The Educated Ape & other Wonders of the Worlds (11 page)

Mr
Anthony Lemon-Partee now applied himself to the opening of the envelope. It was
a yearly spectacle that the organ-grinders very much enjoyed. He went about it
as one possessed, but given the largeness of his fingers and the smallness of
the envelope, the performance could be likened to that of a pugilist in boxing
gloves attempting to thread a needle. The chairman worried at that envelope. He
fumbled and he fought with that envelope and eventually, to considerable
applause, he rent it asunder and dragged from its ruination a crumpled piece of
paper and waved it triumphantly aloft.

‘The
man is a buffoon,’ whispered Darwin.

Cameron
Bell agreed that indeed he was.

Now
freely perspiring, Mr Lemon-Partee unfolded the crumpled sheet of paper and did
that little professional cough and clearing of the throat which one does
preparatory to delivering any speech of significant importance.

‘Gentlemen,
the Golden Grinders of Eighteen Ninety-Eight. First category — Most Strident
Rendition of a Popular Music Hall Tune. The nominees are: Mr Bert Gussett for
“We’re Digging a Present for Granny”.’ Bert received some mild applause for
this. ‘Mr Eric Peercing for “Little Willy’s Dead and Gone, But We Still Have
His Stains to Remind Us”.’ There was slightly more applause here because, after
all, that
was
a most popular song. ‘Mr Danny Bucket for the evergreen
“Don’t Kiss a Corpse in a Coffin If You’ve Got Phossy Jaw”.’ The applause at
this was polite, for Danny
had
won the award last year for the same
song. ‘And lastly—’ And here Mr Lemon-Partee paused and peered hard at the
paper, shook his head and peered again and then announced the final nominee.
‘Miss Lavinia Dharkstorrm for “Sympathy for the Devil”.’
[7]

There
came now some
tut-tut-tutting
and murmurs that all was not well.

‘Gentlemen,’
said the chairman, ‘show decorum, please. The choices made are those of the
Fellows. Allow me to announce the winner. And the winner
is—’
And once
more he paused and he peered and he gasped somewhat, too. ‘The winner is,’ he
said in a still, small voice, ‘Miss Lavinia Dharkstorrm for “Sympathy for the
Devil”.’

Silence
fell like a fire curtain and then there was warm applause. But it was a
localised applause, coming as it did solely from the table of Miss Lavinia
Dharkstorrm.

Cameron
Bell cast a glance in her direction. The High Priestess of the Great White Lodge
was grinning wickedly. She arose from her seat and, moving with an almost
liquid grace, threaded her way between the tables to face the potato-headed man
upon the stage. The liveried servant handed her the coveted award and she
turned gracefully to face the diners.

‘Gentlemen,’
she said. ‘I am so grateful. I would like to thank—’

‘So,
moving swiftly on,’ said Mr Lemon-Partee.

‘If
you do not mind,’ Miss Lavinia Dharkstorrm said, holding high her award, ‘I
really would like to say a few words.’

The
chairman gazed down upon her, perspiration running freely over his lumpen
forehead. The enormity of what had just occurred was causing him to tremble. A
woman
winning a Golden Grinder? It was unheard of Unthinkable. It was an
aberration. ‘Madam, if you would please return to your seat, ‘he said, through
gritted teeth, ‘we have four more awards to get through. Move along, now —
swiftly, if you would.’

Miss
Dharkstorrm turned and looked up at the chairman, focusing her mauve eyes
briefly upon him. Then she turned once more to face the diners, curtseyed
politely and slipped away to her table.

‘Next
category,’ said Mr Lemon-Partee, swaying slightly as he did so. ‘Best-Kept
Organ. Always a closely fought contest, this. Mr Danny Bucket has taken the
award for three years in a row — will tonight be his fourth?’

The
applause was …
measured.
‘Good old Danny,’ said someone, without
conviction.

