The Voyage of the Dolphin Read Free Page A

and, putting his arms around their shoulders, propelled them towards the hearth.
    â€˜It doesn’t matter now. Come in, come in. I have news.’
    Crozier and Rafferty exchanged perplexed glances while Fitzmaurice threw the last of their scuttle allowance on the fire and jabbed at the embers.
    â€˜Fitz, what on earth’s going on?’ Rafferty slowly unwound his scarf. ‘Why the drama?’
    Fitzmaurice sat on the arm of the sofa. The fire cracked and fizzed.
    â€˜There has been an extraordinary turn of events,’ he said at last. His tone was grave.
    â€˜Well?’
    Fitzmaurice took his pipe from a side table, and holding a shaky match above the bowl, puffed it briskly to life, watching them both all the while.
    â€˜For Godsake, Fitz, that stinks to high heaven,’ Rafferty snapped, fanning the air. ‘Stop teasing us and tell us this news.’
    â€˜What would you say,’ Fitzmaurice had moved into high theatrical mode, ‘if I told you I could offer you the adventure of a lifetime?’
    â€˜I’d say, what the hell are you talking about?’
    â€˜Hmm. And if I said I could make you famous throughout these islands, and guarantee you a place in the annals of history?’
    â€˜Again, what the hell?’
    â€˜I see. And if I advised you to prepare for a momentous journey?’
    â€˜Fitz,’ Crozier interjected, ‘this is ridiculous, what are you..?’
    â€˜To a place beyond your wildest dreams?’
    â€˜Rafferty, pass me that cricket bat.’
    Flame-shadows quivered across the ceiling and around the walls.
    â€˜Gentlemen,’ Fitzmaurice’s eyes gleamed and he revealed many teeth, ‘lace up your stoutest boots and pack your warmest underwear. We’re all off to the bloody Arctic!’

2

The Masters
    Earlier that afternoon the College cellarer, a melancholic man with poor posture and a melted eyelid, had been dispatched to fetch a bottle for the Senior Dean, who was hosting a small luncheon in his office. Not given to belief in the supernatural, the cellarer found himself unnerved nonetheless by the strangely human sound that drifted from time to time through the tunnels beneath Trinity College. There it was again: a low mournful monotone rising and falling like ghostly plainsong before fading back into the rock. It was caused, no doubt, by the rush of air through a faulty duct or drainage well, but down in the gloom, alone in the empty passageways, it was easy to imagine…
    He held up the lantern, letting his nostrils fill with the damp perfume of the vault. Bottles gleamed darkly in the shadows: Magnums and Jeroboams, Methuselahs, Salmanazars, Nebuchadnezzars, the mighty Melchiors. He was struck, as he always was, by the gravid nature of the hush, by a sense that delicate, dream-like activity was taking place within the containers around him, and he became careful in his movements.
    Stacked along the wall facing him were the clarets, their indented bases like rows of artillery, and he edged along, squinting at the labels. Some of them were worth multiples of his yearly wages. When the time came, he mused, he would have his list at the ready. He eased a dust-slippery bottle from its cradle and made his way back along the corridor towards the steep stone steps that led to the light.
    In his lofty-ceilinged room three floors above, the Senior Dean was deep in contemplation of a portrait of himself that had been hung, just that morning, on the wall opposite the big window. He cocked his head to one side, then the other. He took three steps back; a moment later, two forward. He hunkered down for a fresh angle. He stood up. The painting, in bold, lustrous oils, depicted him in full academic garb, crowned with a gold-tasselled mortarboard, holding a rolled-up scroll and surveying the viewer with majestic leniency. It was quite magnificent. Except for one detail, one flaw, one minor error in perspective that, now he had spotted it,