Darwin proudly fulfilled his role as best monkey-man, even making a speech at the reception, which greatly amused Queen Victoria.
Lord and Lady Brentford were flown to Jupiter at Her Majesty’s expense to enjoy a week’s honeymoon at the gambling city.
And one month later, in the company of others, they gathered at the Victoria Palace Theatre. They did not come to enjoy the pleasures of the music hall, but to say their fond farewells.
To Darwin and Cameron Bell.
Mr Bell looked very chipper and was particularly well dressed. He had recently received great accolades and even greater financial remuneration for restoring the stolen reliquaries to their rightful owners. Princess Pamela’s he had hurled into the sea, that the four could never be reunited.
He had declined, however, the entreaties from the newly knighted Chief Inspector Case to aid him in solving the Crime of the New Century. The one involving the three million pounds’ worth of gold looted mysteriously from the Bank of England and replaced with a pile of old junk.
He said his farewells to Chief Inspector Case and shook the policeman by the hand. He knew that their paths would never cross again.
Ernest Rutherford’s time-ship, the Marie Lloyd, stood in the auditorium of the theatre, its entrance port open, gubbinry glowing within.
It was late in the evening now and the Large Hadron Collider that passed for the Circle Line was in full operation doing what it did and slowing time.
Mr Rutherford stood before the time-ship with the heavily veiled Miss Violet Wond.
Darwin was dressed in the uniform of Space Admiral of the Fleet.
Ernest Rutherford approached the ape of time. He handed Darwin the operating manual and the letter addressed to Mr Rutherford that Darwin would deliver to the chemist nine months into the past. ‘You know what has to be done,’ he said to Darwin.
‘I do,’ said Darwin, sadly. ‘I must travel back in time and deliver this letter to Mr Bell at Lord Brentford’s soirée. And on that night, Lord Brentford will shoot me dead.’
‘Very sorry about that,’ said his lordship. ‘Bit of a misunderstanding. Thought you were an anarchist, or a Martian suicide pilot.’
Darwin shook his lordship’s hand. ‘It was not your fault,’ said he.
Lord Brentford wiped away a manly tear. ‘A few things I wanted to say to you, my boy,’ said he. ‘I have thanked you many times for what you achieved regarding the Grand Exposition. Without you it could not have gone ahead.’
‘I simply did what I could do,’ said Darwin. ‘It felt like the right thing, and if it is the right thing, I think you should do it if you can. I have wondered hard about Man and Monkey, about justice, about the rich and poor, but I have drawn no conclusions. I really do not know what it is all about. Or what, indeed, any of it means.
‘Let me tell you something,’ said Lord Brentford. ‘Something that my father told to me. Everyone wonders at times, you see, about what it all means. Whether there is a meaning to life. My father thought he had an answer, and it was this. If, when finally you leave this world behind, you can do so knowing that you did your best to make it just a little better than it was when you entered it, then your life has had a meaning.’
‘And that is the meaning of life?’ said Darwin.
‘I think so,’ said Lord Brentford. ‘Not all of us can be big famous people with the potential to do great good. But even the most humble amongst us can help make the world a little bit better, rather than a little bit worse.
‘I shall remember that,’ said Darwin. ‘Although for something of a brief period, I believe. But I will bear it in mind when my end comes. I hope I have made this world a slightly better place by being here.’
‘You have, my boy, you have.’ Lord Brentford now gave Darwin a very manly hug.
‘And you have to come with me, Mr Bell,’ said Darwin, ‘at least for part of the journey. I know you got to meet your future self upon Mars.’
‘I did indeed,’ said Cameron Bell, ‘and the encounter set me to thinking. Recall, if you will, that the you that crashed the time-ship into the Bananary was a very old you.’
‘A very old me,’ said Darwin.
‘Well,’ said Mr Bell, ‘the me I met upon Mars was rather old, too. Looked very much the same, of course — portly men with baldy heads appear to age rather well.’
‘So how old were you?’ asked Darwin.
‘Eighty-seven,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘You see, my little partner, it would appear that you and I will go on to have many adventures aboard the Marie Lloyd and live to be very old before you meet your fated end. There are many wonderful things and times we might visit. You missed the end of the Ninth Symphony. I think we should travel back and see Beethoven himself conduct it. What do you say to this?’
‘Ah,’ said Darwin. ‘How absolutely splendid.’
