The Voyage of the Dolphin (2 page)

He diverted right, into Duke Street, and after a moment's deliberation in the doorway, entered the velvet-dark interior of the Bailey, with its gleaming wood and twinkle of starry lamps. Rafferty was in his usual berth at the far end of the bar, the remains of a meal in front of him.

‘Crozier, excellent timing. A pint, while you're at it,' he called, holding up his empty glass.

The Northerner ordered the drinks, another stout for the Dubliner, a Bushmills and water for himself.

‘Going to the devil, I see,' Rafferty said, noting the whiskey. ‘What would the church fathers say?'

‘They'd assume… Cheers.'

‘
Slainte
.'

Crozier savoured a taste of home, the spirit's floral heat, imagined for a second he detected the salt tang of a North Atlantic breeze.

‘They'd assume I'd been brought low by degenerate southern Papists like yourself, corrupted into your ways of strong liquor and fornication, and remind me in no uncertain terms that drunkards shall not inherit the kingdom of God
.'

‘Romans?'

‘Corinthians.'

‘Interesting. And what would you say to them?'

‘I'd probably say, drink thy wine with a merry heart for God now accepteth thy works.'

‘Proverbs?'

‘Ecclesiastes. Anyway,' he took another sip, ‘all things in moderation, including moderation itself
.
'

‘Leviticus?'

‘Oscar Wilde.'

A skeletal woman in a black pinafore ascertained with her eyebrows that Rafferty was finished with his plate and whisked it away.

‘How was the steak?' Crozier enquired.

‘First class. Best in town.'

‘It's well for you. I've barely enough left to pay my Commons fees.'

Rafferty grunted. Crozier looked around. The place was busy but not full, its clientele made up largely of newspapermen and politicians, clerks, and a smattering of tormented writers mumbling into their pints. Seated further along the bar, among them the orator from earlier, was a group of drinkers. One of them glanced over. Catching Rafferty's eye, he nodded in recognition and approached.

‘Friend of yours?'

‘Acquaintance,' said Rafferty, sitting up.

The man was tall and fleshy with shiny jowls and a face too small for his head, and had on a heavy coat of navy-blue wool such as a bookmaker might wear. He was swaying slightly.

‘Didn't see you down the road earlier, Frank. Were you busy studying?' he said, winking at Crozier.

‘Haha, you got it in one, Joe,' Rafferty replied. ‘Sure, there's no rest for the wicked.'

‘You have that right. Will we see you on Tuesday at the hall?'

‘I'll do my best.'

‘Good man.' He was regarding Crozier with a smiling but calculating eye. ‘Quick word, Frank, do you mind?'

As Rafferty climbed to his feet he set a coin on the table and gestured for another round. His drink was waiting for him when he returned a few minutes later.

‘Sorry about that,'

Crozier grinned.

‘Are you with the rebels now, Frank?'

Rafferty extracted a Wild Woodbine from his pack and lit it.

‘Not exactly,' he said, exhaling.

‘What does that mean?'

‘They want me to be. They think I am…'

‘But?'

‘I'm not sure. I mean, I believe they have a point, or at least I think I do, thought I did.'

‘How involved
are
you?'

‘Oh, nothing serious. A couple of meetings, a bit of fundraising, that sort of thing. And I got caught up in some of the high-jinks in the Phoenix Park.'

‘I heard there was mayhem.'

‘There was drink involved, I can't deny it,' Rafferty conceded. ‘Anyway, enough of my problems, what about you? Any word from Jenny?'

Crozier gazed into the remains of his whiskey and shook his head, his eyes brimming.

‘Come on, ye black-hearted hallion,' Rafferty said. ‘One for the road.'

 

The streets, as the pair rolled back to College, were still thick with fog, the gaslamps casting barely a glimmer on the ghostly human shapes that passed beneath. Aside from an occasional mumbled ‘excuse me' at a near-collision, neither man spoke, immersed, as they both were, in their own troubles: preoccupations that, though neither could have known (or imagined), were about to be forgotten in an instant, dwarfed by a sudden and unusual development.

When they arrived back at chambers, Fitzmaurice surged from the sofa like a spaniel fresh from the reeds.

‘Where the hell have you two been?' he cried. ‘I was looking all over town.'

Taken aback, both began to speak at once but Fitzmaurice rushed between them and, putting his arms around their shoulders, propelled them towards the hearth.

‘It doesn't matter now. Come in, come in. I have news.'

Crozier and Rafferty exchanged perplexed glances while Fitzmaurice threw the last of their scuttle allowance on the fire and jabbed at the embers.