‘And
the nominations are—’ The chairman read once more from his sheet of paper. ‘Mr
Danny Bucket, Mr Mickey Muggins, Mr Arthur Sixpence and—’ Syllables got stuck
inside the chairman’s throat. His face grew red as he slowly spat them out.
‘Miss Lavinia Dharkstorrm,’ he said, in a voice of utter despair.

The
collective intake of breath sucked much of the oxygen out of the room. Darwin
looked at Cameron Bell. Cameron Bell just shrugged. Ugly rumblings rumbled.
Grumblings and mumblings of dissent. Made ever more so when the winner’s name
was announced.

‘Gentlemen,
gentlemen, please.’ Mr Lemon-Partee sought order. His was not to reason why, he
was just to read from the paper. The Fellows made the decisions and their
decisions were final. Mr Lemon—Partee attempted to explain this to the mumbling
grumblers. The mumbling grumblers made menacing faces. They were not at all
pleased. As Miss Lavinia Dharkstorrm once more stepped forward to claim an
award, someone blew a raspberry and another booed behind his hand.

Miss
Lavinia smiled the sweetest smile. She fluttered her eyelashes, puckered her
lips and blew the diners a kiss. And then in the company of her second award,
she flounced away to her table.

Miss
Lavinia Dharkstorrm did
not
win the next award. But then the next award
was not given to a person. It was for a monkey. For the liveliest monkey. A
monkey named Pandora won this award.

The
monkey belonged to Miss Lavinia Dharkstorrm.

Cameron
Bell leaned close to Darwin and spoke into his ear. ‘I think we should be going
now,’ he said.

‘Absolutely
not,’
said the ape. ‘I would not miss this for the world.’

‘There
is going to be trouble,’ said Mr Bell. ‘Big trouble.’

‘I am
looking forward to it,’ said Darwin as his little hairy hands steered
themselves towards his braces.

‘I
have a cab waiting outside. We should be seated within it before Miss
Dharkstorrm takes her leave and we will follow her.’

‘Follow
her?’ said Darwin.

‘Of
course. Follow her to her lair, place her under arrest, retrieve the stolen
reliquary—’

‘And
claim the large reward,’ said Darwin.

‘Precisely,’
said Cameron Bell. ‘We are professionals, after all.’

Darwin
nodded thoughtfully. ‘We
are
professionals,’ he agreed. ‘But if there is
going to be trouble, at least allow me to hurl dung at that horrid Mr Potato.’

‘Gentlemen,
please, I must insist,’ cried that horrid Mr Potato. ‘The decisions of the
Fellows, arrived at through a democratic procedure that admits to no bias or
possibility of corruption, are final. To doubt the decisions of the Fellows
would be to doubt the honour of this noble institution.’

The
grumbling mumblers stilled to a sullen silence.

‘Fourth
award.’ The chairman’s hand was shaking fearfully. Perspiration dropped from
his head and ran down the length of his waistcoat. ‘Best-Dressed Grinder. And
the nominations are—’ He paused that he might draw breath. He was a big man,
after all, and matters such as this were wont to put an unnecessary strain upon
his heart. ‘Best-Dressed Grinder,’ he wheezed. ‘And the nominations are —

Mr
William Stirling for his “Pirate Bill”.’ Applause faintly rippled. Someone
said, ‘Good luck.’

‘That’s
you,
isn’t it?’ Darwin said to Cameron Bell. ‘You’re pretending to be Mr
Stirling. I hope there aren’t too many of his friends here if you win and have
to go up and accept the award.’

Cameron
Bell said nothing. The chairman wheezed some more. ‘Mr Danny Bucket for his
“Old Soldier Fallen Upon Tragic Times”. Winner the year before last for that
one, I recall.’ Others recalled it, too, and no one offered applause. ‘Mr Joe
Leviticas for his “Coat of Many Colours”.’

‘Joe
isn’t here,’ someone called out. ‘He’s fallen down a hole.’

The
chairman nodded and gazed at his paper. Then he said, ‘Oh my God!’

