Bartlett and the Ice Voyage

by Odo Hirsch

  ‘I couldn’t help noticing—’

  ‘What have you noticed, Lord Ronald?’ the Queen asked, looking up at him sharply.

  Lord Ronald coughed. ‘Madam, I am an old man. When one is as old as I am there is only one thing that brings any pleasure, and that is to see young people who are happy. You, Madam, are not happy. No, you are not. And if there is anything I can do—’

  ‘There is nothing you can do, Lord Ronald! That is the truth, as we both know. To remind me of it simply makes things worse. So let us not speak of it again.’

  ‘No, madam.’

  The Queen nodded. She stared at her tea once more. The footman who was standing beside the door watched her gravely. His white powdered wig, which often made a footman look ridiculous, seemed to add to the concern on his face.

  ‘Do you know what your father, the King, would have done?’ Lord Ronald said suddenly.

  The Queen looked up in surprise.

  ‘Do you know what he would have done?’ Lord Ronald demanded.

  ‘Lord Ronald, I thought we were not going to speak of it again.’

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you what he would—’

  ‘Lord Ronald! Do not forget to whom you are speaking.’

  Lord Ronald had not forgotten to whom he was speaking. But nothing could stop him now. When he had been younger he had been a famous politician, and had given fiery speeches that had gone on for hours. When another person needed his advice, Lord Ronald gave it, whether the other person wanted it or not. And if there was one thing that the young Queen needed now, it was advice: his advice.

  ‘Do you know what he would have done?’ Lord Ronald repeated once more as the Queen stared at him, speechless with shock. ‘I knew him, Madam, long before you were born! Your father was a wise and careful king. But no single person can know everything. When your father needed advice, he listened. He found friends who were not frightened to speak their minds, and he listened when they spoke. More than anything else, that was the secret of his wisdom. You, Madam, are not too old to learn. You will never be too old to learn from his example.’

  The Queen’s mouth hung open. No one had spoken to her like this since the crown had been placed upon her head!

  ‘The King, Madam, never let a matter rest until he had worked it out,’ Lord Ronald continued. ‘He did not brood or weep. He worked it out, one way or the other, and then he put it out of his mind. Now, if you want a melidrop—’

  ‘Lord Ronald!’

  ‘Melidrop! Melidrop!’ cried Lord Ronald. ‘There—I’ve said it. It’s just a word. It doesn’t bite. Now, if you want a melidrop, find a way to get it. Find someone who’ll do it. And if there really is no way to get one—put the idea out of your mind once and for all. Don’t pretend the thing doesn’t exist. Don’t stop people talking about it. Don’t deceive yourself that others won’t enjoy it. They will. Good luck to them! The world won’t change. That is my advice, Madam.’ Lord Ronald drew a deep breath. ‘Now you can do what you like with me. You can throw me out like you threw out poor old Sutton Pufrock, if you like, just because he told you a story you didn’t want to hear.’

  Lord Ronald sat back and drained his cold tea at a gulp. He glanced at the footman, who could not hide a smile, even though he was not meant to listen to any of the conversations he heard while serving the Queen.

  The Queen picked up a slice of heart-shaped butter cake and nibbled it daintily. She ate it slowly. She ate it so slowly that Lord Ronald had already wolfed down two butter cakes himself before the Queen looked back at him.

  ‘Lord Ronald,’ the Queen said eventually, ‘you speak far too plainly. You speak far too much.’ She smiled. It was the first smile Lord Ronald had seen from her in weeks, and it filled him with joy. ‘You are the best friend that I have.’

  Chapter 3

  THE NEXT DAY, the Queen gave instructions that everyone was to gather in the Throne-room. Even Sutton Pufrock was fetched. As they waited, the murmuring of the courtiers filled the room, rising past the chandeliers and right up to the ceiling, where there was a painting of a very large lady riding a chariot through some clouds. They wondered what it was all about. Why did the Queen suddenly want to see them?

  At three o’clock precisely, the Royal Usher thumped his cane on the floor. Silence fell. The doors opened, and the Queen entered.

  The courtiers moved apart to clear a generous passage for the Queen. She smiled graciously as she passed, without uttering a word. Lord Ronald of Tull watched her from the back of the room. The Queen sat on her throne. She paused for a moment, looking around at the assembled courtiers.

  ‘I have written a poem,’ she said.

  Everyone stared in bewilderment. No one except Sir Anthony Browne, the Court Poet, knew what to think. But there was no confusion in Sir Anthony’s mind. He was livid with rage. If the Queen wanted a poem, she should have come to him. She had no business making one up herself, no business at all!

  The Queen was not known as a poet. Occasionally she sang when someone played the piano, although her voice wasn’t really very good. The Queen had been acting so strangely for the last few weeks, some of the courtiers thought that perhaps she had gone completely mad. But she did not look completely mad. She did not look even partially mad. She was sitting perfectly calmly, unrolling a sheet of paper. A moment later she cleared her throat and began to read.

  I have had cumquats stewed with raspberries, And cherry pie baked for my tea.

  I have found that dates and walnuts Go together perfectly.

