The Chickens of Atlantis and Other Foul and Filthy Fiends (19 page)

‘Do you know where he is?’ I asked.

Mr Bell dug into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a tiny compass of his own. One that I had not seen before, but suspected might well have been a gift from an Arabian potentate for solving a delicate matter involving a sand dancer, a stick of celery and a spotted dog called Carlos.

‘I purchased this in Woolworths,’ said Mr Cameron Bell, ‘years ago, as a present for my nephew. Look at its face and tell me what you see.’

I examined the tiny compass. ‘Same inexplicable business,’ I said. ‘Its needle points to a fifth point, one I have never seen before today.’

‘Fascinating, isn't it?’ said Mr Bell, turning the compass this way and the other. ‘It points to the realm of the faerie – where, if I am not altogether wrong, we will find Arthur Knapton.’

I put it to Mr Bell, in as polite a manner as I could, that I was not altogether certain about this business of Fairyland. That in fact I had my doubts regarding its reality. And indeed a sneaking suspicion that the part-time barman and his cronies might well be having a gi-raffe at our expense.

Mr Bell shook his head and said, ‘Neville and I are Brothers under the Arch.’

‘Well, I don't want to get involved with any fairies,’ I said. ‘I want to go and visit my monkeys. You said we could visit my monkeys after lunch, and we've had our lunch now and I want to visit my monkeys.’

Mr Bell rose and dusted down his tweeds. ‘And that is fair enough, too,’ he said. ‘Monkeys now and fairies at midnight. That is the way that it should be done.’

And it was.

We returned to the grounds of Syon House, passed by the mansion and the Victorian fair and approached the monkey sanctuary.

I do not know exactly what I had been expecting. Perhaps a sort of gentle-monkey's club not unlike my own in Piccadilly. Panelled walls of oak and overstuffed leather couches. Bananas served from silver bowls to smartly suited simians. A well-stocked bar and a billiard room.

What I found appalled me!

The sanctuary was nothing but a cage. A huge cage, quite cathedralesque, but nonetheless a cage.

And my monkeys were not civilised one bit. They were nude and rude and noisy. They skittered about, flung dung and publicly engaged in that monkey business which should really only be practised in private.

I was truly horrified.

‘They are behaving like—’

‘Monkeys?’ said Mr Bell.

‘Monkeys,’ I said, and sadly I said it, too. ‘I had thought that . . . perhaps—’

‘Perhaps they would have acquired your intellectual capabilities?’ Mr Bell shook his head, and sadly, too. ‘
You
are a very special fellow, my little friend. You are one of a kind. I know of your tutor Herr Döktor's conviction that education could accelerate the evolutionary process of Man's hairy cousins, and perhaps he is right. You stand before me as proof that it
can
be done. But for this to be passed on from generation to generation . . . ? Perhaps, if many generations were taught as you have been taught. Perhaps.’

‘So Man will always be Man and Monkey will always be Monkey?’

‘How can it be otherwise? Even if all of these apes had acquired your skills, they would, alas, still be apes nonetheless. They would not turn into men.’

‘I know
that
,’ I said, and rather bitterly I said it, too. ‘I am not stupid. A Man is a Man and a Monkey is a Monkey. But
I
, through my education and the intimate friendships I have formed with yourself, Colonel Katterfelto and Lord Brentford, have come to learn so much. To appreciate so much. The love of good food and fine wine. The wonders of the written word. The music of Brahms and Beethoven. How sad it feels to me that my own descendants should be denied these marvellous things.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Mr Bell. ‘It
is
sad. And having viewed the horrors of the London Blitz at first hand, I can say, without hesitation, that Mankind has made no progress whatsoever in this dismal century. Perhaps Man has come as far along the evolutionary road as it is possible for him to travel. So perhaps, just perhaps, one day the Monkey may catch him up. Or even overtake him.’

‘You really think so?’ I asked Mr Bell.

