The Educated Ape & other Wonders of the Worlds (34 page)

Certainly
he
had
been aware that the artisans he had employed to erect it had
built it upside down, but that, if anything, had enhanced its beauty rather
than detracted from it.

Well,
in Darwin’s opinion, anyway.

‘Do
you know who’s coming to visit today?’ asked Lord Brentford of his ape.

Darwin
shook his hatted head.

‘The
Queen of England,’ said Lord Brentford. ‘What do you say to that?’

Darwin
could have had plenty to say, but instead he made
oo-oo-ooh-ing
sounds
indicative of delight.

‘Quite
so. And she’s bringing a cabinet minister and that young Mr Churchill. It will
be quite a lunch. And you will have the honour of serving at table.’

Darwin
had mixed feelings regarding this, for he was still torn by the matter of Man’s
inhumanity to Monkey. But the thing was he
did so
enjoy his role in Lord
Brentford’s household. And to serve Victoria, Empress of both India and Mars,
was
an honour, of that there could be no doubt.

Darwin
did further
oo-oo-ooh-ings
to signify that he was pleased with this.

‘Much
to discuss over lunch,’ said his lordship. ‘And as it is such a fine sunny day,
I think we’ll take it al fresco.’

Birds
sang merrily in the trees and beyond the garden’s high stone walls the River
Thames ran red.

It created a
most startling appearance and had halted all traffic on London’s many bridges.

Opinions
were various and many.

‘It
is caused by the rich red ochre of the soil in the Indus Valley,’ announced a
gentleman of advanced years who knew little of geography.

‘Martian
dust wafted in on solar winds,’ said his companion.

‘It
will be the anarchists,’ opined a lady in a straw hat, ‘poisoning our English
waters with their Bolshevistic ways.’

‘The
crimson clay of Kentish Town,’ remarked a costermonger.

‘The
dirty dogs of Dagenham,’ said a Gatherer of the Pure.

All agreed,
however, that it was definitely something ‘upstream’, but as few Londoners knew
the source of the Thames, their guesses were blurry at best.

‘‘Tis
the first of the Seven End Times Plagues!’ cried a cleric, wild of eye and
white of hair.

But
as these were sensible modern times, nobody listened to him.

‘Now listen,’
said Lord Brentford to his staff — an upstairs maid both spare and kempt, a boy
of all trades known as Jack, Geraldo from the Isle of Wight and monkey butler
Darwin. ‘Several of the gentry are coming here today — lords and ladies
and
Her
Majesty the Queen.’

He
paused that his staff might go, ‘Oooooh.’

‘We
know what happened the last time I held a little soirée here. Damned Martian
spaceship crashed down upon us. Mad anarchist plot, or so the story goes.

Darwin
made a sorry little face. He was not likely to forget that Lord Brentford had
shot the monkey butler’s future self quite dead with his twelve-bore shot gun.
Not that he held it against Lord Brentford.

But—
‘Pay attention, Darwin,’ said his lordship. ‘I do not want anything to go wrong
this time. So very much depends upon it. So very much indeed.’

And
so it clearly did. Darwin had attended to his lordship throughout his many
meetings over the last month. He had peered furtively at top-secret plans for a
titanic glass-house to contain the Tri-Planetary Exposition, a glass-house of
such magnitude as to dwarf the Crystal Palace on Sydenham Hill. Work was
already in progress in foundries up and down the country, casting the sections
that would link together to form the giant whole. But the question that
remained to be answered was, where was it going to be erected? No doubt this
question would figure large throughout the coming lunch.

‘Geraldo,’
said Lord Brentford. ‘As you know, there will be a pair of Venusians present
today. They must find no red meat upon their plates. Chicken only, and green
vegetables, do you understand?’

‘The
favourite dishes of Venus are most well known to me.’ Geraldo lifted his high
chef’s hat and gave a sweeping bow.

‘Darwin,
your duties will be those of wine waiter.’

Darwin
preened at his lapels, for that was a rather posh job.

‘Boy
named Jack,’ his lordship continued, ‘you will be on cloakroom duty, and will
also serve the guests their lunch —with no upsettings of soup into laps or any
of that kind of caper.

The
boy named Jack raised high his thumbs and said, ‘Aye aye, your lordship.’

‘Upstairs
maid, both spare and kempt, you will drift around in an enigmatic fashion,
catching the eye of the young lords present but remaining aloof to their
advances.’

The
upstairs maid curtseyed in a manner spare and kempt.

‘And
all will go perfectly, will it not,’ said his lordship. And as this was a
statement rather than a question, none of his staff replied.

The very first
carriage arrived around twelve and the boy named Jack opened the door.

Upon
the step stood Mr Winston Churchill, briskly scrubbed and baby-faced and
sporting the bright blue uniform of the Queen’s Own Electric Fusiliers.
Splendid with his golden braideries and medals that sparkled on his breast, a sword
in an ornamented scabbard made him look even more dashing. Although only in his
early twenties, Mr Churchill presently held a position of great responsibility.
He had been appointed Her Majesty’s Defender Throughout the Period of the
Anarchist Threat. A post he had accepted humbly, asking only that he be
permitted full control over all of Her Majesty’s armed services, including the
newly founded Air Force.

Mr
Winston Churchill bustled past the boy named Jack, drew his sword and went in
search of anarchists.

The
next to arrive were the Ambassador of Jupiter and his wife Doris. The
ambassador
had
been present at the previous soirée and had no intention
of missing this one in case something else fell out of the sky and he wasn’t
there to see it. The ambassador, a rotund chap with skin toned Earthly pink,
slapped his wife on her comely backside and entered Syon House.