‘Fitz, what on earth's going on?' Rafferty slowly unwound his scarf. ‘Why the drama?'

Fitzmaurice sat on the arm of the sofa. The fire cracked and fizzed.

‘There has been an extraordinary turn of events,' he said at last. His tone was grave.

‘Well?'

Fitzmaurice took his pipe from a side table, and holding a shaky match above the bowl, puffed it briskly to life, watching them both all the while.

‘For Godsake, Fitz, that stinks to high heaven,' Rafferty snapped, fanning the air. ‘Stop teasing us and tell us this news.'

‘What would you say,' Fitzmaurice had moved into high theatrical mode, ‘if I told you I could offer you the adventure of a lifetime?'

‘I'd say, what the hell are you talking about?'

‘Hmm. And if I said I could make you famous throughout these islands, and guarantee you a place in the annals of history?'

‘Again, what the hell?'

‘I see. And if I advised you to prepare for a momentous journey?'

‘Fitz,' Crozier interjected, ‘this is ridiculous, what are you..?'

‘To a place beyond your wildest dreams?'

‘Rafferty, pass me that cricket bat.'

Flame-shadows quivered across the ceiling and around the walls.

‘Gentlemen,' Fitzmaurice's eyes gleamed and he revealed many teeth, ‘lace up your stoutest boots and pack your warmest underwear. We're all off to the bloody Arctic!'

Earlier that afternoon the College cellarer, a melancholic man with poor posture and a melted eyelid, had been dispatched to fetch a bottle for the Senior Dean, who was hosting a small luncheon in his office. Not given to belief in the supernatural, the cellarer found himself unnerved nonetheless by the strangely human sound that drifted from time to time through the tunnels beneath Trinity College. There it was again: a low mournful monotone rising and falling like ghostly plainsong before fading back into the rock. It was caused, no doubt, by the rush of air through a faulty duct or drainage well, but down in the gloom, alone in the empty passageways, it was easy to imagine…

He held up the lantern, letting his nostrils fill with the damp perfume of the vault. Bottles gleamed darkly in the shadows: Magnums and Jeroboams, Methuselahs, Salmanazars, Nebuchadnezzars, the mighty Melchiors. He was struck, as he always was, by the gravid nature of the hush, by a sense that delicate, dream-like activity was taking place within the containers around him, and he became careful in his movements.

Stacked along the wall facing him were the clarets, their indented bases like rows of artillery, and he edged along, squinting at the labels. Some of them were worth multiples of his yearly wages. When the time came, he mused, he would have his list at the ready. He eased a dust-slippery bottle from its cradle and made his way back along the corridor towards the steep stone steps that led to the light.

In his lofty-ceilinged room three floors above, the Senior Dean was deep in contemplation of a portrait of himself that had been hung, just that morning, on the wall opposite the big window. He cocked his head to one side, then the other. He took three steps back; a moment later, two forward. He hunkered down for a fresh angle. He stood up. The painting, in bold, lustrous oils, depicted him in full academic garb, crowned with a gold-tasselled mortarboard, holding a rolled-up scroll and surveying the viewer with majestic leniency. It was quite magnificent. Except for one detail, one flaw, one minor error in perspective that, now he had spotted it, ruined everything. He leant his head back and squinted, then opened his eyes very wide. He fiddled with his snow-white goatee. That
imbecile
of an artist. There was no way around it: the hand that clutched the scroll was
tiny
. Like a
withered
hand… Like a vestigial forepaw.

There was a knock at the door and an elderly servant arrived pushing a trolley tinkling with silver containers, which he set about transferring to the dining table. A minute or two elapsed, then he coughed. ‘Did you hear, sir, there was another gunpowder incident this morning?'

The Senior Dean was sitting on the edge of his desk, still transfixed by the painting.

‘Mmm, really? Another one? Where?'

‘Botany Bay, sir. Another door off, I'm afraid.'

‘Botany Bay, I might have known. That place is an absolute nest. Anyone hurt?'

‘No, sir. Though I hear an undergraduate had a lucky escape.'

‘That's good. Is Front Gate onto it?'

‘I believe so.'

When the servant had finished, the Senior Dean called him over.

‘What do you think of this portrait?' he demanded.

‘To be honest, sir,' the old retainer said, having learned many Senior Deans ago to keep his own counsel, ‘I wouldn't be the best person…'

‘Nonsense, man, how does it seem to you?'

The servant peered up at the painting.

‘It's very handsome, sir. It…'

‘Look at the hand.
The hand
. Is it normal?'

