The Educated Ape & other Wonders of the Worlds (2 page)

‘British
engineering combined with captured Martian technology allowed Mr Babbage and Mr
Tesla to take giant steps forwards in the field of science and by eighteen
ninety-nine, the British Empire had reached the very height of its glory.

‘The
End.’

It
was all in all an inspiring tale with a happy-ever-after, but not one that the
British Government sought to publicise. The British Government felt that the
British public would not take kindly to the business of the incurables from the
isolation hospitals being sent off on their one-way trips to Mars.

The
British ‘public’ were tonight notable only for their non-presence at Syon Park.
The British Government, on the other hand, were most well represented.

The
young and dashing Mr Winston Churchill was here, discussing the merits of
Jovian cigars with the young and equally dashing Mr Septimus Grey, Governor of
the Martian Territories. Sir Peter Harrow, a gentleman generally described on
the charge-sheets as being the Member for North Brentford, conversed with the
playwright Oscar Wilde regarding the conspicuousness of prostitution in the
Chiswick area. ‘Conspicuous by its absence,’ was Sir Peter’s considered
opinion.

The
controversial cleric Cardinal Cox shared a joke about beards and baldness with
his cousin Kit, the celebrated monster-hunter and first man on the Moon. The
Society Columnist from
The Times
had quite given up on writing down
names from a guest list that read like a précis of Debrett’s and had taken
instead to ogling the ladies and tasting the champagne and crisps.

Hired
minions of the foreign persuasion moved amongst the exalted congress bearing
trays of sweetmeats, petits fours and canapés. Champagne danced into cut—crystal
glasses and ladies brought loveliness to a pretty perfection while Mazael’s
Clockwork Quartet did battle with the unearthly acoustics of the Bananary. The
Moon shone down from a star-strewn sky and a distant church bell chimed the
hour of nine.

All
seemed right with the Empire upon this magical evening, all at peace and the
way that all should be.

With
such champagne and such nibbles and amidst such glittering company, the more
charitable present could almost forgive the Bananary.

Almost.

But
not quite.

But
almost.

And
as Lord Brentford strolled amidst the assembled multitude, bound for the
flag-decked rostrum from which he would deliver a speech that had been four
years in the preparation, it did not cross his mind that anything untoward
might possibly occur to confound his schemes and spoil this grand occasion.

But
sadly there can sometimes be a fly within the ointment, no matter how clean
one has kept the pot or tightly screwed on the lid. For even as Lord Brentford
strolled, his mind engaged in worthy thoughts, something that could truly be
described as ‘untoward’ was rushing backwards through the aether, bound for
Syon House.

No
fly was this, although it flew.

For
it was indeed a monkey.

A
monkey that through its actions would come to change not only the present, but
the past and the future, too.

Onwards
rushed this anomalous ape.

As
onwards strolled the oblivious Lord Brentford.

2

oth
bearded and bald was Lord Brentford, yet oddly birdlike, too. His eyes were as
dark as a raven’s wing, his nose as hooked as a seagull’s bill. His suit was
cut from kiwi pelts and his burnished and buckled big black boots had trodden
moors on pheasant shoots. His hands flapped somewhat as he spoke and he liked
poached eggs for breakfast.

As he
made his way to the flag-hung rostrum, as unaware as ever he had been of
impending monkey mayhem, the crowd politely parted, polite converse ceased,
polite applause rippled and the members of his household staff bowed their
heads with politeness.

Upon his
unexpected return to Syon House, the noble lord had been appalled not only by
the beastly Bananary but also by the extraordinary number of servants the
present incumbent had in his employ. There were pages and parlour maids,
chore-boys and chambermaids, gentlemen’s gentlemen, lackeys and laundrymen,
kitchen boys, coachmen, porters and porch-men, bed-makers, tea-makers,
chaplains and cheese-makers, carers and sweepers, cooks and housekeepers and
even a eunuch who tended a parrot named Peter. Not to mention a veritable
garrison of gardeners (all highly skilled in the arts of tropical horticulture,
Lord Brentford. noted).

To
say that this multitude swarmed the great house and gardens like so many
two-legged bees would be to paint an inaccurate picture of the situation. The
majority of the minions draped themselves over settles and settees reading
newspapers or playing games of Snap. To the now fiercely flapping Lord
Brentford, it appeared that the present incumbent had, for reasons known only
to himself, chosen to employ this substantial staff as little more than
adornments to Syon House.

His
lordship noted ruefully that the exception lay with the gardeners, whom he
found to be hard at work cheerfully uprooting the century-old knot garden
preparatory to the planting in of further banana trees.

Lord
Brentford sacked each and every one upon the instant, then took down his now
dust-cloaked double-action twelve-bore fowling piece from above the marble
fireplace and went in search of the present incumbent.

The
present incumbent, however, was not to be found. The staff, now packing their
bags and cheerfully helping themselves to portions of his lordship’s family
silver, had little to offer regarding the present incumbent or his whereabouts.

During
his search of the premises, Lord Brentford came upon a wardrobe containing a
selection of the mystery fellow’s clothes. Fine hand-tailored clothes were
these, bearing the label of his lordship’s Piccadilly tailor. This discovery
now added mystery to mystery, for the missing person, this despoiler of English
country houses, was clearly not as other men. The clothes had been tailored for
a being who was positively dwarf-like, possessed of arms of a prodigious length
and some kind of extra appendage that sprouted from his backside — for each
pair of trousers bore a curious snood affair affixed to its rear parts.

Lord
Brentford strutted, stormed and flapped from room to room, discharging his
fowling piece into the frescoed ceilings, which helped to prompt a rapid
departure by the servants he had so recently and unceremoniously dismissed.

