HaydnMozart: The advance of Technology

Thursday, May 29, 2008

The advance of Technology

Considereing the very rapid push which we are enjoying towards Technical Rearrangement, I was stretched to learn that scientists and technicians have arrived at the crossroads for producing unnatural meat. The object is to stream protein directly into the digestive tract, bypassing slaughter, and increasing the paycheque of the scientists and technicians who may feed the next generation. The cause is inspiring: the question is exactly how much Unnatural are we meant to digest in order to avoid mutation? It has been said that Dolly is not the happiest sheep on the earth; but she is a merely a link to what may be possible in the future, and plastic meat may have an impact not only upon the plumbing profession but the Solid Waste Authority as well. Also, possibly, the medical profession.

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Turnips and Coyne

The sunlight fell to windy bursts of orange above the din of the afternoon rush hour. I inserted a brass key into the wrought iron gate which fronted our house then carried a sack of turnips down the steps, which lead past trailing wisteria, to the worn, stone basement entrance. 73, Ystradyfodwg Close: home, despite the repetitious, metallic shuffle of traffic.

Holding the door open with my foot in order to drag the turnips, I watched the light spill into the passage until it faded beneath their feet.

Turnips and Coyne ... Continued...The Nilhavens

They proceeded from the shadow with a bit more solemnity than usual: the feet treading forward, hands clasped behind, heads nodding wisely. They were gnomes: Coyne and Ork Holen. Coyne wore an apple red pointed cap, Ork Holen a green cap, dappled with a wheat colour.

They rocked back and forth a moment as if measuring the importance of what they had to say then Coyne muttered, 'We found one of the letters ... e'ye.'

This was the reason for their being in our house. Soon after we moved in they appeared and promised to find the three letters which the previous owner said had been lost and which explained the history of one of the families previously resident in No. 73. That family, the Nilhavens, had been the owners of a nineteenth century ship which had pirated chests filled with jewels and gold. We did not place much value on the tale - until Coyne appeared from nowhere, walking out of the kitchen.

Coyne ...continued

'Where is it?', I asked.

Coyne's lips parted as if to reply; but his eyes settled on the sack, and his cap swayed as if his attention had drifted.

Turnips seemed to be the gnome's weakness. 'I bought them at the shop beside the fishmongers in Marylebone High Street.'

'Ohhh ...' mused both Coyne and Ork Holen, allowing their plump fingers to rest on their round tummies.

(I work at a bookshop in Marylebone, and the fishmonger is next door.)

'Oh ... we see,' their drift continued.

'The letter,' I reminisced.

Turnips ... continued

'It's up there..', whispered Ork Holen, gesturing towards the staircase which lead to the front room.

I was turning in the direction of his gesture when Coyne crept past as if drawn by the Fates.

To my dismay, when I turned to look for him, all I saw was his bottom. The rest of his small stature was surrounded by burlap. Faintly, I heard him muttering to himself as if approving each turnip. This may underscore the extent to which the gnomes' weakness for the vegetable stretched. They, also, admired strawberries and blueberries, but nothing quite had the pull of turnips - nothing except the mushrooms of Dolokhov.

This ancient, elusive strain of mushroom was first mentioned by Ork Holen ('What I should like awfully ...'). Soon thereafter I did a bit of hasty research at the bookshop and found that the Dolokhov grew in the Baltic - only in the Baltic - and that it had not been seen for more than a century. Some felt that the strain was extinct. Coyne muttered that they could be scarlet and some lavender. The aroma, the gnomes said, extended beyond the finest scent soil had ever produced.

After attempting to deposit the turnips on their assigned shelf beside the kitchen window - a not altogether deft manoeuvre, considering the interruption of two sets of plump little hands both expert at stowing the smaller turnips in pockets and eating others 'fresh' (raw), we proceeded to the staircase which lead to the first floor. Following their excited gestures towards the front room, we peered across the rippling squares of wooden flooring.

'There, sir ... ', whispered Ork Holen, pointing his cap towards the Queen Ann cutlery chest. 'It's in there. ... Unread for a number of years I should think.'

'The fourth,' said Coyne.
'The fifth... the fifth,' insisted Ork Holen, brushing away Coyne's fingers.
Viewing the structure of the chest, I knew that the top drawer was not made to slide open but was accessed by opening the lid to the piece; therefore, which was the fouth or fifth drawer could remain a mater of dispute. With an, 'Excuse me,' I reached through the altercation and opened the bottom drawer.
There was a hush then very quiet, nervous chuckles. Even the height of the lowest drawer was a bit too tall for the gnomes, and my first view of the letter lay beneath the grappling of little fingers raised above the red and green caps.

