Ark Baby (32 page)

‘We were born to breed,’ said Rose, as she and Blanche returned from their ante-natal session at the Baldicoot Medical Centre. There was another place that had cashed in on the crisis; it had bought St Nicholas’s Church and converted it into a surgery, where it ran both pregnancy classes
and
a Denial Group.

‘We want to start up a whole tribe,’ explained Blanche.

‘It’s a primal urge,’ said Rose authoritatively.

‘Since the time of Noah,’ added Blanche.

A primal urge which had soon rendered us flat broke. As we neared the second trimester of delusion, Rose and Blanche kept buying things we didn’t need; endless electrical appliances – toasters, ghetto-blasters, bottle-warmers – for which Norman, the great colluder, had to come in and make a little shelf. ‘I warned you,’ he’d say cheerily, dusting down a high-chair or an ancient plastic bath-toy. ‘Double trouble!’ Then he’d leave.

The twins’ bellies grew and grew, and eventually I was forced to vacate the emperor-sized bed for fear of being squashed to death in my sleep. I set up on the sofa-bed in the surgery, where the smell of praxin gave me queasy dreams – dreams in which the macaque Giselle would jabber at me, or whimper, or howl. Was her sudden re-appearance trying to tell me something? It
was she, after all, and the terrible Mann woman, who had been the trigger for my arrival in Thunder Spit – a place of refuge, I reflected, which had quickly become a trap. I tried to analyse it. I pictured Giselle with her little upturned face and her hairy legs and her pink frock, but it still didn’t dawn on me.

‘A lot of m-m-m-m-men have been having anxiety d-d-d-d-dreams as we enter the f-f-final stages of the delusionary ph-ph-ph-phase,’ warned Dr Keith Eaves on
Breakthrough
. ‘Now I’m going to ask you to look at the c-c-c-c-components of your d-d-d-d-dreams carefully, and try to make c-c-c-c-connections. It might well be the k-k-k-key to the future well-being of your r-r-relationship.’

Time passed; the lambing season turned to the cat-flu season and then the abandoned-dog season; as we entered the third trimester, I dreamed about Giselle with increasing frequency, and tried to make sense of it, as Dr Eaves had suggested, but was still none the wiser. Then, when I was shaving one morning and reaching for the towel, I suddenly made the connection.

Giselle – monkeys – Eureka!

Monkeys!

My towel-holder! The Gentleman Monkey! Dr Ivanhoe Scrapie’s manuscript! The sketch!

Money! How could I have been such a moron all this time?

Thank you, Dr Keith Eaves!

The Gentleman Monkey had become so much a part of the household furniture that I barely noticed him any more; he had become reduced to pure function. With all the upheaval over the pregnancy hysteria, I’d put Dr Ivanhoe Scrapie’s treatise to one side. Abbie had given it to me the very day the news had broken about that Gillie woman in Glasgow. I’d been meaning to do something about it and then –

Christ. In all the madness about the twins being pregnant, I’d just forgotten about it. Now, I cursed myself for letting it slip to the back of my mind. Hadn’t I decided that this monkey might be valuable? Where had I put the treatise? Christ knew. I turned the house upside-down looking for it, then discovered
that the twins had shoved it under the kitchen sink, along with my animal-anatomy books and the bleach. I re-read it. It looked like this bloke really believed what he was saying. Just like Rose and Blanche really believed what they were saying. Not hoaxing: pure delusion. But the sketch of the Gentleman Monkey, and the claim that it was extinct – that was still exciting, as a prospect. A financial prospect. And a good reason to pack my blue suede shoes and hit the road.

As their due date approached, I noticed with some satisfaction that the twins were finally beginning to fret about money. Perhaps it was about to dawn on them that they might
not
be about to get the Reward. They even began work on the genealogy chart again – a project they’d abandoned as soon as they were up the imaginary spout. It was the morning they presented me with their four-point financial plan scrawled in lipstick on a sheet of greaseproof paper that I decided that now was as good a time as any to bugger off back to London, take a break from country life, and research the Gentleman Monkey. I’d trawled the Internet for more information, but despite endless E-mails from enthusiastic primate-watchers, I’d been unable to locate anyone who knew about a creature of that name. There’s nothing like doing something in person.

I re-read the twins’ list of objectives and sighed.

1. Get genealogy diploma and sell roots charts to Americans.
2. Apply for another grant increase from Dr Bugrov.
3. Flog all our old junk at the car-boot sale.
4. Give birth, and win ten million Euros! Hurray!