‘It looks…'

At that moment there was another tattoo at the door and into the room marched the All-Faculty Master of Discipline, long, thin and hawkish, and walking with the aid of a horn-handled cane, followed by the roly-poly figure of the Regius Professor of Zoology and Comparative Anatomy. The servant seized his opportunity. ‘By the way, sir,' he called over his shoulder, ‘the cellarer said to tell you the wine was decanted at midday.'

The academics admired the new likeness (the hand was not mentioned) and sat down to their lunch: Brown Windsor soup followed by venison casserole, all washed down with a perfectly aerated 1900 Chateau Margaux (declared ‘excellent'). Afterwards they lit the lamps and withdrew to the armchairs, the Regius Professor taking with him an apple which he began to carve into sections with his pocket knife.

‘So,' the Senior Dean folded his hands across the tweed expanse of his belly. ‘We're all agreed that this expedition must go ahead?'

The other two nodded. The Regius Professor cleared his throat.

‘Absolutely,' he said in his fluting, feminine voice. ‘I can tell you that the Royal Irish Geographical Society met this morning and it was the view of every last one of us on the board that we may never have this opportunity again. We believe this could very well be our last hurrah. Once Home Rule comes in, God only knows what will happen.'

The Master of Discipline tapped the brass tip of his walking stick against the toecap of his shoe. ‘Are you suggesting it may not be all “nougat, velvet, and soft music”?'

‘I'm saying, gentlemen, we'd better hold on to our bloody hats. As soon as this war is over we'll be totally at the mercy of the natives.' The Regius Professor examined, with an expression of great sorrow, the chunk of fruit on the end of his blade. ‘Beauchamp says we should start hiding the good wine right away.'

There was silence as each man contemplated the potential wear-and-tear of the coming turmoil on his privileges.

‘Well, Beauchamp is correct,' the Master of Discipline said at last. ‘These are deeply uncertain times. We need to do all we can, as
soon
as we can, to bolster the standing of this College.'

‘Good, we're agreed then.'

‘There is one further matter we should perhaps consider.'

‘Yes?'

‘The war.'

‘What about it?'

‘Well, do we know if His Majesty's government will even permit such an enterprise?'

The Senior Dean shrugged.

‘They let Shackleton go. I can't see it being a problem for us.'

‘Is there also,' the Master of Discipline continued, ‘a safety aspect to all this? I mean to say, the Boche are pretty lively at the moment, according to the papers. I'm just wondering, with the U-boat threat and so on, should we really be risking…?'

The Senior Dean flashed a business-like smile.

‘The U-boat threat is much diminished since the Americans kicked up a stink over the
Lusitania
, and anyway, on the route they'll be taking, the odds are very slim. I'm told if they give the North Sea a wide berth they'll be fine. Now,' he held his hands apart, palms upraised, ‘nothing further? Good. Then we'll proceed. I've asked Fitzmaurice to join us, he should be…,' he drew out his fob watch, ‘yes, any moment now.'

In fact it was to be nearly another half-hour before Fitzmaurice joined them, having lingered in Library Square to watch a group of students attempting a human pyramid (two sprained ankles and a concussion). As he took his seat across the table from the three masters, each sporting a mortarboard, it dawned on him that he might be in more than the usual degree of trouble. The Senior Dean thanked him (a little icily, he thought) for attending, introduced the other two (who regarded him in a manner reminiscent of a pair of elderly crocodiles basking on a riverbank), and flipped open a thick leather folder.

‘I'm assuming, Fitzmaurice, you have an idea why we wanted to see you today?'

‘Not really sir. Is it about the re-sits? You see my cousin Ninian…'

‘The re-sits, the failed exams,' the Senior Dean flopped a hand around, ‘the absences, the disciplinaries…'

‘Sir, there's a perfectly…'

‘The goat incident, that business with the vice-chancellor's wife. Everything really. It's all in here.' He tapped the dossier.

‘I appreciate how it looks sir, but if I could just explain.'

‘I'm afraid, Fitzmaurice, the time for explanations has passed. I've spoken to both the head of the Law Faculty and,' he gestured to his right ‘to the Master of Discipline and it's my sorry duty to have to inform you that we have no choice but to send you down.'

Fitzmaurice stared from one to the other and then beyond them at the Senior Dean's new portrait.

‘I…' he was momentarily distracted by the withered hand, ‘you've
what?
'

‘I'm afraid so. It gives us no great pleasure, but your record… well, even you must realise, it's…
bad
.'

‘Yes but… How bad sir?'

‘Very bad, Fitzmaurice. Atrocious.'

‘I'm very sorry to hear that sir.'