Coyne's hand was the first to light upon the letter above his head, and he gasped happily, 'Sir, sir, that's it .... '.
Stacks of silverware lay in green velvet sleeves, each stack in a green velvet slot. Only one stack was without the sleeve: it was wrapped in paper. I could hardly believe that this was one of the letters. We had been through the chest before, but I did not recall this unusual wrapping. The spoons it held slipped out, some into the drawer, and a few bounced against the floor.

'What does it say, sir?', pressed Ork Holen as I opened a folded paper, bearing a copperplate longhand, slightly faded ink with sepia stains at the folds.

'They left in a rush...', murmured Coyne. The gnome seemed to be able to read my mind at times, a talent with which I was not entirely comfortable. Actually, I, too, was thinking how quickly the former inhabitants of the house had packed and departed. We had purchased the house with some of its furnishings, but why certain pieces were left to us, exceeding in value the total sum which we paid, remained a mystery. The cutlery chest was one such item. Its value added to the basic pieces in our contract would have exceeded our budget in double digits.
Watching Coyne's finger sweep down the front of the chest, I asked, 'Which drawer?', with a mixture of doubt and sharp curiosity.

Turnips ... Chapter 2

'As you will see, the letter writer was a man named Lawrence,' I said, handing the paper to my sister, 'Obviously, Julian was his business partner; but, due to the familiarity in his words, it is my assumption that he was also Lawrence's brother - or a relative. Julian was concerned about certain passengers on a particular voyage -'
'A Miss Carlyle ... and a Mr. Pumfret ...', nodded my sister as a ribbon of steam wafted up from her delectable stew made of beef, sherry, mushrooms, carrots and, of course, turnips. 'How singular, Matthias, that we did not see this letter before. I have been through the cutlery chest two or three times ... Perhaps I was in a rush.' Indeed, she was concerned at having missed the letter. The concern was so like my sister Jeannie.

The concern appeared when troublesome incidents confronted us. I had learned what it was and attempted to lighten it ('I do not think I know anyone who files their correspondence amongst the spoons.'), which, at least, drew a smile.
Her worry was the shadow of her husband's departure from our family. Uncle Stephen was killed towards the end of the second war which encircled the world. I was thirteen at the time. That was five years ago.
During much of the war, I was in Herefordshire with aunts and uncles. I vividly recall the sudden return to London, the unnerving panorama of the city in the aftermath of the Blitz, the meeting of many relatives who I had not seen for years, their peopling Jeannie's house near Manchester Square, each of them filled with a self I had not known before - mournfullness - and dressed in black.

Jeannie's stirring her tea while reading the letter created the sound of tiny bells, which was enough to tempt the patience of the gnomes, and I could hear their soft shoes moving beneath the stew.
'It seems that Mr. Pomfret was a passenger of great concern for Julian,' murmured Jeannie. 'He wanted to bring five very large trunks with him, which would have occupied the entire space alotted for passengers' luggage. ... What do you think was their destination?'
'I can only guess; but, as they were sailing from Bristol, I'd say it was Calais, Gibraltar or the Mediterranean.'
'Turnips, sir.'
'Seems the type of luggage which would be more suitable to a passenger ship,' said Jeannie.

'Unless they did not charge for passenger luggage on cargo ships.'
'Two turnips, Sir ... One for Coyne, one for me ...'
'Possibly, but Julian was suspicious ...'
'Knees and shoes: not a rewarding prospect when one is peckish and under the table ... '
As Jeannie continued to study the letter, I caught one of the smaller turnips in a spoon and carefully navigated it over the edge of the table and lowered it to the waiting hands of Ork Holen. I really do not think that Jeannie was unaware of this, but that is how it went. My sister knew of the gnomes and had once seen Coyne, but it seemed that she did not hear them. We had discussed them, and Jeannie was certainly aware of the stray turnip peels, but perhaps she could not fully embrace the situation.

'And, Miss Carlyle ... ', said Jeannie.
'The bejeweled mystery woman?'
'Yes, just picture it, Matthias, how many women travel freight and alone and wear diamonds before 5.0? In grandmother's day, hardly ever - unless it was a special occasion, of course.'
'Well, in a film, I saw an actress -'
'Dear Matthias, not the cinema - real people. You can discern a diamond, can't you?'
'It's twin please, Sir. There are two of us down here.'
'I must admit, sometimes I am fooled by paste.'
'Paste is often larger. In my opinion, cloudy by comparison, but the sparkle of a diamond is obvious. There is something like life in it, and its light is aluringly true - like a star.'

'Might there be a connection between Mr. Pomfret and Miss Carlyle?'
'Let's see,' said Jeannie, returning to the letter. As she scrutinised Lawrence's words, I dragged my turnip bearing spoon across the table; however, just at the edge, the vegetable began to tremble. I feared the return of a wet explosion as it hit the floor; but, from the corner of my eye, I saw a small hand spring from the drape of the tablecloth, grasp it, and disappear instantly. 'Good save,' I thought to myself.
'I really do not think so,' said Jeannie. 'Lawrence speaks of them simply as two passengers. If they were married, related or friends, I would think it would have come through. He says, "Miss Carlyle of Blackpool". That somewhat distinguishes her from Mr. Pomfret. His address is not referred to.'