Sir
Peter Harrow, Member for Brentford North and Minister for Home Affairs, appeared
upon a penny-farthing bicycle of his own design and construction. It was not
one likely to tickle the public’s imagination, however, having as it did the
little wheel at the front.

Leah
the Venusian ecclesiastic stepped daintily from an electric-wheeler and, moving
with care and grace upon her towering heels, she entered Syon House in the
company of an unnamed individual — a Venusian too with high-teased hair who
swung a smoking censer.

Queen
Victoria’s arrival was attended by all the necessary brouhaha that befitted the
appearance of a great Head of State.

A
platoon of the Household Cavalry accompanied her carriage along the drive and
she was aided down from it by two huge Sikhs done up in golden apparel. Mr
Churchill noted ruefully that their mighty swords put his own to shame.

Her
Majesty had today brought two members of the Royal Household with her: her
monkey maid named Emily and her augmented kiwi bird Caruthers.

Caruthers
was a notable kiwi bird who was very much the darling of high society. A generous
gift from a Maori chief, he had sadly suffered the loss of a leg during an
altercation with Prince Edward’s gun dog Wilkinson at Sandringham.

Lord
Babbage had been commissioned to create the clockwork-powered wheeled
prosthesis that afforded Caruthers considerable mobility.

Caruthers
wheeled into Syon House and hand in hand with Emily, Queen Victoria followed.

A
table had been placed in the midst of the banana groves, set with linen and
doilies and silver cruets and crystal glass and antique knives and forks.
Geraldo had arranged floral decorations along the table’s length, and the
redolence of roses, blended with the heady musks of late flowering bananas and
the incense of the Venusian’s censer, created perfumes of intoxicating
enchantment.

Lord
Brentford, in his bath—chair, sat at the table’s foot, facing Queen Victoria at
its head. Between them were arranged, upon Lord Brentford’s left, Leah the
Venusian, her companion and Mr Winston Churchill; and to his right, Sir Peter
Harrow, the wife of the Jovian ambassador and the Jovian ambassador himself.

It
was as correct as it was possible to be, within the strict and formal protocols
required by such an occasion as this.

Darwin
dispensed champagne, stepping carefully over the table in soft silk slippers. The
monkey butler was greatly taken with Emily, an ape of considerable charm, who
sat upon the lap of her royal mistress making coy expressions at Darwin.

Geraldo
aided Jack in the serving of soup. The sun shone down with gentleness upon the
elegant assembly and although beyond the walls the Thames ran red, no more
pleasant a luncheon could be imagined. The company was charming, the foods and
wines superb. The Empress Queen reigned all supreme and God most surely loved
the British Empire.

33

mused
are we,’ said the royal personage, reducing the table hubbub to a deep
respectful silence as she dunked her biscuit into a cup of tea. ‘Undoubtedly
the finest Treacle Sponge Bastard that one has tasted since one’s dear Prince
Albert passed away. One’s compliments to the chef’

Geraldo
had been enjoying a conversation with Caruthers in their common tongue of kiwi
bird, but at the regal compliment he stiffened to attention.

The
hubbub returned with a vengeance and Lord Brent-ford attempted to make himself
heard above it. ‘Would you care for a little post-prandial, ma’am?’ he shouted.
‘One of those round chocolate sweets, or a pipe of opium, perhaps?’

Queen
Victoria raised the royal hand.

‘I
would gladly try the opium,’ said Sir Peter Harrow. Lord Brentford affected a
languid Byronic gesture towards his monkey butler. Darwin set off in search of
opium.

‘One
reads with interest your plans for this Grand Exposition,’ said Her Majesty,
drawing attention all around. ‘Will you speak to us of this venture now, Lord
Brentford?’

‘With
the greatest pleasure, ma’am.’ Lord Brentford shooed away a bee that had
settled upon him. ‘It is my wish to bring Your Majesty joy,’ said he, ‘by
bringing together the arts and crafts and industries of the three inhabited
planets into a wonderful exhibition within an equally wonderful building.’

‘One
hears,’ said Her Majesty, ‘that you plan to have constructed a glass—house
three times the size of the Crystal Palace.’

‘Such
is my intention, ma’am.’

‘And
where will it stand, this Wonder of the Worlds?’

‘I
had hoped in Hyde Park, ma’am, on the original site of the Great Exhibition.’

Sir
Peter Harrow raised his hands. ‘If I might say a word,’ said he.

‘Please
do,’ said the monarch, smiling.

‘Too
big,’ said Sir Peter. ‘Won’t fit,’ said Sir Peter. ‘The site is already booked
by the Chiswick Townswomen‘s Guild for a firework display to celebrate the dawn
of the twentieth century,’ said Sir Peter, too.

‘Would
have been handy for the Albert Hall,’ said the Queen, ‘but one has many dear
friends amongst the Chiswick Townswomen’s Guild. Put it somewhere else, Lord
Brentford, do.’

‘Ah,‘
said Lord Brentford, swatting at the bee. ‘Then I have Your Majesty’s formal
approval for the scheme.’

‘What
will it cost the Crown?’ asked Queen Victoria.

‘Precisely
nothing, ma’am, not a single penny.

‘Then
one gives one’s blessings.’

‘Thank
you very much, ma’am,’ said his lordship.

Mr
Winston Churchill spoke. ‘A question or two, if I might.’

Queen
Victoria nodded and Lord Brentford, too.