‘I claim no expertise in such matters,’ said my friend, ‘but it sounds to me like a reasonable proposition.’

‘So one day this might be
The Planet of the Apes
?’ I said.

Mr Bell smiled. ‘Perhaps.’

‘Would you mind,’ I asked my friend, ‘if I spent a little time alone with my monkeys? There is no one else around and I would like a private moment or two in their company.’

‘Certainly,’ said Mr Bell. ‘I will meet you in the cafeteria. I noticed that they sell cider and I'm sure they will accept the wartime coinage I have in my pocket.’

So Mr Bell left me alone and I gazed into the great cage where the many monkeys skittered. And as I stood and gazed at them and wondered for the future, a rather curious thing happened. One by one, the monkeys caught sight of me standing there. And one by one as they did so, they ceased their chatter and risqué antics and took to staring at me. And soon the great cage was utterly still with every single ape therein looking at myself.

Having unexpectedly gained their attention, I addressed these apes, these fruit of my loins, as the Good Book would have put it. I addressed them in the tongue of Man and also that of Monkey.

Then did something that I probably should not have done.

And then said farewell and went to the cafeteria.

My journey to the cafeteria was not without incident.

‘Monkey on the loose!’ cried someone, and many others gave chase. I took to the trees and presently entered the cafeteria through one of the open panels of its glazed roof.

I dropped down to Mr Bell's table, causing my friend to dissolve into laughter once more.

I gave him the look and he ceased to be foolish. ‘I bought you a banana,’ he said, presenting this to me. ‘It is a Brentford banana, guaranteed to be that little bit more bananary than the average banana.’
^*

I took the banana gratefully. ‘How is the cider?’ I asked.

‘Just that bit more cidery.’
^†
Mr Bell toasted me with his glass then poured a measure for me.

‘Do you have any kind of a plan?’ I asked my friend. ‘Or are we just going to bumble into the forbidden realm of the faerie and trust in the fates that we will not come to grief?’

Mr Bell eyed me and smiled once more. ‘Perhaps it is a good thing for Man that you are one of a kind,’ said he. ‘I am not sure Man is a match for you.’

I was flattered and munched at my banana.

‘We must certainly be cautious,’ Mr Bell continued. ‘I will be somewhat out of my jurisdiction, as it were. We will sip some more of this excellent cider then return to the
Marie Lloyd
, where I will study certain books in my travelling library. Then, well armed, we will sally forth before the hour of midnight.’

‘What could possibly go wrong?’ I said.

Which was, of course, a rhetorical question.

Brentford boasts beautiful sunsets. You even get the
green flash
, which otherwise you only see in the tropics. Parrots flock from Gunnersbury Park to their night nestings in the Royal Gardens of Kew. A giant feral tomcat howls upon the
allotments. Bats circle over the Butts Estate. And perhaps, just perhaps, the Brentford griffin flies.

Mr Bell was engrossed in his researches and so we did not go out for dinner. Rather we dined upon what provisions we possessed, which were limited, and neither of us cared much for that porridge.

Mr Bell's carriage clock (a gift from someone or other for solving such and such a thing)
^*
struck half-past the hour of eleven, and the two of us, now looking as if we were dressed for battle (which to a degree we were), set out from the time-ship en route to Fairyland.

Mr Bell held up his compass and followed its pointing needle. He wore what is known as a safari suit – a khaki jacket equipped with many pockets, accompanied by a heavy belt hung with ray guns and weaponry. Jodhpurs and riding boots and a big-game hunter's pith helmet fitted with night-vision goggles completed the ensemble. The hand unoccupied by compass swung a large stout stick.

I wore an all but identical get-up. Mine, however, was somewhat better tailored than that of Mr Bell.

I carried no heavy arsenal, but had in my pockets a number of items which my friend assured me might well save our lives and should be carried with care.

Which was comforting.

I also took the precaution of hanging a police whistle about my neck on a piece of string.

