The Educated Ape & other Wonders of the Worlds (35 page)

‘Security,’
said Winston Churchill. ‘We live in troubled times. Such a mighty edifice would
present the ideal target for anarchists.’

‘One
cares not for anarchists,’ said Her Majesty the Queen.

‘And,’
continued Mr Churchill, ‘there is the matter of importation. What goods will be
arriving from the other worlds? What threats to the nation might these pose?’

The
Queen gazed down her nose towards Lord Brentford.

His
lordship worried a little more at the bee, which had somehow crawled its way
into his sling.

‘The
Grand Exposition,’ he said, ‘is a mission for peace between the worlds. I would
ask the noble representatives from Venus and Jupiter who sit amongst us to
speak of what they would care to display.’

Leah’s
golden eyes gazed at Lord Brentford. ‘What has the Ambassador of Jupiter to say
on these matters?’ she asked.

‘I?’
said the ambassador. ‘Thou askest me, lass? Well, I’ll tell thee.’

And
with that the ambassador started to sing:

We have cakes and pies and sausages and pastries and
preserves.

Pots of honey, marmalade and jam.

Bread and buns and big baguettes.

Toffee shaped like cigarettes.

Cuts of pork and beef and leg of lamb.

Our pies are the size of the Sun in the skies.

Our pork is the talk of the town.

Our butter, I’ll utter, will make thy heart flutter

And our cheese will please as thou swallow it down.

We have brisket, we have biscuit, we have chocolate
gateau,

And thou’ll not want for sweeties, I can say.

We have bubble gum to please thy tum

And we can offer everyone

The finest foods this universe could put upon
display.

Queen
Victoria clapped her hands; she always had a soft spot for the Jovians.

‘I
know a rather saucy song about a lady lighthouse keeper,’ said Sir Peter
Harrow.

‘Not
now, Sir Peter,’ said the Queen.

Darwin
arrived with the opium pipe and the chastened Sir Peter accepted it gratefully.

‘So,’
said Lord Brentford to the Jovian ambassador, ‘I envisage the area assigned to
the arts, crafts, produce and commerce of Jupiter to be one resembling a
greatly magnified version of Harrods’ food hall.’

‘Only
tastier,’ said the ambassador.

Darwin
offered a tray of marshmallows to Queen Victoria’s monkey.

‘And
might we hear now from the Venusian representatives?’ asked his lordship.

‘We
will be contributing nothing,’ said Leah.

‘Nothing?’
said
Queen Victoria. ‘What is one to understand by this?’

‘The
ecclesiastical elders have discussed this matter at length,’ said Leah, her
voice as some Arcadian ghost murmuring amongst the towering plants. ‘It has
been agreed that we will put upon display one of our greatest treasures: a
sphere containing nothingness — which is to say, the purest thing in the entire
universe.’

‘One
wishes for enlightenment,’ said the Empress of India and Mars.

The
golden gaze of Leah touched the monarch. ‘Between our world and yours,’ she
whispered, ‘exists the realm of space. But space is not an empty place, for it
is popularly understood that space is filled with the aether, an electric though
impalpable
something
which conducts the heat of the Sun and the light
from the stars. If space was an empty vacuum, devoid of all molecules,
molecules even of space itself, then light and heat could not be conducted
through it.’

Sir
Peter might have taken issue with this, but he had the opium pipe upon the go
and his eye had fallen upon the upstairs maid, both spare and kempt, who was
drifting about in an enigmatic fashion.

‘And
your sphere,’ said Lord Brentford to Leah, ‘contains absolutely nothing — pure
unadulterated nothingness?’

Leah’s
gaze rested upon him and her wide mouth formed a smile.

‘What
does it look like, this nothingness?’ asked Her Majesty the Queen.

‘Quite
unlike anything you could imagine,’ said Leah. ‘To gaze upon it is to gaze into
celestial purity. Those who gaze upon it will be touched for ever.

‘Then
they can come t’ our bit later for lunch,’ said the Jovian ambassador.

‘Ooooh,’
went Lord Brentford of a sudden.

‘Ooooh?’
queried Her Majesty. ‘What is the meaning of “ooooh”?’

‘A
bumblebee’s gone up my sleeve,’ said his lordship.

‘Winston,’
said Her Majesty, ‘go and swat the bee that’s bothering Brentford.’

Winston
Churchill rose and drew his sword.

‘No
need for swordplay,’ said Lord Brentford.

‘Say
I’m the only bee in your bonnet,’ sang Sir Peter Harrow.

Queen
Victoria looked on with interest as Winston Churchill began to buffet Lord
Brentford with the pommel of his sword.

‘I’ve
never been to the Isle of Wight,’ said Caruthers to Geraldo in the kiwi tongue,
‘but I’ve heard it’s a very nice place.’

Darwin
popped a marshmallow into Emily’s mouth. Emily munched and fluttered her lashes
at Darwin.

Sir
Peter blew kisses to the upstairs maid, but she remained aloof from his
advances.

Presently
Queen Victoria said, ‘One tires of all this hitting, Winston. Surely the bee
must be done for by now.

Winston
Churchill cracked Lord Brentford over the head. ‘One can never be too sure,
ma’am,’ was his answer to that.

‘Stop
it now, Winston,’ said the Queen. ‘There are matters of state to discuss.’

‘I
hate to pour cold water on this,’ said Mr Churchill, clouting Lord Brentford
one more time before sheathing his sword and returning to his seat, ‘but
frankly, ma’am, this entire enterprise is simply ludicrous.’

