The Educated Ape & other Wonders of the Worlds (4 page)

The
monkey pilot gazed up at the portly chef The monkey pilot was old, his hair
grey, the skin of his face and his hands lined with age. He opened his mouth
and raised a withered palm.

‘You
are thirsty,’ said the chef ‘Jack, fetch water, if you will.’

‘I’m
not your servant,’ said the bootboy.

‘Then
let me put it another way. Fetch water now or I will box you brutally about the
ears.’

‘Your
word is my command, guv’nor,’ said the willing lad. ‘Though if you’ll take my
advice when it’s offered, you’d best ‘ave it out of ‘ere afore the ‘ole thing
goes up in a ruddy big bang.’

‘Water!’
ordered the portly chef.

The
bootboy left at the trot.

‘I
think there is truth in his words, though,’ said the chef to the monkey pilot.
‘We’d best get you out of here. Have no fear, for I will carry you.

The
aged monkey shook his aged head and coughed a little, and then, ‘I cannot leave
the ship,’ he said.

The
chef jumped back a pace in amazement.

‘There
is something you must have,’ croaked the monkey.

‘You
speak.’ The chefs befuddled head was fiercely shaking now.

‘No
time to explain. You must take the letter.’

‘The
letter?’ The chef stilled his shaking head and gaped at the monkey pilot.

‘It
will explain everything. You must not open it. Just take it to the address
written upon it.’

‘Where
is this letter?’ asked the chef.

‘Here.’
And the monkey pilot gestured to his heart. The chef leaned down, unzipped the
silver suit and drew out an envelope. He glanced at the name upon it. That name
was Ernest Rutherford. The monkey butler peered towards the pilot.

The
pilot glimpsed the butler. And the pilot smiled. ‘So young,’ he whispered. ‘Ah,
so long ago. ‘What was that?’ asked the chef But now a noisy kerfuffle was to
be heard.

‘Out
of my way, you foolish boy,’ called the voice of Lord Brentford.

‘Hide
the envelope,’ whispered the pilot. But the portly chef was already doing so.
‘Now go, my friend, just go.’

‘Your
friend?’

Lord
Brentford burst into the cockpit. He clutched his double-action twelve-bore
fowling piece and this he waved about in a furious fashion.

‘What
the devil?’ cried his lordship. ‘I gave you no permission to—’

‘The
pilot is injured,’ said the chef ‘He needs medical assistance.’

‘Medical
assistance?’
His lordship was fuming once more. ‘Crashes a damned
spaceship into me ancient pile. Ruins me party—’

‘He
needs our help,’ said the chef.

‘Get
out!’ roared his lordship. ‘I shall deal with this.’

‘Treat
him gently—’

‘Will
you get
out!
Do something useful — fetch me a brandy. Out now, you, and
take me butler, too.’

The
chef took the monkey butler by a hairy hand. The monkey butler gazed towards
the simian space pilot and his other hand reached out to touch the ancient ape.

‘Best
not,’ said the chef And, ‘You will be all right,’ he told the pilot. ‘Farewell
for now.

‘Farewell
for now?’ roared and fumed Lord Brentford.
‘Out!’

The
chef led the monkey butler from the spaceship. The party folk were creeping
back, peeping from behind trees, whispering to one another.

The
monkey butler tugged at the hand of the chef ‘What is it?’ the chef asked. ‘You
want to go back?’ A look of alarm was on the face of the monkey. And before the
chef could say another word there came a terrible sound from within the
spaceship.

The
sound of his lordship’s fowling piece.

Both
barrels fired and then silence.

4

rnest
Rutherford, First Baron Rutherford of Nelson, was a man of his Age. He was also
a man who was truly ahead of his time. The Victorian period cast before the
world a plethora of notable geniuses: Charles Babbage, Albert Einstein, Nikola
Tesla and Mr Rutherford. Men who helped to shape their own Age and future Ages,
too.

Mr
Rutherford was a chemist, New Zealand born, who had come to settle in London.
Early on in his career he had discovered the concept of the radioactive
half-life. He differentiated and named both alpha and beta radiation and it
was for work within this field that he would later go on to win a Nobel Prize.

The
year of eighteen ninety-nine found him inhabiting a large Georgian house in
South Kensington, within which he conducted a number of ground-breaking
experiments, most of which involved a lot of electricity and a great deal of
noise. He was not a man popular with his neighbours.

Upon
a summer’s morning of that year, with a nearby church clock chiming the hour of
ten, there came a knocking upon Mr Rutherford’s front door. On his doorstep
stood two figures. One was a bald and bearded chef, the other a monkey butler.
Mr Rutherford’s front door swung open and something-or-other peeped out.

‘Good
morning,’ said the chef in a cheerful fashion. ‘We wish to speak with your
master.’

‘Go
away, you beastly things.’ The something put his shoulder to the door.

‘I
believe it to be most important.’ The chef put his foot in the door, as might a
travelling salesman.

‘Remove
your foot,’ cried the something, ‘or I will fetch a carving knife and slice it
off at the ankle.’

‘Enough
of that, Jones.’ A sound was heard as of hand striking a head and then the door
swung wide. ‘My apologies,’ said a tall, distinguished personage with a
luxuriant moustache and piercing grey eyes. He wore a white work apron over a
well-cut morning suit and a pair of rubber gauntlets, the right one of which he
was struggling to remove. ‘May I help you, sir?’ he asked. ‘I regret that if
you are of the religious persuasion and here to solicit funds, I must
disappoint you. My earnings are insufficient to permit largesse, but I offer
you my warmest wishes. Which in their way, I feel you will agree, are quite
beyond price.’

