‘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 mon
key 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.
‘Security,’ said Winston Churchill. ‘We live in troubled times. Such a mighty edifice would present the ideal target for anarchists.’
‘One cares not for anarchists,’ said Her Majesty the Queen.
‘And,’ continued Mr Churchill, ‘there is the matter of importation. What goods will be arriving from the other worlds? What threats to the nation might these pose?’
The Queen gazed down her nose towards Lord Brentford.
His lordship worried a little more at the bee, which had somehow crawled its way into his sling.
‘The Grand Exposition,’ he said, ‘is a mission for peace between the worlds. I would ask the noble representatives from Venus and Jupiter who sit amongst us to speak of what they would care to display.’
Leah’s golden eyes gazed at Lord Brentford. ‘What has the Ambassador of Jupiter to say on these matters?’ she asked.
‘I?’ said the ambassador. ‘Thou askest me, lass? Well, I’ll tell thee.’
And with that the ambassador started to sing:
We have cakes and pies and sausages and pastries and preserves.
Pots of honey, marmalade and jam.
Bread and buns and big baguettes.
Toffee shaped like cigarettes.
Cuts of pork and beef and leg of lamb.
Our pies are the size of the Sun in the skies.
Our pork is the talk of the town.
Our butter, I’ll utter, will make thy heart flutter
And our cheese will please as thou swallow it down.
We have brisket, we have biscuit, we have chocolate gateau,
And thou’ll not want for sweeties, I can say.
We have bubble gum to please thy tum
And we can offer everyone
The finest foods this universe could put upon display.
Queen Victoria clapped her hands; she always had a soft spot for the Jovians.
‘I know a rather saucy song about a lady lighthouse keeper,’ said Sir Peter Harrow.
‘Not now, Sir Peter,’ said the Queen.
Darwin arrived with the opium pipe and the chastened Sir Peter accepted it gratefully.
‘So,’ said Lord Brentford to the Jovian ambassador, ‘I envisage the area assigned to the arts, crafts, produce and commerce of Jupiter to be one resembling a greatly magnified version of Harrods’ food hall.’
‘Only tastier,’ said the ambassador.
Darwin offered a tray of marshmallows to Queen Victoria’s monkey.
‘And might we hear now from the Venusian representatives?’ asked his lordship.
‘We will be contributing nothing,’ said Leah.
‘Nothing?’ said Queen Victoria. ‘What is one to understand by this?’
‘The ecclesiastical elders have discussed this matter at length,’ said Leah, her voice as some Arcadian ghost murmuring amongst the towering plants. ‘It has been agreed that we will put upon display one of our greatest treasures: a sphere containing nothingness — which is to say, the purest thing in the entire universe.’
‘One wishes for enlightenment,’ said the Empress of India and Mars.
The golden gaze of Leah touched the monarch. ‘Between our world and yours,’ she whispered, ‘exists the realm of space. But space is not an empty place, for it is popularly understood that space is filled with the aether, an electric though impalpable something which conducts the heat of the Sun and the light from the stars. If space was an empty vacuum, devoid of all molecules, molecules even of space itself, then light and heat could not be conducted through it.’
Sir Peter might have taken issue with this, but he had the opium pipe upon the go and his eye had fallen upon the upstairs maid, both spare and kempt, who was drifting about in an enigmatic fashion.
‘And your sphere,’ said Lord Brentford to Leah, ‘contains absolutely nothing — pure unadulterated nothingness?’
Leah’s gaze rested upon him and her wide mouth formed a smile.
‘What does it look like, this nothingness?’ asked Her Majesty the Queen.
‘Quite unlike anything you could imagine,’ said Leah. ‘To gaze upon it is to gaze into celestial purity. Those who gaze upon it will be touched for ever.
‘Then they can come t’ our bit later for lunch,’ said the Jovian ambassador.
‘Ooooh,’ went Lord Brentford of a sudden.
‘Ooooh?’ queried Her Majesty. ‘What is the meaning of “ooooh”?’
‘A bumblebee’s gone up my sleeve,’ said his lordship.
‘Winston,’ said Her Majesty, ‘go and swat the bee that’s bothering Brentford.’
Winston Churchill rose and drew his sword.
‘No need for swordplay,’ said Lord Brentford.
‘Say I’m the only bee in your bonnet,’ sang Sir Peter Harrow.
Queen Victoria looked on with interest as Winston Churchill began to buffet Lord Brentford with the pommel of his sword.
‘I’ve never been to the Isle of Wight,’ said Caruthers to Geraldo in the kiwi tongue, ‘but I’ve heard it’s a very nice place.’
Darwin popped a marshmallow into Emily’s mouth. Emily munched and fluttered her lashes at Darwin.
Sir Peter blew kisses to the upstairs maid, but she remained aloof from his advances.
Presently Queen Victoria said, ‘One tires of all this hitting, Winston. Surely the bee must be done for by now.
Winston Churchill cracked Lord Brentford over the head. ‘One can never be too sure, ma’am,’ was his answer to that.
‘Stop it now, Winston,’ said the Queen. ‘There are matters of state to discuss.’
‘I hate to pour cold water on this,’ said Mr Churchill, clouting Lord Brentford one more time before sheathing his sword and returning to his seat, ‘but frankly, ma’am, this entire enterprise is simply ludicrous.’
‘How so?’ asked Her Majesty the Queen.
‘Ma’am, the Jovians seek only to open a restaurant and the Venusians have absolutely nothing whatsoever to contribute. Added to which no location can be found to accommodate this monstrous anarchist’s delight of a construct
ion.’
Queen Victoria stroked her monkey’s head. ‘These are good points,’ she said to Lord Brentford. ‘How do you answer them?’
Lord Brentford, however, was still preoccupied with the bee, which had outmanoeuvred Mr Churchill’s assault and taken refuge in his lordship’s trousers.
‘Well?’ went the monarch. ‘Well?’
‘Ma’am,’ said Lord Brentford, feeling at himself beneath the table, ‘Mr Churchill seeks to obfuscate the issue. Jupiter offers us the finest viands in the solar system, everything that can delight the palate. Venus offers us spiritual sustenance, affording us a view into the infinite. Should these two not be sufficient for all to marvel at, the British Empire will contribute the cream of its arts and industries. There will be a great concert hall and within it, to celebrate the dawn of the new century, the London Symphony Orchestra, with full chorus, will perform Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony — surely one of Mankind’s highest attainments. All these wonders of the worlds gathered together in the heart of the Empire could not offer a nobler tribute to England’s most beloved monarch. Namely yourself.’
Winston Churchill made a sullen face.
Queen Victoria said, ‘We are convinced.’
‘Ha,’ said Winston Churchill. ‘There is still no place in London to accommodate this errant aberration.’
‘We will raise it next to the Mall,’ said Queen Victoria. ‘The parklands there belong to the Royal Household. Lord Brentford has one’s permission to construct his hall for the Great Exposition there.’
‘No,’ cried Winston Churchill, rising once more to his feet. ‘Such a thing is dangerous folly, ma am.
‘Do you argue with your monarch, Mr Churchill?’ Queen Victoria made the face of sternness.
‘No, ma’am, please, but—’
‘Waark!’ went Lord Brentford as the bumblebee stung him hard in a personal place.
‘Allow me,’ said Mr Churchill, once more drawing his sword.
Darwin, whose eyes were only for Emily, heard Lord Brentford’s, ‘Waark!’ but felt that it was probably none of his business.