  I have had peaches, pears and persimmons, And I am never short of plums.

  I recall a load of lychees That arrived in wooden drums.

  I have had mangoes fresh, and mangoes cooked, And mangoes lightly spiced.

  I have had pineapple and cantaloupe, Always thinly sliced.

  I have had all these fruits, and more besides, But my life is not complete:

  For I have never had a melidrop, Or three, or four, to eat.

  The Queen looked up from her paper. After a few seconds, the courtiers began to applaud politely. Some of them even liked the poem, and wondered if the Queen had any more to read them. Others found that it made them feel hungry, and they couldn’t wait to get home and bite into an apple. Only Sir Anthony Browne could not bring himself to clap. It was the worst poem he had ever heard! All about mangoes and chutneys or some such things. There was nothing poetic about it. Nothing romantic. No spring meadows or rosebuds. Who had ever heard of a poem without a meadow or a rosebud in it? And there were hardly any long words, unless you counted ‘cantaloupe’, which was such a silly word that it didn’t really count at all.

  The Queen waited until the applause had finished. ‘I think it is very sad,’ she said, rolling the paper up and handing it to a footman, ‘when a Queen feels she must say that her life is not complete. I think it should make her people sad. Yet no one has come forward.’

  The courtiers frowned. It was turning into a very bewildering afternoon. What did the Queen mean now?

  Sir Hugh Lough took a step towards the Queen. Sir Hugh was the most dashing man at the Court. When someone was needed to come forward, it was usually Sir Hugh, even if he did not know what he was coming forward for.

  ‘Madam, come forward for what?’ inquired Sir Hugh.

  ‘To get me a melidrop, Sir Hugh. No one has come forward.’ The Queen looked around the Throne-room. ‘No one,’ she repeated, ‘has come forward.’

  ‘I have come forward!’ declared Sir Hugh, taking another step towards the Queen to prove that he had. ‘Madam, I would gladly go—’

  ‘And I, and I,’ cried others behind him.

  ‘But…’

  ‘But what, Sir Hugh? It should be so simple, to bring a fruit back for one’s Queen, if one were really prepared to try. You simply go and get it! Really, I would be grateful if someone could explain: what is the problem?’

  ‘The problem,’ cried Sutton Pufrock from the table where his stretcher had been placed, waving his w
alking-stick impatiently, ‘is that it can’t be done. Do you know how long it will take to reach the nearest melidrop tree, Your Highness? Two months on the open sea, that’s how long. And a month and a half to get back. And the fruit spoils a day after it’s picked, no matter how green it is.’

  The Queen glared at Sutton Pufrock, who was proving to be most unhelpful when it came to melidrops. She was tempted to throw him out again, and probably would have, if just at that instant she had not caught the eye of Lord Ronald of Tull.

  ‘Pay no attention to him, Madam,’ cried Sir Hugh gallantly. ‘Allow me to go.’

  ‘Fool’s errand,’ shouted Sutton Pufrock.

  Sir Hugh turned angrily on the old traveller. ‘Are you calling me a fool, Sutton Pufrock?’

  ‘You’d be a fool to go,’ replied Pufrock. ‘To get a melidrop here will take Inventiveness, Desperation and Perseverance. You don’t get that at Court, my boy. The only way you get that is from a lifetime of travel and exploration.’

  Sir Hugh snorted. ‘Surely you don’t mean to go yourself, old man. That really would be too much!’

  ‘Old man? Old man?’ shouted Sutton Pufrock, rising rashly from his stretcher. ‘There’s a few things an old man can still teach you, Hughie Lough!’

  Sutton Pufrock hit the ground with his walking-stick and tottered past Sir Hugh, not pausing for breath until he was only a few steps from the throne.

  ‘Your Highness,’ said Sutton Pufrock, swaying on his feet, ‘I don’t know if a melidrop can be brought back here. I can’t think of how to do it, and I’ve had to think of how to do most things in my time. But if you want it done, there’s only one man who’s got any hope.’

  ‘And who is that?’ demanded Sir Hugh scornfully.

  ‘Bartlett.’

  ‘Bartlett?’ asked the Queen.

  ‘Bartlett!’ repeated Sutton Pufrock. He raised his walking-stick above his head in his excitement, forgetting that he wasn’t on his stretcher anymore. ‘Bartlett! Bartlett!’ he shouted enthusiastically, and waved the stick wildly in the air.

  People ducked and jumped as the walking-stick circled faster and faster above the old man’s head. He began to sway. The stick circled, Pufrock swayed more and more. Then he was gone, falling backwards into the arms of a pair of footmen who had rushed forward to catch him.

  ‘Bartlett’s the man,’ he said weakly, as the footmen propped him up. ‘I taught him everything he knows.’

  ‘And where is this Bartlett?’ asked the Queen.

  Sutton Pufrock shrugged. ‘Exploring, of course. Where else would he be?’

  Chapter 4

  IT TOOK A month just to discover where Bartlett was. It took another month for a messenger to reach him, hanging from a rope above the Piuong Glacier, the most treacherous slope in the Northern Alps. Altogether, it was three months before Bartlett appeared at Court.

