‘Gorn,’ said he. ‘All sacked last Friday. New policy, what with the war coming up and all.’
‘War? What war?’ I was astounded.
‘No-one’s supposed to know about it yet. But I suppose it can’t do no harm to tell you…’
And then he went on to tell me that a Second World War had been arranged. Something to do with solving unemployment and getting full use from allotments. And that there was to be a ‘war effort’ and a ‘Blitz spirit’ and lots of songs from Vera Lynn. And how this radio receiver was to play a vital part in the running of it all. And how it was all very hush hush and top secret.
‘And so,’ he continued, ‘I am doing work of national importance here. And if you care about King and country, you should muck in and give us a hand.’
And so I did. Poor fool that I was. And that is how I came to be as you see me now.’
He sank to his knees weeping bitterly. Gandhi came mincing in. Full drag, a sailor on each arm.
I sent him packing and ordered Lord N – to finish his tale.
‘It was the small screws,’ he wailed. ‘The more we tried to fix the radio receiver, the more small screws we were left with. We worked at it day and night. The back-room Johnnies had to be called back in the mean time, while we worked on and on and on.’
‘But you must have got it fixed eventually,’ I said to him, ‘because the Second World War did go ahead on schedule.’
‘No it didn’t. It was supposed to start in 1936. By 1939 Hitler said he couldn’t wait any longer for the BBC and he was going to start without them. The whole thing was a complete shambles and it was all my fault.’
‘Well, not all your fault. The cove in the overalls was really to blame.’
‘No,’ wept N – . ‘He was a genius. He finally swept away all the small screws. Obtained a wiring diagram. Stripped down the receiver completely and rebuilt it from the ground up. It worked perfectly first time.’
‘But I thought you said – ’
‘I did. He got so excited that he rushed upstairs to tell the Director General. And while he was gone I twiddled the dials and listened to the news coming in from all over the world. It was wonderful, I can tell you. But then I noticed that one of the dials was a bit loose. So I took it off to have a look at it and a small screw dropped out. So I removed the dust cover from the front to see where it had come from. And you’ll never guess what happened then…’
But I allowed Lord N–’s tale to go no further. I brought out the stout stick that I always carry with me when travelling in the east and smote him fiercely upon the head with it. Called up the captain and had Lord N – promptly bundled into an open boat and set adrift.
Having waved him my goodbyes, I returned to my cabin and chanced to notice several small screws lying upon the floor where he had fallen. In the spirit of devilment I placed two next to Gandhi’s hairdryer.
I would draw his attention to them the following day.
THE BOOK OF ULTIMATE TRUTHS
Hugo Rune
The monastery of Saint Sacco Benedetto was not a pretty sight. All the world over there are beautiful monasteries. They nestle into hillsides or ride high upon craggy peaks. They grow up from the landscape. They are at one with it. At peace and in harmony with it. Which is partly what monasteries are all about really.
But not this one. This one was an irregular eyesore.
And it had always been so. Since the first stones were laid, folk looked up at that monastery and went ‘blurgh’.
It was difficult to say exactly what was wrong with it. Well, actually it wasn’t. Everything was wrong with it. The overall design. The colour of the stones. The angle of the rooftops. The shape of the windows. Et cetera and et cetera.
The blame lay with the original architect. Norris the No-mark. ) Or rather it lay with his dad, Mergus the Mighty, and a little thing called nepotism.
Mergus was one of those Dark-Age Celtic warlord kind of bodies, who knocked around with King Arthur and slew on a regular basis.
He was considered a doer of mighty deeds even amongst those who did mighty deeds for a living. And there were a lot of them about back then.
Everything about Mergus was mighty. His helm was heroic. His hauberk Herculean. His vambraces were valorous and his greaves grandiose. It took four strong men to buckle on his cuirass. And it was said that he once left his codpiece out in the rain and a cow fell into it and drowned.
Naturally his horse was pretty big also. And as for his sword!
Well!
The Venerable Bede writes thusly of it:
And the sword of Mergus was a mighty sword. Forged in the fires of Argsnargh the Armourer from the blades of an hundred warriors that Mergus did slay before breakfast.