‘How
so?’ asked Her Majesty the Queen.

‘Ma’am,
the Jovians seek only to open a restaurant and the Venusians have
absolutely
nothing whatsoever
to contribute. Added to which no location can be found
to accommodate this monstrous anarchist’s delight of a construction.’

Queen
Victoria stroked her monkey’s head. ‘These are good points,’ she said to Lord
Brentford. ‘How do you answer them?’

Lord
Brentford, however, was still preoccupied with the bee, which had outmanoeuvred
Mr Churchill’s assault and taken refuge in his lordship’s trousers.

‘Well?’
went the monarch. ‘Well?’

‘Ma’am,’
said Lord Brentford, feeling at himself beneath the table, ‘Mr Churchill seeks
to obfuscate the issue. Jupiter offers us the finest viands in the solar
system, everything that can delight the palate. Venus offers us spiritual
sustenance, affording us a view into the infinite. Should these two not be
sufficient for all to marvel at, the British Empire will contribute the cream
of its arts and industries. There will be a great concert hall and within it,
to celebrate the dawn of the new century, the London Symphony Orchestra, with
full chorus, will perform Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony — surely one of Mankind’s
highest attainments. All these wonders of the worlds gathered together in the
heart of the Empire could not offer a nobler tribute to England’s most beloved
monarch. Namely yourself.’

Winston
Churchill made a sullen face.

Queen
Victoria said, ‘We are convinced.’

‘Ha,’
said Winston Churchill. ‘There is still no place in London to accommodate this
errant aberration.’

‘We
will raise it next to the Mall,’ said Queen Victoria. ‘The parklands there
belong to the Royal Household. Lord Brentford has one’s permission to construct
his hall for the Great Exposition there.’

‘No,’
cried Winston Churchill, rising once more to his feet. ‘Such a thing is
dangerous folly, ma am.

‘Do
you argue with your monarch, Mr Churchill?’ Queen Victoria made the face of
sternness.

‘No,
ma’am, please, but—’

‘
Waark!’
went Lord Brentford as the bumblebee stung him hard in a personal place.

‘Allow
me,’
said Mr Churchill, once more drawing his sword.

Darwin,
whose eyes were only for Emily, heard Lord Brentford’s, ‘
Waark!’
but
felt that it was probably none of his business.

His
lordship’s cries of, ‘Stop hitting me, you blackguard!’ drew the ape’s attention.

As
Winston Churchill raised his sword to clock Lord Brentford one in the eye,
Darwin flung the tray of marshmallows aside and leapt along the table’s length
to aid his helpless master.

Sir
Peter Harrow’s hand snaked out towards the upstairs maid both spare and kempt.
This unasked-for intimacy was rewarded with a blow to the head that sent Sir
Peter sprawling.

He
sprawled across the bountiful lap of the Jovian ambassador’s wife, a woman who
had been asked to contribute precisely nothing to the foregoing conversation
and as such was happy to strike out at anything that came her way, in the
spirit of pure frustration.

She
raised Sir Peter from her lap, hauled him upright, then flung him onto the
table.

Queen
Victoria stared aghast as Darwin set about Mr Winston Churchill, who in turn
set about Lord Brentford, who in turn was setting about himself and punching
repeatedly at his groin. Sir Peter rolled over the table and fell onto the
Venusian ecclesiastic who accompanied Leah.

As
to
be touched by those of an impure race
was considered by Venusians an act of
such gross personal violation as might only be redressed by the extinction of
the perpetrator, the Venusian ecclesiastic uttered the words of a magical spell
to draw down fire from Heaven.

Flames
rolled out from the empty sky and set ablaze the table decorations.

Geraldo,
seeking someone to punish for this, chose the Jovian ambassador.

As
‘Great Fights in Inappropriate Places’ went, it did not rival the now-legendary
‘Battle of the British Showman’s Fellowship’ of the previous year. But as Queen
Victoria later wrote in her diary:

Luncheon
today at Lord Brentford’s.

Treacle
Sponge Bastard for pudding.

Splendid
punch-up afterwards.

Tea
at Claridge’s later.

34

ameron
Bell gazed down at the River Thames. The bloody hues of the previous day were
gone and the majestic watercourse flowed pure and crystal clear once more.
Salmon sported and ducks went dabble-dabble.

The
detective stood upon London Bridge, an early-morning news-sheet spread before
him on the parapet. Cameron Bell glanced at the headline, printed big and bold.

LORD BRENTFORD RETURNED TO
HOSPITAL

UNHAPPY LORD ADMITTED WITH

BROKEN NOSE AND BEE-STING

Cameron
Bell turned pages in search of some reference to the blooding of the River
Thames. On page four he located a small piece penned by the paper’s Thames
Correspondent, who through diligence and determination had tracked down the
cause of the horror:

A
chance combination of soil from the Indus Valley,

dust
from Mars brought in on solar winds,

the
crimson clay of Kentish Town and

the
dirty dogs of Dagenham.

So
that was that and the capital of the Empire had nothing whatever to fear.

Cameron
Bell flipped pages back and forth. He had been hoping to see some crime
reported, some major crime that would baffle Scotland Yard. Not that he wished
to solve it himself, oh no. Rather it was his hope that such a crime would lure
the Nation’s Most Wanted, Lady Raygun, out to destroy the criminal.