Cornelius shrugged. Something to do with the average height of tombstones, he supposed.
‘I just don’t get it,’ Mr Yarrow went on. ‘Your school work is appalling, yet you shine at interviews. You shine at interviews, yet no-one is willing to employ you. It’s a fine pickle and no mistake about it.’
Inwardly Cornelius agreed that it probably was.
Mr Yarrow tugged a long card-index box across the desk and set about it with a bespittled finger. Cornelius observed that the wooden bobbin dangling on a string from the window blind was the shape of an acorn. A relic of the belief that the oak, the sacred tree of the Thunder God, could protect you from lightning.
‘Aha!’ Mr Yarrow plucked a card from the box and waved it in the air. ‘Gotcha!’ He smiled at Cornelius.
Cornelius found the experience unsettling. ‘I have it. Just the ticket.’ His eyes narrowed upon Murphy. ‘Do you know what I have here?’
Cornelius shook his head.
‘Are you sure?’
Cornelius nodded.
Mr Yarrow chuckled. ‘Are you sure you’re sure?’
Cornelius nodded again.
Mr Yarrow chuckled again. ‘Sure you’re sure you’re sure?’
Cornelius scratched his head inciting further wavy rebellions.
‘Perfect, perfect.’ The youth employment officer took a form from a folder. Filled it in with his fountain pen. Blotted it. Folded it into an envelope. Sealed this. Printed a name and address thereupon in big black capitals. Blotted this and handed the whole to Cornelius Murphy.
‘There,’ he said. ‘Now be careful not to lose it. Go straight to the address and ask for Monsieur Messidor. And just be yourself. Do you understand? Don’t try too hard. Just be yourself.’
Cornelius looked bemused.
‘Perfect,’ crowed Mr Yarrow. ‘That’s the stuff. Off you go now. I’ll phone to say that you’re on your way.’
Cornelius rose to his feet, knocking over his chair. Normally this was met with a stony stare. But not this time. This time Mr Yarrow roared with laughter and said ‘perfect’ once again.
Cornelius paused a moment to extend his right hand. Mr Yarrow paused a moment before placing a wage packet into it. Cornelius nodded his thanks. Mr Yarrow clapped his hands together.
By the time Cornelius had reached the door, the youth employment officer was already tidying his desk, And by the time Cornelius had left the playground and taken to the street, his feet were up and the cigarettes were out.
The sun shone in at the science-room window. Outside, on the coke heap, a retired tom-cat dreamed about Clara Bow.
The ashbowl was full and the fag packet empty when the telephone finally rang. Monsieur Messidor spoke in a thick French accent.
He had never met such a boy, he enthused. A boy whose future celebrity was assured by his sparkling personality, combined with a fearsome intellect. He could not thank Mr Yarrow enough for having introduced him. It would be a guerdon, second only to receiving the Legion d’honneur, to take and train this talented boy.
Mr Yarrow breathed a great and heartfelt sigh of relief. ‘At last!’
‘But alas,’ continued the voice of Monsieur M, ‘regretfully Master Murphy is ‘too well endowed’ to be a MIME ARTISTE.’
Mr Yarrow buried his face in his hands and began to weep.
In a nearby telephone box Cornelius Murphy gently replaced the receiver. Much as he had done seven times before. Eight, if you counted the famous eleventh-hour summit. ‘The world awaits,’ said Mr Murphy the Mimic. And so it did.
2
During the summer of 1967, Hugo Rune gave a series of lectures at The Rondo Hatton Memorial Hall in Brentford, West London.
These were all recorded on film, but sadly the present whereabouts of this historic footage is unknown. Transcripts of the lectures still remain, however, and these serve as fascinating documents. Demonstrating, as they do, not only Rune’s undoubted genius, but his astonishing charisma and unfailing ability to hold an audience spellbound.
TRANSCRIPT FROM THE HUGO RUNE LECTURES.
LECTURE SEVEN. UNIVERSAL TRUTHS:
You want ‘em. I got ‘em.
Rune enters the crowded hall more than an hour late. He is carried slowly down the centre aisle upon a cushioned palanquin, borne upon the naked shoulders of four local May Queens. The acolyte Rizla walks before, swinging a lighted censer. The applause is deafening.
