It was the inside of his school desk, only magnified hundreds of times, so that – if this had really been the inside of his school desk he would have been no bigger than a fly. He knew it was the inside of his school desk because of the smell – only the smell too was greatly magnified. There was not only the usual smell of ink and of sharpened pencils, but also the smell of apples and oranges. There were not only those smells, but also the smell of a pet mouse he had once kept in his desk. And, finally, there was the smell of some candy he had had once that nobody else had had, because his uncle George Percival had brought it him all the way from Slobovia – a smell of what the candy had been made of. It had been made of honey and aniseed and citron and cloves and had had a faint sprinkling of curry powder on it.
And he took his pipe out of his mouth and put a silver whistle there. He blasted three times shrilly. At once the ship flew like a bird out of the pages of the book.
He could tell what the books were too: by walking along their spines he could read the titles: ELEMENTARY ASTROPHYSICS & MATHEMATICS FOR INTELLIGENT BOYS AND GIRLS. HISTORY MADE NOT EXACTLY EASY BUT LESS DIFFICULT THAN IT NORMALLY SEEMS TO BE. And one book was wide open at an illustrated page. Edgar could not tell what the picture was – it was far too big – but he could see certain words, each letter bigger than himself, attached to the picture: CRO’JACK was one word, and MIZZEN was another. What did the words mean? He used to know, or so he thought, but he knew no longer. And then he heard the voice . . .
‘Ah, Edgar. I missed you before, but I shan’t miss you this time. All I have to do is to open this silly little desk, and there you’ll be waiting.’
The voice came from above, and, miles above it seemed, Edgar saw the lid of his desk. He saw it from the inside, a view completely new to him. He could even see a hole in the lid. Was that the hole he had crept into so long ago? If he were really a fly, instead of merely the size of one, he could buzz up there and escape from the desk. But up there he would meet . . . Oh, no, no. And yet, if he were really a fly, he could fly away and miss the huge groping murderous hands.
‘I’m coming now, Edgar. It would make things a lot easier for me if you’d sit on the cover of one of your books – say, METAPHYSICS FOR THE VERY YOUNG – and then I could pick you up without trouble.’
The audience seemed to be enjoying the show very much. There was appreciative laughter and a kind of quiet hum of excitement. And then Edgar heard something other than the voice. It came from the book with pictures in it. It was the sound of the sea and the wind roaring. Then Edgar remembered what those words cro’jack and mizzen meant. They had something to do with the parts of a sailing ship. And then a new voice called, from inside the book itself:
‘Heave ho, my hearty? Your name’s on the sailing list. Get aboard yarely, for the anchor’s weighed.’
Edgar scrambled into the book just as he saw the huge lid of the huge desk creaking open. There was a sailing ship ready to leave the harbour. But there was no gang-plank. How did he get on board?
‘Shan’t be half a second now, Edgar,’ came the huge voice from above. ‘I’m just going to dip my hand in.’
Edgar saw, on the deck of the ship, an old man, all white beard and oilskins, a red-coaled pipe held firm in smiling jaws. ‘Here it is,’ he called. ‘Coming down now.’ And a rope-ladder came hurtling down from the deck. Edgar grasped it and began to climb.
‘Hm, Edgar, that’s naughty. You’re not where I told you to be.’ He climbed and climbed and climbed. ‘Very naughty. I can’t see you at all. Oh, why do you make things difficult for an old man like me?’ There was a murmur of sympathy from the audience.
But now Edgar was on the deck, the captain puffing smiling pipesmoke at him. ‘Are we safe, sir?’ gasped Edgar.
‘You just watch this,’ said the old man. ‘Hold on tight, everybody. All hands to ship’s stations.’ And he took his pipe out of his mouth and put a silver whistle there. He blasted three times shrilly. At once the ship flew like a bird out of the pages of the book.
