have a soul
of my own.’

‘Oh,
Darwin,’ said Mr Bell. ‘I don’t know quite what to say.

‘Then
listen. I know that you believe in God. I know that you have experienced things
that leave no doubt at all in your mind that God exists.’

‘In
truth, I have,’ said Mr Bell. ‘And although a rationalist, I have no personal
doubts regarding the existence of God.’ Mr Bell raised his glass and drank
deeply of it. ‘This is the sort of conversation I generally have at my club
after umpteen ports and lavish helpings of brandy,’ he said.

‘The
theory is this,’ said the monkey, ‘that everything prior to the birth of Queen
Victoria, every ancient artefact, every piece of music, of art, of
architecture, was brought into being simultaneously at the moment the God-Queen
was born.’

‘The
God-Queen?’
asked Cameron Bell.

‘Queen
Victoria is the manifestation of the Great Mother Hen on Earth. I might, as a
slightly humorous aside, draw your attention to the fact that Prince Albert did
look very much like a chicken.’

Cameron
Bell gave thought to this. ‘In fact he did,’ he said.

‘So,‘
said Darwin, an omnipotent God, who can do anything, creates a world and with
it a history that stretches back and back.’

‘But
why?’ asked Cameron Bell.

‘To
test the faith of his — or rather
her
subjects. If your grandfather
could remember the Creation and told you all about it when you were young,
there would be no need for faith, would there?’

Cameron
Bell scratched once more at his head. ‘I do believe,’ he said, ‘that I am
getting out of my depth in this conversation. As a theory, I agree it is hard
to logically refute. If God, or Goddess,
did
create the world a mere
eighty years ago, complete with all previous artefacts, records, et cetera, et
cetera, there would be no way of proving otherwise.’

‘And
that is why I hate chickens,’ said Darwin. ‘Their theory is as good as any
other.’

‘But
it could not be true,’ said Cameron Bell, and he scratched once more at his
head.

‘But
it
could,’
said Darwin. ‘That is the problem. It
could.
Which
would mean, of course, that everything chronicled in the Bible, in both Old and
New Testaments, never happened. That it is all allegorical, penned by God or
Goddess, set down to test our faith. It makes you think, does it not?’

‘It
does,’ said Mr Bell. ‘And it is odd that we should have this conversation at a
time like this.’

‘Why
so?’ Darwin considered a pumpkin. Cameron Bell shook his head.

‘Because
the stolen item that I hope to lay my hands upon tonight is a reliquary said to
contain some ancient piece of a saint. It is said to be one thousand years old.
A priceless artefact. One wonders what value might be placed upon it if it was
proved to be no more than eighty years old and the remnant of a holy man who
never actually existed.’

‘Best
not to think too much about it,’ said Darwin. ‘The more I think about it, the
more confused I become. Give me a piece of your chicken. Upon this occasion I
will break from my strictly vegetarian diet. Damned chickens!’

Cameron
Bell smiled and passed over the fork-load of fowl. ‘I
will
present the
theory in its entirety to Mr Darwin the next time I see him. He can at times be
a rather smug fellow and it will be a pleasure to see him squirm.’

‘The
world has no shortage of smug fellows,’ said Darwin, tasting chicken then
spitting it out in disgust. ‘It always tickles me to read the latest theories
of how the universe began. They are so often penned by pompous persons who
sincerely believe that they can fathom the mysteries of the infinite and gather
together its eternal wonder in the form of equations set down on a piece of
paper.’

‘You
are wise beyond your years, my friend.’ And Cameron Bell filled his glass once
more and toasted the monkey with it.

‘Of
course,’ said Darwin, ‘there would be one way to sort it all out and know the
truth.’

‘Would
there?’ asked Mr Bell.

‘Go
and find out for oneself’

‘And
how might this miracle be achieved?’

‘I
have read lately,’ said Darwin, ‘a novelisation by Mr H. G. Wells. It is called
The Time Machine.
If one of these were to be built, perhaps I could
travel back to the dawn of Creation and see what really happened.’

Mr
Cameron Bell laughed gaily. ‘What a wonderful thought,’ said he. ‘But I must
veer towards the pragmatic now. Whether or not the chickens’ theory is valid
there is no way whatever of proving. But as to whether
you
will ever board
a time machine and travel back to the dawn of Creation? Of this I am absolutely
sure. You will
not.’

‘Absolutely
sure?’ asked the well-read monkey.
‘Absolutely
sure,’ said Cameron Bell.

10

ome
to order if you will, please, gentlemen.’ The liveried servant’s voice rang out
above the hubbub of men and monkeys alike. ‘Be upstanding and make your
appreciation felt for the chairman of the British Showmen’s Fellowship, Mr Anthony
Lemon-Partee.’

Amidst
a great scuffling of chairs, men and monkeys rose to their feet and put their
hands together as a gentleman of considerable girth, sporting a red velvet
smoking jacket with matching cap and slippers, made several vain attempts to
hoist himself onto the tiny stage that had been erected for the awards
ceremony.