'In re-stating Julian's observations, Lawrence was obviously attempting to allay suspicions; but for me, at least, it does not work'.
'I must say I agree,' said Jeannie. 'We do not know if Julian was the owner, manager or Captain as well.'
'I rather think that Lawrence was the owner or co-owner.'
'Quite possibly. And, in Julian's shoes, I should have concern about the conspicuous, which in this case might have been electric'.
I felt a tug on my trouser leg. Seconds later, I saw the tablecloth drag a bit, and Ork Holen appeared on my right. He wispered, 'Please,' and gave what I thought was the Victory sign, but then it became clear that it mean 'two': two more.
'Do you know who might help with this, Mattias?' asked Jeannie, rising to prepare pud.
'Who might that be?'
'Your friend Alwin.'
'Oh, yes, having a family with shipping connections ...' When Jeannie had her back turned, I secured the last turnips and whispered, 'Alright, now might you chaps seek out another letter? ...'

Coyne ... Chapter 3

Alwin Lightfoot was notable for his red hair - a shock of it. It might be said, one encountered the shock before one grasped the man. A nice thin tie and high collar were his antidotes for the distraction.
Seven years my senior, Alwin had left university for the war and had spent three years in the Royal Navy, a suitable fit as his family were wedded to the sea. The Lightfoot history attested three instructors at the Royal Naval Academy, an admiral, a ship's captain, and a builder of dinghies.
I first had the pleasure of meeting Alwin Lightfoot in the attic at Coggeshall's warehouse in the Fens. It was a blustry, grey day, the sun resting beneath streams of kite tailed clouds; and the wind in the silver marsh grass fell in currents, which resembled the sky.

Alwin had joined Coggeshall to inventory and shelve nautical titles, the bookseller being a well know agent for Jane's, Brassey's, etc., apart from its holdings in pre-twentieth century nautical volumes. His had been a temporary post which had grown in importance, thanks to Alwin's knowledge of the subject. It worked well for him as an additional source of income, apart from his service pay, and allowed him to continue his studies at Peterhouse.
He sat amidst a sprawl of books at a small desk beneath the attic skylight. To his side, Robin Graham, the young man who was then his assistant, knelt amidst the books, creating towers in an attempt to organise the volumes by category.
'You're Ison,' he said without turning.
Robin looked up instantly.
I paused and looked behind me, thinking that it was Mr. Coggeshall, calling me from below. Mr. Coggeshall addressed us by surname.
'From the London shop,' he continued.
'I .. Marelybone ... yes ... Ison ... How did you know it was I?', I managed.

Seemingly in an unbroken movement, he stood, turned, plied the books, and incased my hand in an energetic, joyful handshake. 'Your's is the only name on the visitors' list for today.' He laughed. 'Mrs. Coggeshall keeps us up to snuff as regards those new to the building. I could not be happier to make your acquaintance. Alwin Lightfoot. I spend time at the London shop, you know.'
And that was it. I do not know if it was the plethora of books, the momentary spill of fennish cloud which came from the skylight in an otherwise packed and shadowy attic, or Mr. Lightfoot's sudden announcement of himself, but the chess pieces at Coggeshall's had changed.
Perhaps taken aback, I said, 'Excuse me, but Frederick said your Christian name was Dozen?'
'Purely a nickname, and it works with Frederick - and my father. I am the youngest of twelve children, you see. My father had designs on the future - and my mother - God bless my mother!'

It was Alwin's job to train me in the work I would be called upon to do when at the warehouse, and this he did with a good bit of relish. At the time, I was uncertain as to whether his joy lay in perhaps casting off extranious tasks or in that he simply enjoyed the process of instruction. Now, with hindsight, I realise that teaching came naturally to him, and he had a way of giving even routine tasks a life of their own while explaining clearly the basics of more complex duties.
When Mr. Coggeshall was at the warehouse, I noticed that he treated Alwin more as a young confidant than as an employee. I was later to learn that Alwin often had been called upon to train new recruits even at the London shop.