‘I’m thinking of going down to London,’ I said.

‘Fine by us,’ said Rose, holding up a little knitted jumpsuit.

‘Where are you going exactly?’ asked Blanche, putting the finishing touches to a mobile of dangling pastel bunny rabbits and bulbous butterflies.

‘To the Natural History Museum,’ I said. ‘To discover the origins of our increasingly fascinating towel-holder.’

They looked at each other then, and made a face.

‘Funny, we’ve just been talking about that old thing,’ said Rose, sniggering. ‘
Vis-à-vis
our financial plan.’

But she wouldn’t tell me what was funny. I went upstairs and packed my things.

‘Well, come straight back,’ they called after me as I left. ‘We’re due the day after tomorrow!’

Along with twenty million other women, I thought, chucking the keys to my Nuance in the air like they do in films, but failing to catch them.

I left with the sound of their stereo laughter ringing in my ears.

Nature red in tooth and claw: who has not witnessed its very particular horrors? Who has not observed Mr Jaws the Beetle crunching up poor Mr Bobby Centipede alive, or Mrs Itsy-Bitsy Spider cannibalising her husband only seconds after congress, or Mr Moggy Cat (Here, Pussy, here Pussikins!) torturing and disembowelling the innocent rodent, Miss Squeaky Shrew? Call it bad design if you will, but this is life!

So the idea of a natural carnivore such as
Homo sapiens
reverting to the allegedly herbivorous diet of his most ancient, primitive ancestors, on the grounds of ‘humanity’, is no more and no less than an absurd and sentimental whim. And worse, an argument without logic! Take it to its obvious conclusion, Mademoiselle Scrapie,
ma petite chérie
, and you will discover yourself not stepping into your vegetable patch for fear of crushing a garden slug, and holding your breath, for fear of inhaling an innocent germ! If Mr Darwin is right, then surely, the more we evolve, the more frequent, demanding, wide-ranging and imaginative should our visits to the butcher’s be!
This
is civilisation!

So run the thoughts of Monsieur Cabillaud, the Belgian chef, as he stirs his pot of guinea-pig broth for Her Majesty’s luncheon. Yet he is grateful, paradoxically enough, for the illogical argument and sentimental whim that led Miss Violet Scrapie to lose her wits and boot him out of Madagascar Street. For what turn of events could have engendered a happier outcome?

Being head chef at Buckingham Palace is not to be sneezed
at. Jacques-Yves Cabillaud does not sneeze. He breathes in the sweetly scented air of simmered guinea-pig and freedom. Freedom to, and freedom from! What can be more sublime a thing than to have risen in a few short months through the ranks of Her Majesty’s servants, and now to be master of the best kitchen in the land, at a time when one of the greatest ever of Victoria’s famous feasts is
en pleine préparation
. Never more so than today. The Banquet approaches, and the Palace kitchen plays host to an odoriferous whirlwind of activity: filleting, sizzling, chopping, basting, kneading, and whisking in readiness for the event, which is, dear reader, none other than the Celebration of Evolution Banquet!

Long live Charles Darwin, guest of honour and excuse for all this kerfuffle!

Cabillaud smiles to himself. Will Mr Darwin recall him now? Will the great zoologist in whose honour the Banquet is being held, recognise in the rounded, confident form of the Queen’s head chef the vestiges of the seasick but ambitious young cook who once travelled with him on the
Beagle
? Unlikely, but tantalisingly possible. Darwin, after all, is an expert on the subject of evolution. And what is Cabillaud’s life-history, if not a dramatic example of personal transformation over time? What indeed is Cabillaud, dare he suggest it himself, if not a shining example of Nature’s quest for – and attainment of – perfection?

‘’Ere. Take zis.’ Shoving his wooden spatula at a callow
sous-sous-sous-chef
, Jacques-Yves Cabillaud points the minion in the direction of the steaming broth, and begins to pace the kitchen, reviewing for the umpteenth time his plans for the Banquet. There is to be a meringue castle, the preparation of which requires fifty dozen eggs. There are to be a thousand jellied eels. A tub of mongoose pâté. Five thousand oysters. Poached desert weasel. A whole field’s-worth of strawberries, to be glazed and placed inside individual puff-pastry moulds. Grilled dolphin. The biggest fruit salad ever made in the civilised world. Jackal mousse
à la triomphe
. Kebabbed cat. Fifteen
hundred individualised
amuse-gueules
featuring zebra mince and
coulis de tomates
.