Several
strapping grinders of the barrel organ rose from their stage—side seats and
assisted the all—but—spherical chairman onto the hopelessly inadequate erection.
Its floorboards groaned ominously, but Mr Lemon-Partee affected the bravest of
faces.

It
was a face that was not without interest, given its uncanny resemblance to a
potato. And as cheering folk reseated themselves, certain thoughts now entered
the mind of Mr Cameron Bell. Thoughts concerning his most recent conversation
with Darwin. For if Prince Albert’s resemblance to a chicken could be
presented as evidence, no matter how improbable, that Mankind’s genesis lay
with feathered fowl, here was a man whose physiognomy surely put up a
convincing argument that the origins of Man were to be found in the vegetable
kingdom.

Mr
Cameron Bell shook his own head, the one that bore an uncanny resemblance to
that of Mr Pickwick, and sought further champagne. None, however, was
forthcoming as Mr Bell had emptied the bottle.

‘Gentlemen,’
intoned Mr Anthony Lemon-Partee. ‘My thanks for your kind applause. It is
always a pleasure to receive a warm hand upon my opening.’

This
remark received riotous mirth. Darwin the monkey looked baffled.

‘If
you are a member of a society and hoping for an award,’ Mr Cameron Bell
whispered to the ape, ‘the chairman’s jokes are always
very
funny.’

‘I am
still no wiser,’ said Darwin.

The
chairman continued, ‘Another year has passed, another year when men of this
world and of others have been brought to the very heights of pleasure by the
sounds of that most tuneful of all instruments, the barrel organ.

‘It
is not strictly an instrument, as such,’ whispered Darwin.

Cameron
Bell put his finger to his lips and shushed the ape to silence.

‘Standards
have once more risen.’ Mr Lemon-Partee raised a hand, which in Darwin’s opinion
resembled a bunch of bananas. ‘Upward, ever upward. Gentlemen, take pride in
your achievements, for great achievements they are.

And
so the chairman’s speech continued, extolling the many virtues of the
organ-grinding fraternity. Heaping praise upon those innovators who were
perfecting new techniques in the art of hand-cranking. Offering up a panegyric
to the courage of grinders who were even prepared to ply their trade in the
rain, that the passers-by, though wet, should not be deprived of music.
Eulogising— Darwin rolled his eyes and ground his teeth. In his considered
opinion, it was the organ-grinder’s monkey who did all the
real
work. It
was the monkey’s dancing skills, the monkey’s charisma that lured coinage into
the old tin cup. But were the monkeys getting a mention? No, the monkeys were
not.

The
chairman was clearly exhibiting an outrageous bias towards the organ-grinder
and Darwin felt a growing urge to protest on behalf of his species. Though not
through shouted words, as he had no wish to publicly display his gift of human
speech, but rather through a protest made nonverbally. One that would involve
the hurling of faeces.

Darwin
set to the dropping of his trousers.

Mr
Cameron Bell restrained him. ‘Please be patient,’ he said.

‘And
so it gives me enormous pleasure — but then it always did—’ The chairman
screwed up his little spuddy eyes and grinned. The grinders laughed and Darwin
made a most unpleasant face. ‘For me to present this year’s awards — the
Eighteen Ninety-Eight Golden Grinders. Each an award of the highest merit. Each
award an object of the dearest desire. Would you please bring forth the awards?’

The
liveried servant appeared in the company of a four-wheeled dessert trolley.
This he propelled with the exaggerated reverence of one pushing the monarch in
a bath-chair. Aboard this trolley stood five awards, all identical, all gilded,
all imaginatively crafted to resemble an organ-grinder standing proudly beside
his ‘instrument’ with a monkey topping said organ, a fez upon its little head,
an old tin cup (though gilded) in his hand.

Darwin
viewed the awards as they passed by his table. At least there
were
monkeys,
thought he.

The
liveried servant steered the trolley to the over— crowded
[6]
stage and then took his place beside it,
nose most high in the air.

‘I
hold in my hand an envelope,’ the chairman continued, ‘given to me this very
evening. Its contents are unknown to myself, although the categories contained
within are, of course, known to us all. Most Strident Rendition of a Popular
Music Hall Tune. Best-Kept Organ. Liveliest Monkey.’ Darwin’s spirits rose
somewhat at this. ‘That award, of course, to be accepted by the pet’s owner.’
Darwin’s teeth were grinding once again. ‘Best-Dressed Grinder. And of course
the most prestigious award — the much-coveted Organ-Grinder of the Year.’

The
potato-head nodded, the diners cheered, then the chairman had more words to
say. ‘Winners are chosen through a democratic process governed by Fellows of
the Showmen’s Fellowship. Their decisions are final and not subject to
alteration.’ He waggled a big fat finger in a jovial fashion. ‘So there. But
you gentlemen are all aware of the rules, so now I will open the envelope.’