The palanquin is laid down before the stage. Rune is lifted carefully from it and placed upon a mound of plumped cushions.
The crowd chants, ‘Hu-go Hu-go.’
After a five-minute standing ovation, Rune, who appears to have been asleep throughout, raises a hand to still the multitude. The hall falls silent. The acolyte Rizla clears his throat to deliver the lecture. Rune snores gently.
Peoples of the world. These are the words of Hugo Rune, delivered through the mouth of my amanuensis Rizla. Upon this day I bestow my wisdom upon you. That you might become as I. So be it. Let it be said. Let me begin by explaining the universe. The universe is a very quiet, very still, light and airy kind of a place. And in order to understand it and one’s place in it, one must be as the universe. (Much nodding of heads.)
We have all endured for far too long, the blatherings of scientific greybeards regarding ‘The Expanding Universe’.
According to these learned fellows, the universe began with a violent explosion. A Big Bang.
Exactly who, or what, triggered this Titanic blast, or what exactly was going on half an hour before it went off, we are not told. (Laughter.)
But such matters do not concern friend greybeard. He has made up his mind that there was a Big Bang and that is that. And further he asserts, not only is the universe expanding, due to being flung in all directions by this genetic detonation, but that space itself is also expanding. (Wild laughter, hoots of derision.)
And do you know what I say to friend greybeard? I say, Tish and Tosh, and old wet fish! (Applause. Cries of, ‘Bravo’.)
I say this. If space is expanding, then atoms and molecules, which contain space, must therefore be expanding also. Because if they didn’t, then all solid matter would simply turn to vapour. And if everything is expanding, at the same time, then relatively speaking it must remain the same size. As there is nothing to judge the degree of its expansion against. (Applause.)
Therefore the cosmos must be considered in a state of perpetual stasis. The same as it has always been. For ever and ever. The universe is going nowhere. It is standing still!
(Thunderous applause. Cries of, ‘Nice one, Hugo,’ and, ‘Well spotted, that man.’)
And “standing still” brings me to “sitting still”, which, the more observant amongst you will probably have noticed, I am doing now.
Because: In order to be at one with the Static Cosmos, one must achieve a state of supreme stillness.
This state is known as Apathy. (Gasps.)
The word APATHY derives from the Atlantean. A-PATH-Y.
A meaning A.
PATH meaning path.
And Y being an abbreviation of WHY.
Quite literally A PATH TO THE MEANING WHY.
But it is a hard path to follow. And few are there with courage enough to try. The Apathe, i.e., ‘seeker after truth’, must maintain a strict regimen. He must discipline himself to rigorously avoid any form of activity, be this mental or physical. He must be prepared to sit, for years if needs be, until he is in tune and receives enlightenment. Others must selflessly administer to his needs. (Murmurs of disapproval from female members of the audience. Male cries of, ‘Ssssh.’)
The Apathe must guard against laziness.
Laziness is a vile and shallow thing, practised by wicked individuals who refuse to administer to the needs of the Apathe.
Come down hard on laziness. If detected in a wife or mother, the employment of a stout stick generally has the desired effect. (Cries of, ‘Shame!’ from members of The Chiswick Townswomen’s Guild. Catcalls fro
m the balcony.)
For one man to achieve the supreme state of Cosmic Consciousness, a state of absolute serenity, perfect peace and harmony, boundless knowledge and universal understanding, should this require the application of a thousand stout sticks, I would consider it a small price to pay.
(Screams of, ‘String him up!’ A woman’s shoe is thrown.)
For such a man all things would be possible. Having reached the state of at-oneness with the universe, his wisdom would be utterly profound, his word divine law, his authority unassailable. So what if it calls for the stout-sticking of some idle spouse? (Townswomen’s Guild members storm the stage. Fights break out. The acolyte Rizla is struck down by a handbag.)
TRANSCRIPT ENDS
Invisible lines form the network of our existence.
We move along them continually. Between home and school. Home and workplace. Home and social abode. And here and there and wherever. Some of us weave small tight webs. Others span the world. What it all means is anyone’s guess.