‘If
God’s won one,’ said Darwin, ‘I hope a chicken comes forward to accept it on
his behalf’

Organ-grinders
were now leaning forward in their seats. That sixth sense which animals and
members of the lower working classes are believed to possess was suggesting to
them that the fourth nominee would not be one to their particular liking.
Mumblings and grumblings rumbled once again.

‘Miss—’
said Mr Lemon-Partee, all a-jelly-wobble on the stage. ‘Miss Lavinia …
Dharkstorrm.’

The
mumblings and grumblings became howlings and growlings.

‘And
the winner is—’ The chairman suddenly clutched at his heart and toppled from
the stage onto the liveried servant. The combined sound as both bodies struck
the floor was not one to inspire confidence in either man’s chances of
continued survival.

An
organ-grinder near at hand leapt up from his seat and sprang towards the fallen
fellows, but not to offer help. Instead he tore the crumpled piece of paper
from the chairman’s lifeless hand and waved it at his organ-grinding comrades.

‘Read
it out!’ cried someone. Others catcalled, and one person shouted, ‘Bottom.’
[8]

The
organ-grinder perused the sheet of paper, then he climbed onto the back of the
fallen chairman, that all might see him.

And
cried aloud the name of Lavinia Dharkstorrm.

11

ot
since the year of eighteen hundred and five, when Lord Byron famously floored
William Wordsworth during a literary luncheon, had a gentlemen’s club in
Leicester Square known such a brouhaha. His lordship had taken righteous
exception to Wordsworth’s poem ‘The Solitary Reaper’, which had pipped his own
great work of verse, ‘Opium for Breakfast, Laudanum for Lunch’, to win some
much-coveted medal or another that no one in the present age could even
remember the name of But they remembered the flooring of Wordsworth well
enough. It was on a par with the Duke of Wellington’s now-legendary thrashing
of Isambard Kingdom Brunel at the Great Exhibition in eighteen fifty-one
because, to quote the Iron Duke, ‘That cove’s hat was taller than mine and he
looked at me kinda funny.’

There
is always something memorable, if not admirable, about a really good fight.
Especially if it takes place at a really impressive location. Take, for
instance, Oscar Wilde’s infamous bitch-slapping of Max Beerbohm in the
restaurant at Fortnum & Mason. Or the occasion when Charles Dickens had
the Pre—Raphaelite painter Dante Gabriel Rossetti held in a head-lock for
almost ten minutes at the Royal Academy’s Summer Show of eighteen forty-seven.
[9]

Upon
this warm summer’s evening in the year of eighteen ninety—eight, the
altercation at Leno’s Gentlemen’s Club in Leicester Square would prove to rank
amongst the finest of the decade.

As
Cameron Bell and Darwin looked on, organ-grinders great and small with monkeys
at their elbows rose to their feet with loud cries of complaint. They were far
from happy, these well-dressed fellows, these pleasers of passers-by, these
musical bringers of joy, these
chevaliers musicale de la rue.
A terrible
wrong had been done to them and they sought someone to punish.

Naturally
their wrath did not turn in the direction of Miss Lavinia Dharkstorrm because,
after all, she
was
a woman, and it was unseemly to hit a woman in
public. The hitting of women being something one did exclusively in private,
within the comfort of one’s own home. And anyway, what was
she
actually
guilty of? As a slender young woman, how could
she
possibly have
influenced a judging panel comprised exclusively of men? It was unthinkable.
No, if anything, this was most likely to be a conspiracy — the work of some
jealous rival faction of the East End street-entertainment community. Probably
one of those sinister organisations that lurked behind the mask of an amusing
acronym, such as BUM, for example — the Bermondsey Union of Minstrels. Or
WILLY, the Whitechapel Institution for Long-Legged Yodellers. It could be any
one of a hundred such evil cabals. With the notable exception of the
Meritorious Union For Friendship, Decency, Individualism, Virtue and
Educational Resources, who were above reproach.