He
paused to let his words sink in.

The
portly chef just shook his head and the monkey butler gawped.

‘Sir,‘
said the chef, producing the envelope. ‘I was given this to hand to you. I was
instructed not to open it. I believe, although I cannot be certain as to the
source of my belief, that it contains something
most
important.’

Mr
Rutherford, for it was indeed he, gazed at the man who stood upon his doorstep.
‘I know you, sir,’ said he. ‘We have met before. I never forget a face, but—’

The
chef shook his head once more.

‘The
beard is strange to me,’ said Mr Rutherford, and with that said he took the
envelope. The man and the monkey watched him as he tore it open, removed its
contents and gave these contents perusal.

Then
Mr Rutherford gasped and said, ‘Surely this cannot be!’ He then stared hard at
his visitors. ‘What is your name, sir?’ he asked.

‘My
name?’ said the chef, and he thought about this. ‘My name is Chef,’ he said.

‘Chef?
Just Chef? Are you sure?’

‘I am
confused,’ said the chef, and he was. ‘My name is “Chef’,’ he said once more.

‘Come
in quickly, now,’ said Mr Rutherford. ‘We must speak of this in private. No one
else must know of the matters we are about to discuss.’

The
chemist ushered his visitors within and closed the door behind them. ‘Jones,’
he called, ‘come here.’

They
were standing in an elegant hallway, its walls made pleasant with framed
watercolours depicting the landscapes that their owner had known in his
childhood. A stuffed kiwi bird stared sightlessly from a showcase and a similarly
stuffed Maori warrior served as a decorative hatstand. The chef raised his eyes
to the Maori.

Mr
Rutherford sighed. ‘Rather tasteless, I agree,’ he said, ‘but a present from my
mother to remind me of home. Jones — where are you, Jones?’ he called.

The
something-or-other poked its head through a banister of a broad staircase that
swept up from the hall to numerous bedrooms above. ‘I’m in charge here now,’ it
said.

‘Yes,’
said Mr Rutherford with a smile, ‘of course you are. But please, employ the innate
dignity and humility of the superior being you are and indulge this gross
creature by bringing himself and his guests a pot of tea and some biscuits.’

The
something named Jones made a face of perplexity, then sloped off to the
kitchen.

‘What
exactly
is
that?’ asked the chef ‘I do not believe I have ever seen
anything quite like it before.’

‘Except
perhaps within the pages of fairy-tale books, ‘replied Mr Rutherford. ‘It is
indeed a troll.’

‘A
troll?’ asked the chef ‘As in a goblin or a bugaboo?’

‘They
are all very much of a muchness, although they would have you believe
otherwise. Each specimen has an inflated opinion of its own importance. One has
to step warily when dealing with trolls.’

‘So
how did you come by it?’ asked the chef ‘Another gift from your mother?’

Mr
Rutherford laughed. ‘Not a bit of it,’ he said. ‘Jones, how shall I put this,
“came through” during the course of an experiment.’

‘I
have no idea as to what you might mean by
that,’
said the chef.

‘And
nor should you. But all will shortly be revealed, and not, I fear, in a manner
entirely to your liking.’

The
chef looked queerly at the chemist. ‘Strange as it may sound,’ he said, ‘I do
have the odd feeling that our paths have crossed before.’

‘Oh,
indeed they have,’ said Mr Rutherford. ‘And. you, young sir,’ he said to the
ape, ‘do you recall our meetings?’

The
ape looked blankly at the man.

‘He
cannot speak,’ said the chef ‘Although—’

‘Although
you recently encountered one who could? Which means that the experiment was a
success. Where is the pilot now?’

‘The
pilot?’ said the chef ‘Why, he is …’ And he lowered his eyes. ‘A terrible
business,’ he whispered.

‘Oh,
I am so very sorry. But come along now, do. The two of you must be
“de-programmed”, as it were. Then you will understand everything. Well, not
everything, but a great deal more than you do right now, which is better than
knowing only a small part, or no part at all, is it not? Yes, indeed it is.’

Mr
Rutherford led the man and the monkey to a large metal-bound door adorned with
many padlocks and with the words DANGER KEEP OUT posted upon it in letters
large and red.

‘I
have misinformed Jones that a dragon dwells within, ‘said Mr Rutherford, ‘and
although he can get quite worked up thinking about dragons, he happily lacks
the courage actually to confront one.’

The
portly chef just shook his head, for he was most confused.

Mr
Rutherford produced a ring of keys, selected one and turned it in the keyhole
of the door. ‘Done,’ he said, swinging open the door. ‘The padlocks are just
for show. Inside, please, if you will.’

The
chef and the monkey entered, then Mr Rutherford entered, too, locking the door
behind him when he had done so.

The
chef threw up his hands and said, ‘How will your troll present us with the
tea?’

‘He
won’t,’ said. Mr Rutherford. ‘He will do what he always does — go to the
kitchen, think about things, then decide that he is being hard done by and that
the making of tea is beneath his dignity. Then he will sit and have a good
sulk. He will do that for an hour.’

‘So
we won’t get our tea?’ asked the chef.

‘Nor
will we be bothered by
him,’
said the chemist. ‘But tea, I think, is
hardly the thing. We must toast the success of the project with champagne.’

They
stood now in a cosy sitting room upon a delicately patterned Persian carpet
woven from wood fibre laid over a floor of varnished beech. The walls were
panelled with pitch pine and the furniture was of mahogany. A fireplace was
fashioned from gopher wood and fragrant logs burned in the fireplace.