And so mighty was this sword of Mergus that none but he could wield it. And him sometimes with difficulty. But wield it he did. And often. And no man could stand before that mighty sword when he was a wielding of it. And once he had done with the wielding of it, those that still bore heads upon their shoulders did give thanks, and say verily here is a bad man to get the wrong side of. And things of that nature.
All in all, then, the kind of fellow who probably wouldn’t have taken too kindly to remarks about his son’s ineptitude as an architect.
High upon a not too distant hillside, a patch of blue sky took on another shade of blue as a Cadillac Eldorado purred to a standstill.
Tuppe climbed up in his seat and stared down at the monastery.
‘Blurgh,’ said Tuppe. ‘What a horrid building.’
‘It does lack a certain something,’ Cornelius agreed.
Tuppe turned to his friend. ‘Now,’ said he, in a serious tone, ‘I have given this matter much thought and I truly believe that I should be the one to go down there and acquire the papers.’
‘Absolutely not. I wouldn’t hear of such a thing.’
‘It would be for the best. Please let me do it.’
‘My job.’ Cornelius put a thumb to his chest. ‘I will go. If you see anything suspicious, meep the horn.’
‘Meep the horn? Cornelius, you are making a mistake. I can get in there. Let me do it.’
‘No.’ Cornelius stepped from the car and slammed shut the door. A slight breeze caught his hair and tossed it back in a romantic fashion. Cornelius affected a heroic pose and stared down at the monastery.
‘Stay here and read this.’ He pulled the daddy’s dog-eared copy of The Book of Ultimate Truths from his pocket and handed it to the small fellow with the shaking head. ‘It might help.’
‘I certainly doubt that. Cornelius, please.’
‘Tuppe, no. I am in complete command of the situation. Farewell.’ Cornelius turned away to take his leave and in doing so left behind a goodly portion of his right trouser leg, which was trapped in the car door.
One change of trousers and a long hike down the hillside later and Cornelius found himself standing before the monastery of Saint Sacco Benedetto. Its walls overhung in a precarious fashion with iron spikes depending. The great door was bound with beaten hasps. A thing of formidable construction. Hundreds of rivet heads testified to its fortitude. This was a door which made a statement. It said, ‘KEEP OUT.’
Cornelius flattened down his hair, which during the hike had composed itself into a passable facsimile of the Pisa tower, straightened his lapels, threw back his shoulders and squared up to the challenge.
He sought out the bell-pull.
There was no bell-pull.
Undaunted, he reached for the knocker.
This was notable only for its absence.
As was the letter flap.
Cornelius made little whistling noises, gave the matter a moment or two’s thought and then set out to test a certain proposition.
He thrust his hands into his pockets. Turned casually and leaned upon the great door. It swung open and he toppled backwards into the monastery.
Cornelius climbed to his feet, dusted himself down and gently closed the door. He now stoo
d in a horrible-looking vestibule, lined with irregularly spaced columns. The walls were painted in gloss green, the ceiling was far too high and the uneven flagstones lay in wait.
Cornelius observed the unmistakable face of Max Bygraves in a damp patch on the right-hand wall, divided by a long white crack which traced the route of the sixty-five bus from Ealing Broadway to Richmond. Cornelius stepped warily.
‘And what have we here?’ he asked himself.
A blue plume of smoke drifted from behind an irregularly spaced column. The sounds of smothered coughing followed it.
Cornelius stifled a smirk. His kind of monk. He called out in a strident voice, ‘Hello there. Anybody home?’
The coughing ceased. There was the sound of a foot stamping and a hand became visible. It flapped at the air.
‘Who goes there?’ asked a tortured voice.
‘Papal emissary,’ Cornelius replied. ‘Here to see the abbot.’
‘Papal bloody what?’ A monk appeared from behind the column. His cowl was drawn down over his face and his hands were tucked, each into the sleeve of its opposite number. ‘Who let you in?’ he demanded to know.
‘No-one. I used my pass key.’ Cornelius stepped forward and put out his hand for a shake. ‘Murphy’s the name. Of the papal nunciature. Grants department. Here on special assignment. And you are?’
‘I’m a monk,’ said the monk, declining the offer of Murphy’s hand. ‘Don’t they teach you anything?’