Which, for reasons of my own, I found
even more
comforting.

Through the night-time streets of Brentford crept myself and Mr Cameron Bell. We looked severely out of place and
I felt very awkward. The moonlight tinted all with a priceless silver and a soft breeze carried fragrances of night-flowering blooms. From somewhere came the sounds of a string quartet.

We plodded onwards, Mr Bell a-gazing at his compass.

‘This way,’ he whispered, and we plodded on.

And on and on . . .

And on . . .

‘We have surely plodded down this street before,’ I whispered.

Mr Bell looked baffled.

‘We are going around in circles, are we not?’

‘The compass needle keeps pointing the way,’ said the great detective. ‘But as you say, we are going around in circles.’

We stopped and Mr Bell looked up at the moon. ‘You take the compass,’ he said to me. ‘See if it is different for you.’

I took the compass and peered at its face. ‘Its needle is pointing
that
way,’ I said.

Mr Bell looked down at the compass. ‘It was not pointing that way when I was holding it,’ he observed. ‘Follow its pointing, Darwin.’

So I followed the compass needle and Mr Bell followed me. And soon the two of us stood in the Memorial Park.

My nose now took to twitching, for I smelled something strange.

My ears pricked up, for I heard curious sounds.

Sounds of laughter and sounds of singing, and we saw a weird pale light.

‘The entrance lies ahead,’ said Mr Bell. ‘Will you enter with me, Darwin? I wish no harm to come to you.’

‘I am brave,’ I said to Mr Bell. ‘I will enter with you.’

And so we stepped forward into the weird pale light.

The strange smell grew stronger. The jolly sounds, louder.

We entered Fairyland.

*
Given the law of diminishing returns it is to be hoped that that will be the last of the ‘more so’ carry on. (R. R.)
.

*
That better be the last. (R. R.)

†
All right, make
that
the last! (R. R.)

*
Darwin's decision to discontinue this particularly annoying and in no way amusing gag is, to say the least, commendable. (R. R.)

22

s we
were
entering Fairyland, I feel this episode must be told as a fairy tale. Perhaps with some fanciful and faintly amusing title, such as:

The Magnificent Monkey

and the Dangerous Detective

Cross Swords with the

Maleficent Magician.

Naturally, it would begin thusly:

Once upon a time that was not his own, there lived a magnificent monkey. He was loved by the ladies and greatly admired by the gentlemen. All who met him considered him to be the very acme of apes, the very maestro of monkeydom—
^*

Which is why he became the most celebrated simian in this world and all others.

Together with his best friend and business associate Cameron Bell, he brought to justice many evil-doers, righted
wrongs and generally carried on in a fashion that was above reproach.

The dangerous detective, however, was sad, because a solitary individual, a king amongst criminals, evaded capture time and time again. This singular gentleman went by the name of Arthur Knapton, but preferred to be known as the Pearly Emperor.

Many and heinous were the crimes of this terrible, terrible man, made worse by the fact that he possessed a magical Egyptian stele which enabled him to travel from one time to another, there to perform yet more dreadful deeds.

The marvellous monkey and the dangerous detective were in pursuit of the Pearly Emperor and had followed him to the very gateway of Fairyland, which was to be found within Brentford at the fifth point of the compass.

The year was nineteen sixty-seven and it was the Summer of Love.

The magnificent monkey gazed at the ombré gateway. Being an ape of literary learnings, he was put in mind of the very first chapter of Aubrey Beardsley's erotic masterwork
Under the Hill
.

For it is there that the Chevalier Tannhäuser, having lighted from his horse, stands doubtfully for a moment before the gateway of the mysterious hill of Venus:

The pillars were fashioned in some pale stone and rose up like hymns in the praise of pleasure, for from cap to base, each one was carved with loving sculptures, showing such a cunning invention and such a curious knowledge . . .

The Chevalier lingers not a little in reviewing these.