The Charles Brooking Book

The Saturday following the discovery of the letter provided an opportunity to broach the subject of its contents with Alwin, who had an appointment at the London shop. He was to speak with a Mr. Neville Drake, a gentleman from Lancashire, who had a volume of marine prints which he wished to sell.
'Quite handsome, ist it not,' said Alwin, looking at the book of plates.
'Very atmospheric,' I agreed. 'Who is the painter?'
'Charles Brooking, eighteenth century. At the end here, they have added a selection of contemporaty marine painters to build up the volume. ... You see, if a painter knows the sea, he knows it is always moving: if he does not understand that, he will not allow it to look anything other than flat. While the surface in this painting appears to be a domain of glass, I, for one, am left in no doubt concerning the volume which supports our fragile vessels. That space is alive, enormous and a law unto itself.'
'I fear the artist's name is not familiar to me,' I admitted.
'I had seen one or two of his pictures but had no idea what I had been missing. Look at this, ' he said, fanning the aqua, grey and crimson plates before me.
'Most impressive.' The book was a quality piece and evidently had cost a packet to produce.
The images of the ships allowed me to refer to the Mariner's Prism of which I had spoken to Alwin previously. From that point, I was able to explain the discovery of the letter in the cuttlery chest; however, precisely at that moment, the door opened and Frederick, one of the pages, appeared.
'Mr. Drake is here to see you, Dozen.'
Against a background of eyes, those belonging to Alan and Tony, the other pages, a dapper, modest, bearded gentleman entered the room.
Frederick closed the door with a grin, washing away the peering eyes. I had attempted to reply to their curiosity by shrugging my shoulders: obviously, the chaps wanted to know what I was doing in Mr. Coggeshall's offfice.

The visitor looked approvingly at our surroundings, and Alwin humbly advised that he was not the resident of the room but that the owner had lent it him for this occasion: Mr. Coggeshall and his wife were spending the weekend with a son in Fife.
The initial greeting warmly concluded, the visitor's hand turned to mine; and I, unable to explain that I was not meant to be a part of this transaction, shook it. 'Matthias Ison.'
I was equally well met, and as Dozen motioned me to sit, I became a part of the stranger's visit without having the opportunity to excuse myself.
Mr. Drake placed a valise on the chair beside him, and that seemed to say as much about him as anything else. It had an identity and was better than new. There were some scars upon it, but it was the type of mahogony leather which lasted like a sheep's stubbornness. It now had a beautiful tone. The stitching must have been worked by a craftsman for most of it went unseen; and of that which met the eye, there was no fraying. The buckle was bronze; and when he later opened it, one could hear that it worked perfectly.
His attire stood in contrast to the valise. The grey suit lacked the lines of a personal tailor: like many of us, he had resorted to suits off the peg in order to balance a budget after the war.
'We are most grateful that you considered Coggeshall's first in seeking a price for sale.'
Mr. Drake bent his head but did not reply.
There was a brief silence then Alwin quietly added, 'There is always a good reason for making a sale, and it will help us to help you if we are sufficiently informed as regards your objectives for this book.'
'Well,' Mr. Drake said carefully, 'my objectives may seem a bit odd to you. You see, I am not seeking to sell it for the money; and yet, I hope to realise a considerable figure from this transaction. ...
'Simply, the situation is this. My father knew the artist - I believe the book was given him by Mr. Brooking, and for that reason it has an additional significance for me - beyond its beauty.
'Frank and Emma, my younger brother and sister, have new homes, and the possibility of cutting the plates from their binding for the purpose of framing has become a matter of discussion. What with the dimensions of the text and the sharpness of the colour printing, it is understandable that the plates would make attractive artwork on a sitting room wall.'

'However, that would destroy the value of the book as it is today. If, at a later date, you should wish to re-affix the used plates, any good antiquarian would be able to see what had been done, and the price would drop considerably,' cautioned Alwin.
'That is exactly what I had feared, and I have voiced opposition to the idea. I am glad to hear you say it. Of course, if something like this becomes protracted, people tend to grow intrenched, if you know what I mean. ...'
'Yes,' said Alwin, attempting to grasp the situation.
'In the end, it is my hope that money will play the peacemaker. I have brought to the sibling's attention the possibility of selling the book now. With the money which I hope could be made, we could split the income three ways; and, hopefully, Frank and Emma could each devote their share towards what is needed for their new houses.'
'And so,' said Alwin, 'the book would be saved, but you would be without a charished possession.'
'Saving the book seems to me to be the right course to follow'.

Though it seemed obvious to me that Alwin was not comfortable with the objective, the interview turned to the scale of prices towards which Alwin should aim and below which a sale should not be made. As pricecs go, the agreed figure seemed high; however, since this was my first experience in the pricing of art titles, I mustered a sympathetic expression.
There were a number of fine points to be covered; and the minutes of what was for me a unique encounter ended as the door opened and the pleasant handshake of Mr. Drake preceded the flash of his leather briefcase hanging at his side as he walked away amongst the slats of light suspended between the bookcases.