Cornelius strolled along an invisible line which linked the secondary school with The Wife’s Legs Café. It had become, of late, a quite well-trodden little line.
The Wife’s Legs Café served a moderate spread at an affordable price and had two obvious attractions to recommend it.
It had become the regular haunt of hearty working men with fearsome bottom cleavage, who shared an appreciation of small newspapers with big headlines, a moderate spread at an affordable’ price and a well-turned pair of ankles. In fact it had become such a money-spinner that the proprietor, Mr Ridout the Restaurateur, had opened a small chain of similar eateries. These included The Sister’s Legs, The Sister-in-law’s Legs and The Mother’s Legs (a meals-on-wheels service).
Sadly this expanding empire had fallen when he foolishly overstepped the boundary of good taste and opened The Girlfriend’s Legs to a waiting world.
He hadn’t come out of the divorce too well.
Cornelius found much to observe in the café. He had his own special seat by the window. The ex-wife, who had taken quite a shine to him, kept it reserved. When he returned to it from the telephone box outside, it was unoccupied.
Cornelius ordered another bacon sandwich and a cup of tea.
‘Coming right up, precious,’ crooned the wonderful woman. Cornelius observed that a beauty spot on her right thigh resembled the Isle of Lyonesse.
He wiped a peephole from the condensation on the window and viewed the world beyond. Something momentous was bound to happen soon. He just knew it.
The café door groaned open and Tuppe waddled in. He was carrying a brown paper bag.
Now Tuppe was squat. Even in the company of small people he was considered diminutive. Dwarves gazed upon Tuppe and asked, ‘Who is the short bloke?’
Tuppe turned a fair coin impersonating babies for TV commercials, but his mind was ever upon higher things. Tuppe knew himself to be the stuff of epics. He was Cornelius Murphy’s bestest friend. Spying out the unevenly crossed legs, he steered his tiny shoe towards Murphy’s table.
The ex-wife, bearing the tall boy’s second breakfast, stepped over him, scooped up a stool and tucked it in beside Cornelius. Cornelius helped his companion on to it.
‘Good day, Tuppe,’ said he.
‘Good day, Cornelius,’ the other replied. ‘Is that bacon within?’
Cornelius proffered his plate. ‘It is. Eat your fill.’
Tuppe took advantage of his friend’s largesse. ‘A cup that cheers would not go amiss,’ he remarked.
Cornelius ordered another tea. ‘I can promise no applause.’
‘Always the wag.’ Tuppe tucked into his brekky.
‘Might I enquire as to the contents of the enigmatic sack?’ Cornelius indicated the bag on the table top.
‘A hibernating fish. Held under test conditions.’
Cornelius steered the conversation towards another port of call. He had no particular love for fish.
‘The loon Yarrow made another attempt to have me employed today.’
‘A pox upon Yarrow and all his works.’ Tuppe strained a bacon rind through the gap in his front teeth. ‘You drew your salary of course?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then peace be unto you.’ Tuppe munched on. Cornelius sipped his tea. Tuppe’s arrived and he did likewise. ‘Fab legs, the ex-wife,’ he remarked. ‘All the way up.’
Cornelius raised an eyebrow.
‘Sorry pardon. But you know how it is.’
Cornelius did. The two understood each other. Completely.
After a while Tuppe asked, ‘How is the daddy?’
‘Taken to his shed.’
‘And the mother?’
‘Under doctor’s orders.’
‘And what of yourself?’
‘Sound in wind and limb. But having an itch I am unable to scratch.’
‘The stuff of epics business? I feel it also.’
‘I know that you do.’
‘I think,’ Tuppe pulled a converted shirt tail from his trouser pocket and dabbed his mouth with it, ‘that we had best finish up here and apply ourselves to adventures elsewhere.’
And so they did.
Above and beyond the secondary school and The Wife’s Legs Café loomed Star Hill. Filling a substantial amount of skyline and covering six full squares of the Ordnance Survey map.
Star Hill was common land. And so its lower acres were given over to recreational pursuits. Footballs were kicked here, picnics and sports days held. Litter spread.
