They ambled into the sweet-smelling glade and stood in a big hairy horde.
Darwin addressed his monkeys from the port of the Marie Lloyd. ‘This is my goodbye to you,’ he said. ‘You will be happy here with no man to hunt you down, or cage you in, or bother you in any way at all. You can make good lives for yourselves here. Some of you have already mastered the rudiments of Man-speak and indeed the formative skills of reading and writing, and I have given you the power of Man's red flower. My friend Mr Bell and I must leave you now. I love you all. Farewell.’
The monkeys waved to Darwin, and Darwin sniffed away a tear as the port rose up and closed.
The Marie Lloyd shimmered in the dawn-of-time sunlight, then was gone.
An ape, slightly bigger than the rest, raised a thumb and said, ‘Goodbye.’
The monkeys grinned, the monkeys skittered, then got down to monkey business.
And, as a fairy tale should end . . .
They all lived very happily ever after.
25
‘hat really was a very happy happily-ever-after, wasn't it, Mr Bell?’ I said (once more in ‘first monkey’) as I put the Marie Lloyd into forward-mode and we set off Back to the Future.
Mr Bell sat with his head in his hands. ‘Look at the state of the ship,’ said he. ‘Look at the state of the ship.’
I sniffed the air and had to confess that it did rather smell of monkey. ‘But we did a great thing,’ I said. ‘And it was a happily-ever-after.’
Mr Bell shrugged but had to agree that it was.
‘My monkeys will be happy back there and then,’ I said. ‘It is a wonderful place for them to be. In fact, I would go so far as to say that it was quite the Garden of Eden.’
Mr Bell looked up and opened his mouth.
And a very strange expression came to his face.
‘Darwin,’ he said. ‘Oh, Darwin, what have you done?’
‘I think we should open the champagne now,’ I said to Cameron Bell.
26
rather enjoyed that champagne. I felt that I had earned it. Mr Bell, however, did not drink it down with his usual enthusiasm. He kept mumbling phrases such as ‘Garden of Eden’ and ‘Man evolved from monkeys’ and ‘you might be the Father of all Mankind’.
I did not mind these mumblings, for they did not spoil the taste of that champagne.
Quite the opposite, in fact.
There was an awful lot of clearing up to be done aboard the Marie Lloyd. An awful lot of scrubbing floors and polishing things now covered with fingermarks. But together Mr Bell and I returned our time-ship to a clean and serviceable state.
But it did take several days to do it. And we did refresh ourselves each night with champagne.
‘Aha,’ said I, upon the fifth morning after our departure from the past. ‘The dials and counters on the dashboard are once more within the limits of recorded time. Should I bring us to a halt in eighteen twenty-four at the Theater am Kärntnertor in Vienna, so we can finally enjoy Beethoven conducting the premiere performance of the Ninth?’
Mr Bell, now well shaved, well kempt and somewhat less wild of eye, shook his head. ‘My work is not yet done with Arthur Knapton,’ he said.
‘I regret we have lost him for sure,’ I replied, though I did not regret it at all. ‘We have no idea where and when he is now, and you told me that we cannot return to wheres and whens we've already visited or we will encounter ourselves and things will get overly complicated.’
‘True enough,’ said himself. ‘But there are still ways and means.’
I gave myself a hearty scratch. ‘What do you mean by that?’ I asked.
‘Think about it,’ said my friend, drawing an armchair near to my pilot's seat. ‘Think about what he said in Fairyland. What he boasted about. That he would be ruler—’
‘In every age,’ I said, and I scratched myself again. ‘He intends to rule everywhere in every period of time. To my mind a most original ambition. If somewhat difficult to realise.’
‘If anyone can do it, he can,’ said Mr Bell in a grudging tone. ‘And why do you keep scratching at yourself?’
‘It started a week ago,’ I said, ‘when we had my monkeys on board. I hate to admit it, but I think they have given me fleas.’
Mr Bell moved his armchair away from my seat. ‘We'll get you some flea powder the next time we stop,’ said he.