'How do you read that?', asked Alwin as the front door closed.
'Mr. Drake..?'.
'He seems to be the owner of the book. Why does he not simply inform his brother and sister that it was not available for disection?'
I could not disagree; and searching for a reply, I said, 'Well ... actually, he never came out and stated that the book had been left to him.'
'No ... perhaps he didn't. ... But, he is obviously its custodian. And, the siblings recognise him in that capacity. ... That he has produced this round about scheme, which will cost him possession in the end, seems to me - and it's not our business, of course, but - troubling.'
'Do you think it will fetch the price he's asking?'
'Well, that is rather up to me ... and if I cannot meet the figure - within reason- he is free to take it elsewhere.'
'Where do you plan to start?'
Alwin squinted his eyes for a moment and then threw a dart at, 'Rules'.

'Rules?', must have rolled off my tongue more like a reaction to a puzzel for the name took me back three years to a birthday party in one of London's oldest restaurants and happy family memories, all of which had absolutely nothing to do with seeking a buyer. 'Had you mentioned Blackwell's, first floor, I should have been less surprised.'
'We need not go as far afield as Oxford nor is a bookshop quite the trading floor for an item such as this,' replied Alwin. 'You see, previously, I have sold to three men who frequent Rules. One of them is interested in anything nautical, and I believe he has a worthy art collection in his home. He would be my first choice.'
'Will you meet him at Rules?'
'Yes, I will invite him to dinner with a reference to this book, and I'll wager he will have heard of it.'
'A nice way to sell.'
'And, by the way, as this man is very knowledgeable of Victorian maritime history, I dare say he might know about the Bristol shipping company you mentioned.'
'Really!'
'Why don't you join me? And, bring the letter. That will make his eyes light up.'
'You mean Mr. Coggeshall wouldn't mind if I sat in on out of office business.'
'Let me see if I can't convince him that this type of training might be in order. You plan to spend a few years with us I am assuming?'
'Well, yes, you know ... testing the waters and all that.'
'Fine. We'll see if this won't wet your appetite a bit further.'
I was bowled over. This lead me into the giddy feeling that a promotion hung in the air quite apart from shedding light on our mysterious letter.
'Oh, that would be absolutely splendid!'
'Well, we may have to work on this, but Mr. Coggeshall is open to productive ideas.'

I arrived in Ystradyfodwg Close later than usual that evening, finding everything about our house distant and soon to slumber. One might say that the wysteria chose to reflect no light; consequently, the stone terrace was colourless and silent beneath my tread. Only a faint powder of light came from the top floor window where Jeannie would be reading before falling asleep. Amidst so much quiet, I was taken aback to see Ork Holen's wheat dusted cap tilting out of the gloom.
'Oh, sir, you did well ... ' He smiled and nodded with keen satisfaction.
Naturally, my first inclination was to ask, 'But how did you know?' However, I was stopped by the glint in his eye. Despite the darkness, I could see the little roundness which was his body; but more than that, the contentedness in the eyes. Something within him was best pleased by what had transpired with Alwin. I did not have to ask. He knew because he was what he was, and I did not understand that. Nor, for that matter, did I understand who made his strange, rumpled, beautifully finished, rather medieval wardrobe. It did not change much, but it was fine as though it had walked from a time when no one looked exactly like his neighbour. Enviable thought. I simply smiled, as I ought, in acknowledgement of his pleasure, and he smiled back as though we shared a secret.
'Oh, yes, sir, you did very, very well, indeed.'
What I thought to be a scarlet feather emerged from the shadows behind Ork Holen and became Coyne's cap. He, too, wore the grin of an entirely satisfied gnome. There seemed to be little which I needed to say, and his glance trailed quickly up the wall to Jeannie's room upon which sight his glee faded to concern. I was puzzled by this as he was not around Jeannie often; however, as the gnomes seemed to know - or sense - more than I, it crossed my mind that he might have looked into her silences.

Rules

Though it sounded as though we were walking amongst teapots emitting whispers, the buzzing sounds were only a number of contained conversations being carried out at the tables of Rules on a Wednesday evening. Occasionally, the candle lit eyes of a few of the guests would look up to watch us pass; but more often, their gaze was focused upon the persons who sat with their backs to us.
We were being lead towards a partially enclosed area which appeared to be a private room yet on two sides it faced the restaurant's largest room. There at a well laid table sat a beaming gentleman in reading spectacles with a fresh yellow rosebud in his lapel.
En route to our destination, I saw to my left a man who was looking at our client. When his eyes crossed mine, he stopped speaking with the woman opposite him. He placed his right hand to his lips as if drawing on a cigarette; however, the cigarette was in his left hand. This concealed his expression: he appeared bland. He did not look at me again. He glanced up quickly at Alwin then at our client.
'And, you are Mr. Ison,' said the jolly gentleman, extending his hand, and I realised that my mind was too much elsewhere and attempted a large smile to disquise what I feared might be taken to be inattentiveness. Alwin's hand clasped my shoulder reassuringly as he said, 'Yes, our raw recruit. We'd like him to meet one or two of our more hospitable clients.'
'Very nice to be numbered on your hospitable list, Alwain,' said the gentleman, clasping my hand. He had a chestnut, Van Dyck mustache, which I had not noticed before. How could I have missed it? All I saw was the boutoniere.
I opened my mouth to say 'hello' when Alwin said, 'Sir Cuthbert Redman'.
As we shook hands, I took a respectfull closer look as I had seen the name Cuthbert Redman a few times before on the jackets of books concerned with maritime history and piracy.