The wooded middle ground was reserved for track biking, bird nesting and youthful fornication. Here the men in the macs played hide and seek with the plain-clothed policewomen.
The peak, some three hundred feet above sea level, according to the bench mark, had a certain magic about it. The local Wiccans came up here on warm nights to dance around in their bare scuddies. Foxes fiddled in the thickets. Rare orchids bloomed unseen and the wind came always from the east.
A concrete plinth, erected by the town council in 1935, marked the spot where the earthly remains of the Reverend Matthew Kemp had been interred exactly three hundred years before. The Rev. had obtained the permission of the Archbishop of Canterbury to have himself buried there, at the highest point in the district, standing on his head. His reasoning being that when the clarion call is sounded on Resurrection Day and the whole world is turned upside down, he would be the first one out and standing on his feet.
The concrete plinth was surmounted by an engraved copper map of the district. Radiating spokes informed prospect-viewers of the distances and directions to such exotic destinations as Nepal, Tasmania, the Nile Delta, Portugal and Penge.
The copper map had evidently been fastened to the concrete plinth through the medium of some nineteen-thirties metallurgical technology which is sadly lost to us today, because it ruggedly defied even the most enterprising attempts to prise it free and bear it off to the smelting pot.
The concrete plinth exhibited similar stoicism, having withstood the best that several generations of secondary schoolboys could formulate and explode against it.
Both plinth and map remained inviolate.
Irreverent humorists chuckled in anticipation of the Reverend Kemp’s unecclesiastical language when the clarion call was sounded and he tried to dig his way out.
Cornelius and Tuppe strolled up Star Hill. The invisible lines, which traced the patterns of their existence, merged into one. Became a geodesic spiral engirdling the hill. Terminated at the plinth and were never mentioned again.
Tuppe had travelled the latter part of the journey on the tall boy’s shoulders. Cornelius lifted him down and set him upon the copper map. The burnished copper shone bravely, having only the previous night survived unscathed a particularly concerted attack upon its person. In a nearby bush a defunct oxyacetylene cutter attracted the attention of a passing stoat.
The young men of epic stuff took the air. Cornelius worried at his top knot and Tuppe kicked his tiny
boot-heels against the plinth and patted his brown paper bag.
The world as they knew it was displayed around and about.
To the north, the Grand Union Canal drew the line before the industrial estate.
To the west, the commoners’ fields met the highway where the buses turned around and the shops went on parade.
To the south lay a vast area of redevelopment, relieved only by the remains of a Victorian terrace. Six houses, and one of these the Murphy residence.
To the east, well fenced and warning hung, a sheer drop of two hundred feet fell down to the golf course. Whilst being of no particular interest right now, this cliff would, nevertheless, have an exciting part to play somewhat later.
‘How is the fish?’ Cornelius asked, for its proximity troubled him.
Tuppe peeped into the bag. ‘Ssssh,’ said he.
‘It’s dead, that fish of yours, isn’t it, Tuppe?’
Tuppe nodded. ‘By the look of it I would think so.’
‘Then what was all that talk of hibernation and test conditions?’
Tuppe winked. ‘Did you ever hear tell of Polgar The Unprecedented?’
‘He of Polgar’s Porcine Circus?’
‘The very same. My father worked the sideshow circuit with the man years back. Polgar exhibited a number of star turns. The Singing Sheep of Sudbury, Toby a Sapient Pig, Darwin the Educated Ape and The Grand Exposition of Industrious Fleas. Apparently the latter was a thing of great wonder. With trained insects re-enacting the siege of Rorke’s Drift to considerable effect.’
‘But he is best remembered for his Porcine Circus.’
‘Indeed. He toured the rural communities with it. The pigs were schooled to scale ladders, walk tightropes and perform feats of prestidigitation. At each venue he inevitably sold at least one of the pigs to an eager farming type.’
‘That doesn’t sound very practical.’
‘Oh it was. The pigs were well trained. And as Polgar left town he rang the dinner bell and the sold pig climbed out of the farmer’s pen and returned to him. It worked very well for a while. But eventually it cost him a term at Her Majesty’s pleasure. By the time he got out, the performing pig had lost most of its charm for the paying customer.’