Not to mention the Time-Bomb. The magnificent casing of which is being steered into position as we speak.

‘A bit to ze left!’ orders Cabillaud, rubbing his hands in anticipation.

‘Yes, sir!’

‘Now to ze right a little!’

‘No sooner said than done, sir!’

‘And now you will PUSH!’

The hefty
sous-chef
heaves with his bristling fore-arms, and the giant clam shell – measuring a good fifteen feet across – wobbles dangerously, then topples into its pre-ordained horizontal atop the specially designed trolley. Jacques-Yves Cabillaud surveys the clam, a big rocky bowl of calcium deposits, with the critical eye of a connoisseur. It is rumoured that this clam once housed a pearl, a pearl so extraordinary that it has been squirrelled away to a secret pearl room, to which only the Royal Hippo has the key. But Cabillaud doesn’t give a hoot about the pearl. It is the shell that is his concern – and its safe arrangement on the trolley.

Why, dear reader?

Because it is to become part of his greatest work of culinary art to date – a work so ambitious that it will eclipse even the glory of his published tome,
Cuisine Zoologique: une philosophie de la viande
, that’s why!

The bristle-armed
sous-chef
now stands back, sweating, and awaits further instructions from his master.

‘Now you will scrub it clean until it is gleaming!’ commands Cabillaud, patting its bumpy surface. ‘Until I can see my own face in it!’

‘Yes, sir!’

Everything about the Time-Bomb must be perfect. Including its delicate mechanics. When Cabillaud had first heard of the extraordinary Mechanical Millipede, he sent out search parties to locate its engineer, an acknowledged genius.

‘’E must ’elp me,’ Cabillaud insisted.’ ‘’E will understand. Only ze best minds in ze ’ole country can do justice to my
idée
.’

It was in this spirit of culinary idealism that the engineer, Mr Hillber, of the Travelling Fair of Danger and Delight, was eventually tracked down, lured away from his regular work in exchange for a fat fee, installed in the servants’ quarters, and roped into Cabillaud’s grand plan. A major ingredient of which – the giant clam – now stands before Cabillaud, its rocky exterior about to receive the scrubbing of its life, its delicately coloured inner shell hidden, but gleaming with promise. The promise of secrets. The promise of a surprise within a surprise within a surprise.

‘What’s for pudding?’ Cabillaud used to ask his mother as a boy.

‘Wait-and-see pudding,’ the reply always came.

Amid the clatter of pots and pans, and the hiss of fragrant steam, Cabillaud is once again eyeing the clam critically. It suddenly reminds him of his unhappy days of seasickness and seaweed aboard the
Beagle
, and he shudders.

‘All zis seaweed must vanish completely!’ he commands. ‘If zer is one sing I ’ate and detest, it is ze seaweed!’

‘Yes, sir!’

Kashoum, kashoum, kashoum, goes the wire brush, as scraps of stinking weed, along with rotting mussels, limpets and barnacles fall to the floor. Kashoum, kashoum.

Yes: the Time-Bomb requires extraordinary levels of commitment, negotiation, inspiration, technique, fervour, and plain honest elbow-grease. Pistons have been discussed at length, ink diagrams sketched on linen tablecloths, pros and cons weighed, decisions reached, abandoned, and resurrected; promises made and reneged upon; plans hatched and scuppered; hair torn out, nails bitten, brandy drunk, sleep lost, and floors angrily spat upon.
Vive la création
!

‘Ah, my dear Hillber!’ calls Cabillaud, spotting the Mechanical Millipede engineer. Hillber – so small and wiry he might almost be fabricated from a coat-hanger – skips past a row of pastry-
makers in a cloud of flour, and comes to shake Cabillaud’s hand warmly. Then he gestures to introduce his companion, also emerging from the flour: he is a sharp and frostbitten-looking man sporting a bow tie.

‘Mr Edward Ironside. I believe you have met in the past. He arrived this morning.’

‘Welcome, my dear friend!’ says Cabillaud, smiling in recognition. It has been many years since they last met, at Dr Scrapie’s, when Ironside was a mere stripling, an apprentice taxidermist. It was he who supervised the Arctic iceberg and its safe arrival in the Scrapie ice-house, and now his expertise in the dual disciplines of freezing and taxidermy make him an invaluable member of the team.

‘Excellent,’ says Cabillaud, shaking Ironside’s freezing hand.

‘Shall we zen begin? We ’ave ze problem of ze breathing to discuss.’

‘And the woman?’ asks Ironside. ‘The artiste? Has she been informed of our requirements?’