We had not yet reached the main course but were deep into the Cornish crab bisque with brandy, cream and chives beside grouse and ginger coctails when Sir Cuthbert came round to the price of the Brookings volume.

Rules 2

'It really is quite fine, Alwin. Am I the first to see it? ... I had heard of it as there is not that much on Brookings - none to my knowledge with full page plates such as this. And they really are well done - up to the standard of Phaidon at the time. What is the owner asking for it? ... He said the print run was something like 300? ... That's probably about right. ... I should think most of the run went into country house libraries, which is why it has become a rarity ... and why Mr. Drake can demand his price. ... I have heard Brookings referred to as the maritime Stubbs. Tempting thought is it not? I believe they are refering to the depth ... and power. ... Of course, there is not the same body of work to call upon. ... He died at 36 - Did you know that?'

And, there it hung. He seemed to want to observe the price for a while. By the time the main course arrived, Alwain was looking for a diverting subject. The waiter lowered Rack of West Sussex Lamb with potatoes, pepper and mint sauce before Sir Cuthbert's eyes then Alwin, and then it floated before me as the grouse cocktails floated upwards and wine glasses descended.
'I hope I remember correctly, Sir Cuthbert, you like lamb medium well done,' commented Alwin.
'Perfect,' replied Sir Cuthbert, slicing quickly.
The wine was a Chateauneuf du Pape. I had heard of it, but this was my first encountre. It had an expanding quiet.
After Sir Cuthbert's extoling the culinary skill of Rules in selecting and cooking their lamb, Alwin set the pace for lighter dinnertable conversation. 'I do recall that you have a warm spot for the sea around Cornwall - it's colourful maritime history and so on.'
'Absolutley,' smiled Sir Cutbert, drawing the serviette to this lips. 'One cannot exhaust the area. From the Armada onwards, historians never tire of probing its mysteries.'
'Mathias seems to have stumbled upon another phase of the riddle, and I rather thought you might enjoy hearing what he had found.'
'Are you from Cornwall, Mr. Ison?' asked Sir Cuthbert with renewed interest.
'Only in that it has held the dreams of a few childhood summers - '
'Then you must share my fascination.'
I nodded, thinking of the clattering, swaying train which took Father and Mother, Aunt Kit, Jeannie and I further from the tangible and real towards an all powerful scent; from Torquay, the train tracks running so very near to the sea that the rails looked washed, and the spray jumped up to the windows; all the time the engine rolling faster and faster towards the unreal and the larger until the train stopped and Father opened the door beside our seats, and that wild, powerful scent of innumerable particles of salt, thousands of years, billions of lives invaded everything, and sand and glittering waves, stretching out beyond our ability to grasp, stood before us, being the sea at Bude.

Rules 3

I was suddenly aware of a tap just below my kneecap as though the back of a spoon had been swung in that direction.
'A rather fierce attraction early on for a great number of reasons: the tin mines, the pirates, perhaps the Armatta,' I managed, and in sweeping over the eyes of Alwin and Sir Cuthbert, I felt somewhat certain that I had not skipped a beat.
'Perhaps it's the intrigue,' smiled Sir Cuthbert as the base of his wine glass climbed from the rippling tablecloth, and I knew I had not been detected, giving in to those magnetic thoughts which took me to my father's hand, opening the carriage door. I breathed a short sigh of relief as my eyes glanced down to the jade and eggshell blue sea on the table. 'Yes.'
'It really is inescapable, isn't it?' These were Sir Cuthbert's words, and they had come before my saying, 'Yes.'
'Inescapable,' I repeated, nodding seriously.
'The intrigue of Cornwall', smiled Sir Cuthbert.
'Oh, yes,' I beamed, glowing in the understanding that I had not again lost the thread, which was becoming a remote possibility. However, when I said, 'Yes'(earlier), I meant the sea was inescapable. It had begun to echo in the canals of my ears just as it first had: canals, then the channels of the nose while, at the same time, stretching as wide as the eye could see, joining in the brain where everything reverberated beneath the echo: the rushing out and the gathering, the crashing forward of the waves.
I heard the girgle of the wine from the neck of the bottle which the waiter was holding. Alwin said, 'Thank you,' but each glass was full again.

