Alice’s Secret Garden. Rebecca CampbellЧитать онлайн книгу.
Most of the stories culminated in Kitty’s triumph over some enemy: a rival hostess or impertinent tradesman. He noted with little interest that all of her stories took place in the ancient or very recent past, with nothing filling the middle distance, and put it down to some sub-variant of senile dementia. However, once Brooksbank had established that Kitty was neither a potential threat to his mental or domestic equilibrium, nor, despite appearances, amusingly mad, his mind began to drift, helped along by the second bottle of surprisingly good Argentinian red (even Claridges were looking Westward now). Seamus, so broad, and yet so sweet; what a find he’d been. Really must go back to …
And then, with a start, accompanied by a quite-possibly audible click made by some intricately wrought cartilaginous structure at the back of his nose, Brooksbank realised, an hour into the lunch, that Kitty had reached The Point.
‘… and her degree was of the first class, you know, the only one they gave out that year. But after all I’ve told you about our history, you’ll admit that she shouldn’t be looking at molluscs and woodlice?’
Brooksbank, driving away other visions entirely, wondered what it might have been about the girl’s background that made such investigations inappropriate. Something to do with gardening, perhaps?
‘No, I quite see. Fearful creatures. Do terrible things to one’s radishes and lettuces.’
‘I’m so pleased you understand,’ said Kitty, looking at him as if he’d just started to caress his own nipples. ‘So you’ll be able to arrange it then?’
Arrange it? What could the ridiculous old hag be talking about?
‘Oh, I expect I’ll ah um,’ he said, playing for time as he scrolled through his longish list of meaningless and/or ambiguous platitudes. He was looking for one that would work something like: well, you could take it to mean yes, but equally, I could explain it back to you and if necessary the courts, at some stage in the future as, in no way, not at all, you must be joking, forget about it, couldn’t possibly do that kind of thing, against all the rules, more than my job’s worth. What came out was, ‘y-yes, yes, of course.’
‘Oh good! When will the interview be – I know it’s a formality you have to go through …’
‘You didn’t cave in did you, Parry?’ said Seamus that night as they lay together on the sofa watching Coronation Street.
‘Well,’ he replied, ‘as it happens there is a small recruitment exercise under way …’
‘You old softie.’
‘Anything for an easy life. P-pass the Maltesers.’
From Kitty’s perspective the lunch had been a triumph. The rather handsome, silver-haired fellow had obviously adored her.
‘You should have seen the far-away look in his eyes,’ she said to a not-really-listening Alice, whose eyes had something of the same character. ‘Nice to know I can still bedazzle. You know, before I was married …’
She was not in the least surprised when the letter came inviting Alice in for an ‘informal chat’. Alice, on the other hand, was astounded. She had only agreed to the idea on the assumption that Kitty’s project was doomed to failure. She wanted to do research in some aspect of island biogeography and had applied to Sheffield and Southampton, proposing to launch herself into field trips to the islands of Mauritius and Reunion, exquisitely isolated in the Indian Ocean. Why would she want to work in a silly office in London, selling old things to very rich people? There was a world of seething, replicating life out there to be studied, catalogued and understood. If it wasn’t her father’s work, it was at least work that he would comprehend and respect. What would he make of her dusting down ornate picture frames, or whatever else happened in a place like Enderby’s?
It was only when the issue of the great auk arose that Alice began to think that she might actually want the job and, more importantly, when the job began to think that it might want Alice.
‘What do you make of this?’
The man, tall and craning and unhappily bald (a baldness for which he tried vainly to compensate with one of the last heterosexual moustaches in London outside of the police and fire services), held out a large book open at a picture of an ungainly black and white bird, like a penguin painted by someone relying on second-hand witness accounts.
Alice, who had been bored by the questions about her experience and qualifications, almost leapt in the air.
‘It’s an auk, the great auk! It’s so sad.’
The panel members exchanged a variety of smiles, raised eyebrows and ear-wiggles.
‘Well it is, actually,’ said the moustache. ‘Very good. But we’re more interested in what you make of the plate, and the book, if you take my meaning, in which it appears. Could you give us your impressions as to value, for example?’
This was an extraordinary piece of luck, although whether ultimately good or bad Alice would never be able to say. A request for practical information about almost any other book would have left Alice perplexed. She loved books – not just the scientific works in which she lived, but also the wider humanist canon that she had absorbed (a little erratically) through her father. But books as objects didn’t much interest her, beyond a vague desire, which she recognised as feminine weakness, to arrange them according to colour rather than subject matter or author.
The great auk, however, did interest her. It was the world’s unluckiest animal. It had the misfortune, first of all, to taste (to half-starved codfishermen battered by arctic storms) good. Its eggs were large and delicious. You could squeeze a useful, if smelly, oil from its flesh. It lived in places taxing, but not impossible, to reach. It had a trusting and gentle demeanour, making it simple to harvest. It had once nested in millions, but the cliffs and islands where it waddled were gradually stripped by hardy sea folk (and later scientific egg collectors, eager to bag an auk shell before the creature went the way of the dodo) until the very last survivors clustered together on one rocky islet off the coast of Iceland. Which happened to be a volcano. Which happened to blow up. Alice came across the story in her research on island biodiversity, and had to leave the library to go for a good cry in the park.
The question had been a trick one, contravening one of the unwritten rules of interviewing. But then that was Colin Oakley, who liked to show his masters how ruthless he could be in their cause. The plate was a reproduction of an old watercolour of the auk, but the book was relatively new. New, but printed privately as a limited edition. Would Alice fall into the trap of overestimating the value based on a false assumption of age? Or would she take it to be a worthless modern work, of some interest, perhaps, to auk-enthusiasts, but none at all to book collectors? Well neither, as it turned out. She had read an article in a Sunday newspaper about the author, and his lonely, monomaniacal interest in the auk. She knew that the book was a modern limited edition. She knew its approximate value. She made the right sort of cautious noises about checking just how limited the edition was, and having to scan the internet for any information on recent sales, but when pressed for a number, hit happily on exactly the figure the panel had before them.
She then realised that a pun had been staring her in the face for a while without her fully noticing.
‘Of course,’ she said, a little shy smile making her look as pretty as she ever would, which was really quite pretty, ‘we’d have to wait to see what it actually reached at … auk-shun.’
There was a worrying moment or two, in which Alice seriously contemplated simply walking out, before the panel decided to laugh, but once underway the general chortle acquired enough momentum to last for a good ten seconds.
‘It’d be handy having a scientist around. You know, for facts and suchlike.’
The panel were having a final round-up.
‘Mmm, she certainly knew her stuff when it came to auks.’
‘And seemed to have a reasonable sense of humour.’
‘For a scientist.’