I shook my head. ‘Actually, I think I will keep them,’ I said. ‘There is something almost comforting about them. They will always remind me of my monkeys.’
Mr Bell rose, came over and gingerly patted my shoulder. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘But if any of those fleas choose to change their allegiance and seek residence upon my person, you will be taking a big deep antiseptic bath and no arguments at all about that.’
‘We are almost out of bananas and champagne,’ I said. ‘We will have to stop somewhere and sometime, sometime soon. So to speak.’
‘And somewhere and some-when, where and when Mr Arthur Knapton is not already King of the Castle.’
‘Nor has his cronies lying in wait to catch us.’
‘Quite so, my little friend, and I know the very time and very place.’
I held my breath and wondered what was coming.
‘Eighteen fifty-one,’ said my friend. ‘We shall go to the Great Exhibition.’
Now, I had been keen to visit the Great Exhibition anyway, what with its purported abundance of banana trees, but I did ask my friend why he chose that particular time and place above all others.
‘Because that is where Arthur Knapton's henchman assassinates Queen Victoria!’
Which had me all but falling from my pilot's seat.
‘What of this?’ I asked when I was able.
‘Recall our time in Blitz-torn London?’
I nodded without enthusiasm.
‘When I visited a bookshop and discovered that history only remembered us as fictional characters?’
‘I did not like that one bit,’ I said.
‘Well, I read other things in other books in that shop, and it turns out that the reason the past changed—’
‘It changed because Arthur Knapton changed it.’
‘True, but the question I wanted answered was, “How?” The answer was that Queen Victoria was assassinated during a visit to the Great Exhibition in eighteen fifty-one and her crown was passed on to—’
‘Do not tell me,’ I said. ‘Good King Arthur, was it?’
‘Prince Arthur of Bavaria, a previously unknown son of Victoria. Certain papers found in the Queen's bedchamber stated implicitly that the crown of England should be placed upon the head of this Arthur should any ill befall her. Arthur Knapton was crowned King of England the following year and he brought a halt to the marvellous technology of Mr Tesla and Mr Babbage, effectively changing history.’
‘Just fancy that,’ I said. And then I had a little think. ‘Hold on right there,’ I further said. ‘If this is the case and you knew of it back in war-torn London, why did we waste our time following the bus-ticket clue and nearly getting our heads chopped off when we could have gone straight to the Great Exhibition?’
Mr Bell said something about a pressing appointment in the toilet and left the cockpit at the hurry-up.
I must say that when first I read of the Great Exhibition, I found it a Wonder of the World. Built in eighteen fifty-one, it was a triumph of that modern age, a masterpiece of prefabricated construction. It simply bristled with ‘first time ever’ statistics.
I list here but a few.
Length of main building
1848 ft
Width of main building
408 ft
Height of nave
64 ft
Height of transept
108 ft
Weight of iron used
4500 tons
Panes of glass
293,655 (900,000 sq ft)
Guttering
24 miles
Number of exhibits over
100,000
Number of visitors
6,039,205
It took only nine months from organisation to opening and remained open in Hyde Park for less than six months before it was taken down and reconstructed in a slightly different form upon Sydenham Hill. It became the very symbol of the British Empire, and when I learned that we were going to visit it, I was very excited indeed and went at once to my wardrobe to seek out suitable attire.
Exactly where we would set down the time-ship became a matter for debate. This was, after all, an adapted Martian warship, and although in eighteen fifty-one no one had ever encountered a Martian warship as the invasion did not occur until eighteen eighty-five, there was still the matter of it being an advanced metal-clad flying machine, and such craft did not exist at the time of the Great Exhibition. We had no wish to cause alarm, or indeed occasion our own arrests.
My various ‘sensible’ suggestions were overruled by Mr Bell, who decided that the best place to land the Marie Lloyd would be in the orchard to the rear of a country house in Kent which at that time was owned by his family.
‘I recall my father telling me that they spent the summer of eighteen fifty-one in London, visiting the Great Exhibition.’