Rules 4

'Sir Cuthbert,' said Alwin,'we were wondering - "we" being Mattias and I- if you had heard of the Mariner's Prism. It was a nineteenth century cargo ship, sailing out of Bristol.'
'Mariner's ...', pondered Sir Cuthbert. 'You know, there was a ship called Mariner's -- something -- which sank'.
'Yes,' I exclaimed in a bit of a burst. 'That's it!'
'But, I do not believe it was a British vessel. ... No ... Mariner's ... yes, Prism ...was actually a Dutch ship ... originally made for the Dutch Navy ...'.
'Really?', said Alwin, perhaps thinking that Sir Cuthbert had the wrong boat.
'Yes, I believe that before it was finished, they realised it was too small for their purpose. Rather than keep it in the navy, they decided to sell it in order to use the money to build a larger ship. Very unusual and very practical, don't you think.'
'Yes,' replied Alwin. 'But, are you certain?'
'I recall having seen photographs of the interior - in a book, of course. Very smart, beautifully designed. Excellent woodwork throughout. All the national insignia had to be removed, of course, which must have left it looking rather bare by comparison, I should think. And, I believe, in the same book I read that the Times carried a report that the Dutch Government would accept offers for the vessel. That is how it became available on the international market and capable of attracting a higher price.'
'That must be when the Nilhavens bought it,' I injected.
'Nilhavens,' considered Sir Cuthbert, 'Yes, they come into the picture; but for some reason, I thought the ship was first owned by a large company. The Nilhavens had a very small fleet ... three ships at the most, I believe.'
'A large company...?' conjectured Alwin.
'Stephenson Clark out of Newcastle - someone well established such as that. Yes, I do believe it was Stephenson Clark. I shall have to check.'
'And, they were well known at the time?', asked Alwin.
'Oh, very. Still are, but at the turn of the century I should think it was a name anyone in this country concerned with freight shipping would have known. A good reputation, and a likely buyer for a fine Dutch ship. It wasn't called the Mariner's Prism then. The Nilhaven Line gave it that name - probably because they allowed passengers and, therefore, needed a name one could remember.'
'Do you know why Stephenson Clark sold the ship?', asked Alwin.

Rules 5

'Unfortunately, there I draw a blank,' frowned Sir Cuthbert. 'Mind you, my knowledge of the ship was gleaned in skimming articles and books which concentrated on other vessles'.

'But, it was a ship which drew one's attention?', asked Alwin.

'With the fine Dutch background, yes. A marine enthusiast is always intreagued by the presence of a well made craft... And, I suppose its change in fortune from navy to cargo provided a dash of colour.'

'Might it have made a reputation for itself?', asked Alwin.

'Oh, yes, I think so - for people of a certain turn of mind: what one might call venturesome, romantic, curious people. And, of course, there was a healthy spate of those amongst the Victorians. I can see them with their volume of Marryat, Kipling or Haggard, standing amongst the crates of cox apples, watching Land's End recede while possible flags of phantoms appeared.'

It seemed to me that both Sir Cuthbert and Alwin laughed at this remark as though, also, sharing something they both understood.

The laughter might as well have acted as a cue for the waitier to pass a new bottle before Sir Cuthbert's approving eyes. The tablecloth must have been made of something sleek because my elbow slipped off its resting place. This damnable action prevented my placing my hand up to stop the down turning neck of the bottle; and, as quick as one could say 'chuffed', the void was rising to vermillion again.

I could only clasp my glass as we greeted the new bottle in unison; but just as I did, I felt a rather powerful, cushioned swift kick to my shin.

'Owe!,' escaped me, and Alwin's eyes flickered in concern.

I attempted to grasp the impression this was making: an elbow sliding off the table, activity from the floor, and an exclamation of discomfortastendcamaflogtintrusive strangeness, and did so with, 'Damned tight shoes!' Indeed, with all the brilliant statements one might make in Rules, 'damned tight sleft room for pause.

Alwin shot across an expression of pity mixed with wonder. Sir Cuthbert concealed a chuckle in a philosophical nod of understanding.

'They are new - the shoes. I bought them only recently

'The brutal reality of breaking in shoes all too often stunts the joy of sartorial bliss,' tried Sir Cuthbert.

'Here, here!', supported Alwin.

While I began to flatter myself into believing that I now had them on my side, the sparkling tone of the neck of a bottle on Alwin's glass signaled topping up; and, with this, a second resounding whack landed on my shin. I gritted my teeth, but my head must have shot up noticeably.

Alwin looked quite concerned as if I were caught in the grip of something. Sir Cuthbert's eyebrows raised above his fork as if anticipating an explanation.

I pulled up the tablecloth to see what might have caused this sensation, and to my utter dismay I saw Ork Holen staring up at me, his fists on his hips as if in irritation. 'I - uh - I'm terribly sorry! Will you please excuse me for a moment? I must undo these shoelaces.'