‘We did our best. We gave you a lot of leeway.'

‘Yes but…'

‘It's a long accumulation of things really, I mean, of course we appreciate your prowess on the rugby field and in the mountaineering club, but it's not enough to overcome the rest of the... Let's face it, you have no academic aptitude...'

‘Yes but…'

‘Whatsoever. There are a lot of avenues open to you Fitzmaurice, it just happens that the legal profession isn't one of them. Try not to take this badly.'

‘Yes, but what's my mother going to say?'

‘I'm sure she'll understand.'

‘I think I can say with some certainty she won't.'

Fitzmaurice's lip quivered. He saw his mother's face snapping tight at the news, many tiny creatures scuttling for cover on boundless, wind-whipped sands.

‘Please, sir, you have to give me another chance.'

‘Our hands are tied.'

‘Sir, I promise, I can fix everything.'

The Senior Dean petted his goatee for a moment, then whispered with his two colleagues in turn. Slowly he removed his mortarboard and set it on the table.

‘There may be an alternative,' he said.

Fitzmaurice blinked back a tear.

‘Yes?'

All eyes were on him.

‘There is something we would like to have in our possession.'

‘Sir?'

‘Something valuable. Something that could help us add to the store of human knowledge and bring immeasurable prestige to the College,' he paused, ‘something that would reflect well on all of us.'

‘Yes sir, I… and what would that be?'

‘A skeleton.'

Fitzmaurice turned the word over several times in his head but failed to extract meaning from it.

‘A skeleton, sir?'

‘Yes, but no ordinary one. We're talking about the skeleton of a giant.'

Fitzmaurice looked from one to the other. He considered the possibility that some sort of prank was being perpetrated.

‘Sorry sir, did you say
giant
?'

The Senior Dean nodded gravely.

‘Sir, by any chance would this giant be at the foot of a very tall beanstalk?'

The masters exchanged chuckles.

‘Haha, no Fitzmaurice. The skeleton is that of Bernard McNeill, the last of the so-called Tyrone Giants, men who, for reasons not yet fully understood, grew to outlandish heights. It lies beneath a cairn of stones on the southern tip of a small island in the Arctic Archipelago.'

Fitzmaurice's brow performed a series of vigorous exercises.

‘I see. And what's it doing there?'

‘I take it you've heard of Sir Hamilton Coote?'

‘No.'

‘My God, your uncle would be ashamed of you. Coote was one of our finest explorers, County Tipperary man, passed away a few years back. In eighteen sixty-three he led a search for Sir John Franklin, who had disappeared two decades earlier while navigating the Northwest Passage. McNeill the Giant was one of Coote's crew. He died on the voyage.'

‘I see. And may I ask, sir, why you're telling me all this?'

‘Because, Fitzmaurice, we'd like
you
to lead another expedition to bring McNeill's bones back to Trinity.'

The room was silent except for the stiff to-and-fro of the mantel clock's pendulum and the faint sound of the Regius Professor's pug-like breathing. From the square below came the murmur of voices and the muffled tip-tap of rugby boots on cobbles; a tram on Nassau Street sounded its gong. Fitzmaurice leant back and glanced around him at the room's green-shaded lamps and polished surfaces. Time had become slurred, dream-like.

‘Why me, sir?'

The Senior Dean appeared momentarily nonplussed, then recovered himself.

‘A number of reasons. Setting aside your lack of academic commitment, you are hale and hearty, intrepid, ebullient and outgoing, and evidently have the ability to make people like you. You possess, in other words, leadership qualities. More importantly, for current purposes, you are closely associated with, and indeed tied by blood to one of the great heroes of the modern era, which lends you a degree of public credibility.'

Fitzmaurice hadn't understood all that had been said, but felt justified in puffing himself up a little, causing the seams of his blazer to creak.

‘You were the first person we thought of for the job,' the Senior Dean added.

This was untrue. Their first choice, Captain Herbert ‘Eagle-Eye' Eagleton, the man who had prepared their expedition with such efficiency and whom they had to thank for the ship that would shortly dock in Queenstown harbour, had drowned in his bath three weeks previously. Their second, Sir Robert ‘Iceman' Clapperton-Fox, it had transpired, was in prison for stock market fraud, whilst a third, ‘Biffo' Heffernan-Parry, a Trinity man, had been shot down over Dusseldorf during an air raid on a Zeppelin shed. Most of the remaining eligible candidates were dodging German shells and choking on chlorine gas along the Western Front.

‘And if I were to undertake this expedition, what would happen afterwards?'

The Senior Dean again conferred,
sotto voce
, with his advisors.