So that was settled, then.
We landed on the twelfth of July, eighteen fifty-one, in the orchard to the rear of Hyphephilia House, which I recall had rather interesting curtains. We landed without incident and, to the best of our knowledge, unseen.
Mr Bell commandeered a horse from a neighbouring field, hitched it to a two-wheeled trap commandeered from a nearby barn and we set off for London.
We looked very dapper, did Mr Bell and I, both in our morning suits. I cut a rather dashing figure in top hat and kid gloves and all.
It was a beautiful summer's day and the lanes of Kent were glorious to drive through. Mr Bell took some pains to knock the occasional passing cleric from his bicycle, as he told me that nothing very funny had happened for a while.
I shook my head in a dignified way and pondered over the various bulges in my friend's apparel. Ray guns and dynamite, I supposed.
‘Please tell me what you know of this assassination,’ I asked Mr Bell as merrily we rode along.
‘The newspapers of the time describe him as an anarchist who approached the Royal Party and murdered the Queen.’
‘Did the papers name him?’ I asked. ‘And perhaps give his address? That would be useful. We could pay him a visit before he sets off and bonk him on the head.’
‘Sadly, no,’ said Mr Bell. ‘But we do know the time and the place of the assassination itself.’
‘And if we save the Queen and prevent Arthur Knapton from taking her throne, we can consider that a job well done. We will have saved history as well as the Queen.’
‘Precisely. And I make no bones about it – I am prepared to kill Arthur Knapton, should the need arise.’
‘Do warn me when the time comes,’ I said. ‘I would dearly like to watch.’
Because, gentle reader, I really hated Arthur Knapton now. He had, after all, sent myself and Mr Bell to the executioner's block and in one version of history arranged the assassination of Queen Victoria, and frankly I could find no good whatsoever in this dreadful person.
‘I hate to ask this,’ I said to my friend, ‘but do you have any sort of plan?’
Mr Bell beamed and his face fairly glowed. ‘Oh yes I do,’ said he. ‘I will not be caught napping by Knapton this time. We have two days before the assassination will take place – more than enough time for me to do what I do best.’
‘Blow things up?’ I asked Mr Bell.
He offered me a very stern face in reply.
We pressed on towards London, stopping to refresh ourselves at various alehouses along the way, and by the time we reached the heart of the Empire we were in a most merry mood. Accommodation was not easily to be found as so many had flooded here to visit the Great Exhibition.
So we took a room, above a pub . . .
In Brentford.
‘The Flying Swan,’ I said to Mr Bell. ‘I suppose you find this somehow amusing, though frankly the humour is lost upon me.’
‘Just think of the beer,’ said Mr Bell. ‘How good it was in nineteen sixty-seven. And any beer drinker knows that “the beer was so much better in the good old days”.’
‘Ah,’ I said. ‘So we can expect really wondrous beer.’
Mr Bell nodded and grinned quite lopsidedly.
For by now we had visited very many such alehouses, looking for a room.
Later, Mr Bell ordered dinner and it arrived in the company of fine ale. We dined and drank and were merrier still. And the more we drank, the more certain we became that this time we'd put paid to Arthur Knapton.
In vino veritas.
‘In wine there is truth.’
It is not that way with beer.
27
lcohol left no hangover upon Mr Cameron Bell and so he was up with the lark and off upon his business.
I awoke somewhat late in the day, dragged myself into consciousness and did not feel a very well monkey at all. I viewed my normally handsome face in the bedroom mirror and found it less than appealing. My eyes were red, and as for my tongue – when I stuck this out to examine it, the thing presented such an unpleasant aspect that I felt disinclined to return it to my mouth.
But I did.
Upon the dresser I found a note, written by Mr Bell.
Dear Darwin,
I have gone into London to arrange things as best I can. Please do not leave the Flying Swan, as I fear you will be taken by Brentford's Monkey-Catcher-in-Residence and we would not want that. I may not return tonight, so be ready to leave at 9 o'clock sharp tomorrow morning. A driver will collect and instruct you and also settle our account.