‘Just one thing,’ said Mr Rutherford. ‘Before the two of you depart. If you will pardon us.
He led Violet Wond into the time-ship and the entrance port closed upon them.
There came from within a whirling and grinding of engines. The time-ship flickered — then vanished — then all of an instant returned.
The port swung down and Mr Rutherford stepped from the time-ship. He now wore a very dashing silver suit with flaring shoulders and trouser bottoms and a pair of shoes with platform soles.
Upon his arm was a lady in a sparkling silver gown that hugged her slender body. A lady with a beautiful radiant face. She had grey-green eyes and the sweetest nose that might be imagined and her smile fairly lit up the great auditorium.
‘I can recommend the future,’ said Mr Rutherford.
Miss Violet Wond leaned forward and kissed Darwin on the cheek.
And as it should be, at the end of a great performance, there was not a dry eye in the house.
Cameron Bell, the great detective, and Darwin the educated ape bade their farewells and walked into the time—ship hand in hand.
The port swung shut.
The engines whirled
And then the
ship was
GONE
EPILOGUE
Lop Lop, God of all the Birds,
looked down from the Heavens
and spoke with the Great Mother Hen
‘I just do not know what to make of
Mankind,’ said Lop Lop. ‘Sometimes I
find it hard to believe that they are
descended from us.’
The Great Mother Hen snuggled down
upon her vast galactic nest.
‘I rather liked the monkey, though,’
said she.
AUTHOR’S AFTERWORD
During the opening years of the Second World War, my father, serving as a fireman, was stationed in Lily Road, Fulham. As someone who had always loved the circus, this gave him many opportunities to visit the one permanently showing at Olympia.
There were many sideshows there and my father became friendly with several folk who displayed themselves before the public. He recalled a giant who could pass a copper penny through the ring he wore on his little finger and an albino from the Congo with white hair twenty-four inches in length. One sideshow particularly fascinated him. It was only there for a week, but he went to see it several times. It featured a talking monkey that could answer questions put to it by the crowd. My father said his first thoughts were that this was some kind of ventriloquist act. But after several viewings he became utterly convinced that the monkey could actually reason and speak. He could not recall the showman’s name, only that he bore an uncanny resemblance to Mr Pickwick. He remembered the monkey’s name, however, as it made him smile to think of it. The monkey’s name was Darwin and I’m very glad he made my father smile.
THE END
* * *
[1] For a gentleman would not conceive of journeying any distance at all without a copy of The Times to engage his intellect while travelling.
[2] The five-tier whatnot having lately superseded the four
-tier version for reasons which, if not immediately obvious, probably had no bearing on anything at all.
[3] Not to be confused with the other Lemon Pledge.
[4] More difficult than it might at first appear.
[5] Ah, that’s what those short curved swords are called.
[6] Overcrowded, that is, by Mr Lemon-Partee.
[7] Not to be confused with the other ‘Sympathy for the Devil’.
[8] The reason for this has never been satisfactorily explained.
[9] For an in-depth analysis of this particular set-to, the reader is recommended to study John Rimmer’s seminal work When Authors Go Bad: Great Literary Punch-Ups of the Nineteenth Century.
[10] Chicken theory notwithstanding. too.
[11] Not to be confused with the Captain Beefheart classic of a century yet to come.
[12] Obviously not that one. As that would be a breach of copyright.
[13] This line can apparently be dated back to the Battle of Trafalgar, when Nelson told Hardy not to mention the tongues.
[14] A three-trunked Martian mammoth.
[15] Not that Carlos the Jackal.
[16] It is all so regrettably complicated. But isn’t that always the way when time travel is involved?
[17] Mr Pickwick’s famous valet in The Pickwick Papers.
[18] It was a genuine heartstring-tugger of a tale. A child abandoned at birth, taken into the nest by birds that had escaped from a circus sideshow. A jealous monk. A fairy princess, three wishes wasted, but a pig who would know better in the future.
[19] Apparently not a breach of copyright.
[20] A form of mace with a bulbous spike-covered headpiece, suitable for striking down ballybots.
[21] As Marie Lloyd once said to the Bishop of London
[22] The home of the Blues.
[23] As might Uriah Heep.
[24] Harnessed to the coach of Cardinal Cox, the controversial cleric.
[25] The London-based brother of Davy.
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Robert Rankin, The Educated Ape and Other Wonders of the Worlds
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