At
length, and with the aid of brandy from a bottle laid down fifty years before
that had happily remained untouched in his cellar, he finally calmed himself
to a state resembling that of reason and produced from his pocket a copy of
The
Times.
[1]

Having
located the section dedicated to
Domestics, for the hiring of
he applied
himself to the telephonic communication device that he of the freakish trousers
had taken the liberty of having installed and demanded the operator connect him
to Miss Dolly Rokitt, the proprietress of a Mayfair-based domestics agency.

Lord
Brentford’s requirements were swiftly made clear. He wished to employ the
following.

A
chef. ‘And not a damned Johnny Frenchman.’ An upstairs maid. ‘And make her a
pretty ‘un, not some frumpish strumpet.’

A
monkey butler. ‘Cos a gentleman ain’t a gentleman without an ape to serve him.’

And a
bootboy and general factotum. ‘And get me one by the name of Jack, for such is
the noble tradition. Or old charter. Or something.’

Miss
Dolly Rokitt was politeness personified and replied with eagerness that just
such a four-person staff had lately been signed to her books and were even now
crated up in her cellar awaiting a call such as his lordship was now making. So
to speak.

‘Then
bung the boxes on a four-wheeled growler and dispatch them here post—haste,’
was what his lordship had to say about that.

Miss
Rokitt complied with these instructions and then returned to that dearest
indulgence of feminine fingers, embroidery.

Lord
Brentford. poured himself another brandy and lazed in his family seat.

In
truth, the concept of ‘crating up’ servants was a new one to him. But he had
been away for a very long time and consequently was presently out of touch with
many of the latest innovations, fashions and whatnots.
[2]

His
lordship shrugged his shoulders, rose to his feet and with all the grace of
gait normally attributed to a Devonshire dancing duck set off in search of a
crowbar.

Presently
a four-wheeled growler crackled the gravel before Syon House and a cockney
coachman, cheerful and chipper as any of his caste, stilled the horses, stepped
from his conveyance, raised an unwashed hand and knocked with the unpolished
knocker.

Presently
the door swung open to reveal Lord Brentford, now somewhat far gone with the
drink.

‘Have
at you, blackguard!’ the inebriated nobleman declared, fumbling at the place
where the hilt of his sword, had he been wearing one, would have been.

‘No
blackguard I, sir, guv’nor,’ replied the cockney character, a—hitching up of
his trousers and tipping his cap as a fellow must do when addressing himself to
the gentry. ‘But ‘umble ‘erbert is me name. Come as to deliver your staff.’ And
he gestured with a grubby mitt towards the four large packing crates that
rested on his growler.

‘Rumpty-tumpty,’
said his lordship. ‘Had you down as some Romany rogue, come to strip the lead
off me roof. Sorry pardon and all the rest of it. Get ‘em down from your wagon
and hump ‘em around to the servants’ quarters.’

‘That
would be a two-man job,’ observed the chirpy chappie.

‘That
would be a kick up your ragged arse,’ Lord Brent-ford observed, ‘if you don’t
do what you’re told.’

‘Right
as ten-pence, guv’nor.’

Lord
Brentford slammed shut the door.

The
cockney coachman muttered certain words beneath his breath. Paeans in praise of
the landed gentry, in all probability. Then he drove his growler around to the
servants’ quarters, shivering slightly at the sight of the Bananary, drew his
horses to a halt and with the aid of his hobnailed boots relieved himself of
his cargo. The job now done to his satisfaction, he stirred up the horses and
left at a goodly pace.

Lord
Brentford. was forced to do his own unpacking. But he was pleased at least with
what he had received: an upstairs maid who was spare and well kempt; a portly
chef both bearded and bald; a monkey butler in waistcoat and fez; and a bootboy
by the name of Jack.

A month
had passed since this day and Lord Brentford had, during this time, managed to
restore a degree of order to the chaos that had reigned in Syon House. Whether
word of his return had reached he of the freakish trousers was unknown, but he
had not returned and so had not been shot at.

Tonight, upon
this special night, his lordship’s new staff stood with heads bowed in
politeness as Lord Brentford. mounted the flag-bedecked rostrum and. smiled.
upon all and sundry.

The
all and sundry whose heads were not bowed returned smiles to the noble lord.
The Jovian ambassador raised a thumb the size of a savoury sausage and offered
words of well wishing.

‘Cheers
be unto thou, bonny lad,’ he said.

Lord
Brentford did that little cough which in the right kind of society indicates
that silence is required, then formally greeted his guests.

‘My
lords, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said. He would dearly have loved to have
prefaced this with, ‘Your Majesty,’ but Queen Victoria had been unable to
attend, having a previous engagement at a charity Wiff-Waff competition in
which she was now through to the semi-finals.

‘My
lords, ladies and gentlemen, Emissaries and ecclesiastics of Venus, His
Magnificence the Ambassador of Jupiter. ‘The ambassador broke wind, which
caused some chucklings, but only amongst his entourage. ‘I am honoured tonight
by all your exalted presences. As you will know, I set off four years ago upon
the maiden voyage of this world’s greatest airship, the
Empress of Mars,
on
a journey that was intended to girdle the globe in less than eighty days. That
magnificent vessel of the sky came to a terrible end with many fine lives lost
— a sad conclusion to what would have been a marvellous achievement. I was
pitched into the sea and later found myself washed up on the beach of a
cannibal isle. Alone was I and subject to the untender mercies of the savages.
And well they might have dined upon me had not their instincts, base as they
were, revealed to them that as an Englishman I was their natural superior.
Within a month they had crowned me their King. Within two, I had taught them
not only the Queen’s English, but also the correct manner in which to lay out
the knives and forks for a fish supper.’