‘I meant your name. You do have a name, I suppose.’
‘We have no names here. We renounce all such worldly affectations. Here we have only numbers.’
‘And so yours is?’
‘I am number Six.’
Cornelius fought back the snappy rejoinder based upon the 1960s TV cult classic The Prisoner, only with the greatest of difficulty. But he managed it nonetheless.
‘I would like to see the abbot. Kindly take me to him.’
‘No-one can see the abbot.’
Cornelius stuck his hands into his trouser pockets and blew a rogue strand of hair from his face. ‘The abbot is expecting me. I phoned earlier.’
‘We don’t have a phone,’ said Brother Six.
Cornelius made the sign of the cross on the floor with his left toecap. ‘The Pope isn’t going to like this,’ he said. ‘Like as not he’ll make me return all the money to him.’
‘Money?’ The monk made a small involuntary step forwards. ‘What money?’
‘The grant. For the rebuilding of the monastery. A not inconsiderable sum. All in cash. Apparently the holy father is so impressed with the privations of his children here that he has felt fit to award a bursary. And institute a new experimental regime. From what I’ve heard it sounds like a real papal bull of a plan.’
‘Go on?’ said Brother Six. ‘Tell me more.’
‘Well. Apparently he feels that the brothers here should know more about the pleasures of the flesh. He thinks it would be good for them to have a greater knowledge of the outside world. Therefore he plans the installation of satellite TV. A bar with a holy hour. French chef. Oh yes, and he is quite insistent that tobacco and soft drugs be readily available.’
‘Get away,’ said the monk. ‘You’re pulling my plonker.’
‘I am doing no such thing. But…’ Cornelius turned away. ‘If the abbot cannot be spoken to, so be it. I do have other monasteries to visit today. There is a Jesuit sanctuary not far from here, I believe. Perhaps you would be so kind as to direct me.’
‘Not so fast.’ Brother Six forced out a ‘my son’ to go on the end. ‘I never said we weren’t interested.’
Cornelius turned back.
‘What kind of soft drugs?’ asked Brother Six.
Arthur Kobold stuffed a large piece of cake into his mouth and munched upon it. The telephone on his desk began to ring.
Arthur wiped a sleeve across his face and picked up the receiver.
‘Kobold,’ he said, spraying crumbs into the already crumbed-up mouthpiece.
‘What progress?’ asked the voice at his ear.
Arthur Kobold stiffened to attention. ‘Matters are in hand.’
‘And what of Murphy?’
‘I dismissed him.’
‘You did what?’ The voice was high and piping.
‘I dismissed him. I thought it best under the circumstances.’
‘And so where is Murphy now?’
‘At the monastery, I should imagine. Proving himself to be the stuff of epics.’ Arthur’s fingers strayed towards another helping of cake. ‘He’ll get the papers. Have no fear.’
‘He better had. Or you know what will happen to you.’
Arthur’s fingers withdrew, cakeless. ‘I’m doing the best that I can,’ he complained. ‘These things take time.’
‘Too much time. Two more days, Kobold. That’s all the time you have. If the papers are not delivered by then, the project will be cancelled and you recalled. And more direct measures will be taken.’
‘More direct? How direct might that be exactly?’
‘Very direct. Totally, in fact. I will set in motion The Train of Trismegistus!’
‘Not The Train of Trismegistus?’ gasped Arthur Kobold.
‘The Train of Trismegistus. And you know what that means.’
‘No more cake,’ sighed Arthur Kobold. ‘Not none at all.’
‘Two days or else!’ The line went dead and Arthur Kobold replaced the receiver.
‘No more cake.’ Arthur’s bottom lip began to quiver. ‘Not none. At all.’ He pulled the half-finished Black Forest Gateau towards him and buried his face in it.
‘Bhang,’ said Cornelius, as Brother Six led him along a truly horrendous gallery. ‘Angel dust, Acid, amphetamines…’ The wonky walls were made gay with many paintings, each depicting violent martyrdom. Cornelius had often wondered why it was that so many saints went off to glory bereft of their clothes. And such fine physical specimens they all were. Each a veritable Adonis. Here was Saint Sebastian, his superbly muscled torso cruelly pierced by all those arrows.