'Not at all, my good man. It must be damned painful. You go right ahead,' said Sir Cuthbert.

Understandingly, Alwin pulled back the table, which allowed me to bend down beneath the tablecloth; and with one swift movement, which must have been charged by sheer pique,

I grabbed Ork Holen by the collar, and he sprang off the floor like a smartly driven puck.

'I did not know you travelled,' I hissed at Ork Holen's bulbous nose.

'Oh, yes, sir,' he sputtered, attempting to sound merry, 'I travel like smoke.'

'I can't deny it,' I bristled under a gale of turnip. I paused a moment, listening to hear if Alwin and Sir Cuthbert could hear us. They were discussing artists contemporary with Brookings; therefore, I drew so near to his ear that Ork Holen coughed, 'I want to make it as clear as possible, my dear little friend, that when in conversation - and especially when in business conversation - I really do not appreciate being belted in the shin.'

In ernest, Ork Holen's nose pulled away from the words. 'Drink ...', he spluttered.

'What?'

'If you'll excuse me, sir, your breath is pickled in drink...'

'I am not in the least bit surprised!', I replied at this diversion.

'But, you should be, sir,' he sputtered then he coughed because apparently, my annimation had tightened my hold on his collar.

'That is not the point! Why did you kick me?'

He coughed again. 'Precisely the point, sir.'

'What is?'

'The drink, sir. It's beyond the limit.'

'You were kicking me because of the wine?'

'My collar, please sir!', he gasped, and I allowed his feet to settle on the floor. "Wine, spirits, grog - whatever one may call it. It is fluid of the vine and ferminted in such a way as to enthrall the wits of many a man down the centuries.'

'Be that as it may, it does not give gnomes the right to kick one under the table - twice!'

'You did not respond.'

'Because I did not comprehend what was happening and did not want to make a scene.'

'That sounds like something said by the captain of the Titanic.'

'Were you anticipating disaster?', I asked.

Interrupting us was the strangest apperance: half a turnip, resting on a serviette, slowly floating in our direction. Ork Holen flenched. I held him back. It became clear that this hovering thing was in fact settled upon Sir Cuthbert's hand. Despite my holding his colar, Ork Holen was able to turn in the opposite direction. His left hand shot out; he snached the turnip, and it was in his carefully masticating mouth before I knew what had happened.

I dragged him back, asking, 'How did you get him to do that?' He coughed, his lips tightly shut. His right forefinger pointed wildly at his neck, indicating that he could not answer if I held his collar.

I released his collar. He stepped back and placidly enjoyed the last taste of turnip. 'He knows the manager.'

'Sir Cuthbert?'

Ork Holen nodded, licking his lips.

'And ...'

'And, there was a letter from the manager, beside his plate, awaiting him when he was seated.'

'A letter ... which said?'

'Bertie, You know our dear Riley. He's taken to stopping at Rules of an evening. I fear he will try and charm guests, and we are attempting to break him of it. If you feel a soft tapping of his paw on your shoe, please resist sharing turnips with him. He would like nothing better - naughty boy...'

I repossessed his collar, 'Naughty boy! - Your letter?'

Ork Holen rolled on his heels with a smile which was so gastronimically pleased it deeply dented his dimples. 'Not half,' thought I.

'A man's got to eat, sir,' he said in that soft, gentle gnomish manner, which made one feel he had not spied a nibble in the past twenty-four hours.

'So be it - but why are you here?'

'To caution your intake.'

'Really? ... So you are eating on time earmarked for my improvement.'

'Well, that was a matter of necessity, you see. I had your best interests at heart.'

Despite the aroma of turnip, there was a strange tune in his sated voice, which I almost felt I ought accept as true. 'I see. Well, I should point out that this is a business meal and not my usual pasttime. I am not on the road to ruin.'

'Thank God,' he said most sincerely as if he had known those who had sought too many pleasures in the bottle.

'I hope this satisfies your concern and that you will refrain from ploughing your boot into my shin when it's time for cheese and biscuits.'

'I am content in what you have said, sir.' As I had released him, Ork Holen stepped back, covering his mouth with his hand in order to shield me from a bit of turnip exhaust.

'Good,' I said as if a bargain had been struck.

With that I withdrew and emerged from beneath the tablecloth, sputtering something about tight shoes. Alwin looked incredulous while Sir Cuthbert must have realised that I had seen his stealth concerning dear Riley and was trying to give me a wink of the 'let's keep it a secret' variety. I decided to go with Sir Cuthbert and winked back while Alwin shook his head as if he had failed to back the winning horse.

I could not believe my luck in that I was saved even from this by the presence of a waiter, smiling down at Sir Cuthbert and bearing a menue of after dinner spirits. 'Are we ready for the sweets cart, sir?' It cleared the air, though Alwin was squinting. I for my part pondered a moment and chose black coffee.

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