C. B.
PS Should things not go according to my plans, know that I consider you the best friend that I ever had.
This note did nothing to raise my spirits. I had no wish to make the acquaintance of Brentford's Monkey-Catcher-in-Residence. And although I was deeply touched by the ‘PS’ part, I also found it most distressing.
So I sat in a rather grumpy mood until a knock at the door signalled the arrival of a very late breakfast that Mr Bell had taken the trouble to arrange for me. Bananas were included and strong coffee, too, and very soon I was once more my former self, bright, alert and ready for adventure.
But just what was I to do?
I concluded that as I had the day to myself, I should engage in an adventure of my own, independent of those involving Mr Bell. An adventure with some magic and of course a happy ending, and so this is what came to be . . .
The Adventurous Ape
in the Land of Clouds*
The adventurous ape was all alone and greatly in need of adventure. He enjoyed his breakfast and cleaned his teeth and sat peering out of the window. Beyond, the world of Brentford went about its everyday business. Above, the sky was blue and strewn with clouds.
The adventurous ape looked up at those clouds and wondered, as all of us have done at times, and sighed a little, too. He raised the sash window and breathed in the pure Brentford air. And he leaned upon the windowsill and longed very hard for adventure.
And if one longs really hard for adventure . . .
Adventure will come calling.
From above came a curious rushing sound, accompanied by a shriek. These two were followed by a thump and a rather loud cry of pain.
The adventurous ape, rightly startled by these untoward sounds, climbed nimbly out of the window, up the drainpipe, over the gutter and onto the roof.
And here found a little boy.
He was a very grubby little boy, being all-over black with chimney soot, and he lay upon his back upon the grey roof slates, rubbing at his elbows and swearing through the gaps between his unwashed teeth.
‘Are you all right?’ asked the monkey. ‘And indeed, where on Earth have you come from?’
The grubby boy
looked up at the ape. ‘You are a talking monkey,’ he observed.
‘I am and my name is Darwin,’ said the ape.
‘I am Jack Rankin,’ said the boy, ‘and I would shake your hand.’
Darwin reached out to shake a hand but found none offered to him.
‘I would shake your hand,’ said Jack Rankin, ‘but I've all but busted me elbows a-falling onto this roof.’
‘You are a chimney-sweep's boy,’ said the monkey, for this was evident to his eyes. ‘But the chimneys here are rather small and I heard you come down from above.’
‘That I did,’ said Jack. ‘Precipitated, I was, out of a big chimney at Syon House. I'm Lord Brentford's step-and-fetch-it, I am, and pleased to be in service to that noble man. But his lordship has these ideas, you see. Of inventions and the like.’
‘Go on,’ said the monkey, for he found the lad's conversation to be not without certain points of interest. ‘Speak to me of these inventions.’
‘Them's many,’ said Jack, ‘and they mostly don't work. Save for the one what brought me here. That one worked well enough.’
The monkey tried to dust Jack down, but he was sooty, it appeared, right down to the bone.
‘A pneumatic chimney-cleaning ap-ar-ma-ra-tus,’ continued the soot-smothered boy, ‘what would fit about a fireplace and then blow the soot from the chimney out of the chimney pot.’
‘That might make the land around and about rather grubby,’ said the ape.
‘Not on a windy day. His lordship reasoned that if the wind blew hard to the west, Isleworth would cop for the soot. And who cares for Isleworth, eh?’
‘True enough,’ said the ape. ‘A bit of added soot might even improve the place.’
‘Such was his lordship's thinking. However, he decided he'd have a little test today. So here I am.’
‘I feel there is a small piece missing from the tale,’ said the ape.
‘Ah, yes,’ said Jack. ‘The chimney was blocked, you see, so he sent me up to clear it. And being at times an absentminded fellow, my supposing would be that he forgot I was up there and switched on the damnable pneumatic motor once more. Thus precipitating me, as a cork might escape from a bottle of champagne, out of the chimney, into the sky and down onto this here rooftop.’