‘Blast my white whiskers,’ said the captain, looking up. ‘The lid’s up. That hole isn’t there any longer.’ Then he saw the groping gigantic hand. He called: ‘Master gunner!’
‘Aye aye, sir!’
Suddenly a cannon boomed, and Edgar saw a little black ball sailing through the air somewhat faster than the ship. There was an explosion and a cry of pain. The lid of the desk slammed shut like all the thunder in the world. A voice as loud as the thunder yelled:
‘That hurt, that hurt, that hurt – owwwwwwwww!’ There was the sound of applause from the audience.
‘Here we go,’ said the captain. ‘Straight through.’ And the ship entered the tunnel and sped through the darkness. ‘Time to say goodbye, I suppose,’ the captain said. Edgar could see his face faintly in the glow of his pipe. ‘Never got to know your name, but it was pleasant enough having you aboard. And now I give you a bit of a push . . .’
Edgar came through the hole in the desk to hear Mr Anselm Eadmer, his teacher, droning on about Anglo-Saxon royalty. Edgar saw himself very big, with his eyes closed, sitting at his desk. He ran over the surface of the desk towards this big Edgar and gave him a pinch in the left hand. Big Edgar’s eyes opened. Little Edgar crawled up big Edgar’s arm, swift as a mouse, on to his neck, up to his ear. He entered his ear. Big Edgar and little Edgar became one and the same person.
‘Edmund Ironside,’ Mr Eadmer said. ‘So-called because of his great strength and bravery and fortitude. You there, Edgar, are you awake, or are you dreaming of Easter eggs? The Easter holiday hasn’t started yet, boy.’
‘I was awake, sir,’ said Edgar. ‘He was called Eadmund, not Edmund. And he was called Ironside because he had these very rusty sheets of iron fixed to his sides.’
The rest of the class laughed. Mr Eadmer smiled grimly. ‘Ah, our friend Edgar has some special source of knowledge, I see. All right, no need to laugh. He was right about the Eadmund, anyway. And I don’t care where he got the knowledge.’ He wrote on the blackboard, in very large and clear block capitals, the name EADMUND. ‘That’s the Anglo-Saxon form of the name. And the Anglo-Saxon form of Edgar’s name would be – ‘ He wrote it: EADGAR.
So, Edgar thought, if I’d told them my name was really Eadgar that tune the band played in Edenborough wouldn’t have been the right one for me at all, and I wouldn’t have had to go to the Castle and be so frightened and – But it’s all over now.
The bell rang. The lesson was over. School was over. Term was over. The Easter holidays were beginning. But Mr Eadmer was not one of these schoolmasters who rush out of the classroom, sometimes even in the middle of a sentence, when the bell rings. He said:
‘Any other information you can give us about anything, Edgar or Eadgar? Anything else from the land of dreams? Einstein’s Theory of Relativity, for instance?’ The class laughed, as they all knew that the Theory of Relativity was the hardest thing in the world. They mostly turned to look at Edgar and have a good laugh at him. But Edgar said:
‘Certainly, sir. The Theory of Relativity has something to say about the speed of light – three hundred thousand kilometres a second usually represented by the symbol c. If light maintains this velocity for one observer, it cannot do so for another observer who is moving away from the first observer with a certain additional velocity – not unless we establish the principle of relative space and time . . .’
The class was silent now. It looked at Edgar with wonder and a certain fear. Mr Eadmer was silent, also thoughtful. He said:
‘You must take me with you sometime, Edgar or Eadgar. On one of these dreamy trips of yours. All right, class dismissed. A happy Easter, everybody.’
‘Happy Easter, sir.’
And Edgar at last was able to go home for tea. He hoped there would be fish-paste sandwiches and cherry cake. He knew there would be a nice hot pot of tea. He was very thirsty, also a little tired. But after tea he would be lively again and ready to go to the cinema. There was a good film
on tonight at the Rialto – something warlike and exciting about one of the Anglo-Saxon kings of England.
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A Long Trip to Teatime Page 9