Cornelius stopped to consider his expression. He looked quite cheerful really. Almost as if he was…
Brother Six turned to hurry Cornelius along. He followed the direction of the tall boy’s gaze.
‘That would make your eyes water, eh?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Never mind. Go on with what you were saying.’
Cornelius continued with his narcotic litany. ‘Amyl nitrate, barbs, bennies, Cannabis Sativa, cocaine…’ He followed the monk with the spring in his step. ‘Dagga, dwale, Ecstasy, Frisco speedball, fly agaric, ganja…’
‘Stick on ‘G’,’ said Brother Six. ‘We’re here.’
They had come to a narrow doorway, that framed an even narrower door. It was painted bright yellow.
‘I’ll just pop in and tell the holy father that you’ve arrived. I’m sure he won’t wish to keep you waiting. What did you say your name was again?’
‘Murphy,’ said Murphy. ‘Cornelius Murphy. Perhaps it would be better if I was to…’ But he got no further. Brother Six had knocked, opened and gone inside. The door slammed shut behind him.
‘Possibly run.’ Cornelius prepared to make away on his toes. And so he would have done, had not the yellow door suddenly re-opened and Brother Six come bowling through the doorway.
He struck the tall boy with considerable force. Lifting him from his feet and carrying him across the gallery, where the two came to rest in some confusion.
Cornelius struggled to his feet. Prepared to make a fight of it. He raised his fists. ‘Come on then,’ he said.
The monk looked up at him. A puzzled expression on a face that seemed scarcely older than the Murphy’s. ‘Do what?’ he asked.
‘I don’t want to fight with you.’
‘I don’t want you to either.’
‘But you attacked me.’
‘No I didn’t.’ Brother Six rose with as much dignity as he could muster. ‘I tripped
coming out of the door. The holy father told me to hurry up. I’m sorry. You can go straight in.’
‘I can? What did you tell the holy father about me?’
‘Just your name. That’s all. He said he was expecting you.’
‘Yes. Well. I told you he was.’
‘Right. Come on then.’ Brother Six urged Cornelius over to the little yellow door. ‘We mustn’t keep the holy father waiting, must we?’
‘We must not.’
Brother Six knocked and announced. ‘Mr Cornelius Murphy.’ Then he opened the door and pushed Cornelius forwards. ‘Mind the step,’ he advised.
Cornelius didn’t mind the step. Possibly, had he been able to see the step, he would have minded it. But he couldn’t so he didn’t. He tumbled into utter impenetrable darkness. The door slammed shut behind him and he slammed heavily to the invisible floor.
He blinked his eyes and fumbled around and wondered, very reasonably enough, whether he had just walked into a very big trap.
‘Hello,’ he called lamely. ‘Is there anybody there?’
‘Welcome, my son,’ came a hoarse whisper. ‘I trust you have not injured yourself. I really must do something about that step.’
Cornelius felt that, other than for his pride, he had sustained no lasting injury. ‘I don’t seem to be able to see anything. Might we have the light on?’
‘No light,’ whispered the abbot. ‘I have taken a vow of darkness.’
‘Oh. I see. Or rather I don’t. But I understand what you mean.’ Cornelius rose once more to his feet and dusted himself down. He could see absolutely nothing. But he could smell a great deal.
A dozen years before this moment, Cornelius had been brought low with scarlet fever. The doctor didn’t understand quite how, because, as an illness, scarlet fever was no longer fashionable.
The current craze was for hyperactivity brought on by food additives or dairy products or whatever. Scarlet fever had gone the way of rickets and ringworm. But Cornelius had managed to contract it nevertheless and the upshot of this was that the tall boy, in fact quite a small boy at the time, although tall for his age, had been confined in a dark bedroom for six weeks on a diet of poached white fish.
Whether this was the correct treatment or not, no-one seemed certain. But it obviously did the trick, because he fully recovered. But there had been a curious side effect. Lying there in the darkness day after day, Cornelius became aware that, deprived of his sight, his other senses were compensating for the loss. Quite wonderfully. His hearing became intensely acute. But it was his sense of smell that really came into its own.