The Voyage of the Dolphin Read Free Page B

ruined everything. He leant his head back and squinted, then opened his eyes very wide. He fiddled with his snow-white goatee. That imbecile of an artist. There was no way around it: the hand that clutched the scroll was tiny . Like a withered hand… Like a vestigial forepaw.
    There was a knock at the door and an elderly servant arrived pushing a trolley tinkling with silver containers, which he set about transferring to the dining table. A minute or two elapsed, then he coughed. ‘Did you hear, sir, there was another gunpowder incident this morning?’
    The Senior Dean was sitting on the edge of his desk, still transfixed by the painting.
    â€˜Mmm, really? Another one? Where?’
    â€˜Botany Bay, sir. Another door off, I’m afraid.’
    â€˜Botany Bay, I might have known. That place is an absolute nest. Anyone hurt?’
    â€˜No, sir. Though I hear an undergraduate had a lucky escape.’
    â€˜That’s good. Is Front Gate onto it?’
    â€˜I believe so.’
    When the servant had finished, the Senior Dean called him over.
    â€˜What do you think of this portrait?’ he demanded.
    â€˜To be honest, sir,’ the old retainer said, having learned many Senior Deans ago to keep his own counsel, ‘I wouldn’t be the best person…’
    â€˜Nonsense, man, how does it seem to you?’
    The servant peered up at the painting.
    â€˜It’s very handsome, sir. It…’
    â€˜Look at the hand. The hand . Is it normal?’
    â€˜It looks…’
    At that moment there was another tattoo at the door and into the room marched the All-Faculty Master of Discipline, long, thin and hawkish, and walking with the aid of a horn-handled cane, followed by the roly-poly figure of the Regius Professor of Zoology and Comparative Anatomy. The servant seized his opportunity. ‘By the way, sir,’ he called over his shoulder, ‘the cellarer said to tell you the wine was decanted at midday.’
    The academics admired the new likeness (the hand was not mentioned) and sat down to their lunch: Brown Windsor soup followed by venison casserole, all washed down with a perfectly aerated 1900 Chateau Margaux (declared ‘excellent’). Afterwards they lit the lamps and withdrew to the armchairs, the Regius Professor taking with him an apple which he began to carve into sections with his pocket knife.
    â€˜So,’ the Senior Dean folded his hands across the tweed expanse of his belly. ‘We’re all agreed that this expedition must go ahead?’
    The other two nodded. The Regius Professor cleared his throat.
    â€˜Absolutely,’ he said in his fluting, feminine voice. ‘I can tell you that the Royal Irish Geographical Society met this morning and it was the view of every last one of us on the board that we may never have this opportunity again. We believe this could very well be our last hurrah. Once Home Rule comes in, God only knows what will happen.’
    The Master of Discipline tapped the brass tip of his walking stick against the toecap of his shoe. ‘Are you suggesting it may not be all “nougat, velvet, and soft music”?’
    â€˜I’m saying, gentlemen, we’d better hold on to our bloody hats. As soon as this war is over we’ll be totally at the mercy of the natives.’ The Regius Professor examined, with an expression of great sorrow, the chunk of fruit on the end of his blade. ‘Beauchamp says we should start hiding the good wine right away.’
    There was silence as each man contemplated the potential wear-and-tear of the coming turmoil on his privileges.
    â€˜Well, Beauchamp is correct,’ the Master of Discipline said at last. ‘These are deeply uncertain times. We need to do all we can, as soon as we can, to bolster the standing of this College.’
    â€˜Good, we’re agreed then.’
    â€˜There is one further matter we should perhaps