  But once he arrived he didn’t waste a second. Bartlett was not the sort of person to squander his time on long Hellos and lingering Goodbyes. He went straight to the palace, pausing only to drop in on Sutton Pufrock, who insisted on going with him. But Bartlett wasn’t going to wait until the Queen’s footmen could be summoned. Together with his companion, Jacques le Grand, he hoisted Sutton Pufrock onto his stretcher and carried him there himself.

  Sir Hugh Lough was not impressed. Sir Hugh was never impressed if a man was not dashing, and this famous Bartlett was about as dashing as a milkman. He had freckles on his face and his hair was obviously not very friendly with his comb. His fingers were knobbly. He came to see the Queen in a plain shirt, patched trousers and a pair of worn leather boots that were as creased and creviced as a turtle’s neck. And besides, he was thin and wiry. Sir Hugh thought that there was nothing more dashing than a man with bulging muscles. You could see the muscles bulge in Sir Hugh’s arms every time he raised a cup to his lips. But Bartlett’s muscles were knotted and stringly. Sir Hugh almost pitied him.

  The fellow who came with him, however, carrying the other end of Sutton Pufrock’s stretcher, was a different type altogether. He was tall and broad. His powerful shoulders were covered by a long fur coat that came down to his knees. He had curly black hair and a broad nose, and he looked around the Throne-room with a simple expression on his face. With a bit of work, thought Sir Hugh, this fellow could be very dashing indeed. He would need some new clothes, of course, and a haircut, and he would certainly need a new expression on his face, something less gentle. But then, thought Sir Hugh, imagining the change, he would be almost frighteningly dashing, almost as dashing—although it was hard to believe it was possible—as Sir Hugh himself!

  The Queen was already on her throne.

  ‘Bartlett,’ she said, after Sutton Pufrock’s stretcher had been put down, ‘I am very pleased to see you. We began to wonder if you weren’t coming. Step closer.’

  She was talking to Jacques le Grand.

  Sutton Pufrock cackled with delight. ‘The other one, Your Highness.’

  ‘Oh,’ said the Queen. ‘Are you sure?’

  Sutton Pufrock laughed until he almost fell off the table.

  ‘You are Bartlett?’ the Queen said to the wiry one.

  ‘I am,’ said Bartlett. ‘They told me I was wanted.’

  ‘Indeed you are,’ said the Queen. ‘Well, if you really are Bartlett, come forward.’

  Bartlett walked closer to the Queen. All around him the courtiers watched curiously, examining him from top to toe. They had never seen anyone approach the Queen in such plain clothes and with such an unprepared appearance.

  ‘Would you like to sit, Mr Bartlett?’ asked the Queen, pointing to a chair that had been placed in front of her.

  ‘No,’ replied Bartlett. ‘I’d rather stand, if it’s all the same to you.’

  The courtiers smiled behind their hands. Sir Hugh Lough smirked. It was a very great favour to be allowed to sit in the Queen’s presence in the Throne-room. No one ever refused it. It wasn’t only Bartlett’s boots that needed polishing. His manners could do with some work as well.

  ‘As you wish, Mr Bartlett,’ said the Queen. ‘Now, the reason I have sent for you is quite simple: melidrops. I want to taste one. I have never tasted a melidrop, and I think it is about time I did.’

  The Queen paused, waiting for Bartlett to respond. She was hoping he would say ‘That’s no problem’, or ‘I’ll just pop out and get you one’, or something like that. But Bartlett stared at her silently with a thoughtful expression on his face.

  ‘You do know what a melidrop is, don’t you?’ asked the Queen eventually.

  ‘Of course he does,’ shouted Sutton Pufrock merrily, ‘he’s spent days lying under melidrop trees, picking them to his heart’s content.’

  ‘Well?’ said the Queen.

  ‘I can get you there,’ said Bartlett. ‘That’s no problem. But I don’t see why you needed to send for me. All you need is a sea captain and a ship.’

  Again there were sniggers in the Throne-room. But Lord Ronald of Tull, who was standing amongst the courtiers, nodded to himself. This fellow Bartlett said what he thought, and meant what he said. Others would have fallen at the Queen’s feet and thanked her for summoning them, even if there were no particular reason for them to have been called.

  The Queen was beginning to wonder whether it had been worth waiting three months for this.

  ‘I can’t go there!’ she exclaimed impatiently. ‘You don’t understand, Mr Bartlett. I am a Queen.’

  ‘I can see that.’

  ‘Good. Well, now, a Queen simply cannot pack up and go off travelling for months on end. Is that what you think? No, it’s quite out of the question. I need someone to bring a melidrop back for me.’

  Bartlett glanced over his shoulder at Jacques le Grand who replied silently to his gaze.

  Bartlett turned back to the Queen. ‘Well, you’re in trouble. The fruit rots a day after it’s picked. Hasn’t anyone told you? It’s all that sweetness in them. Too sweet for me. Never liked them much myself.’ />
  ‘I didn’t ask you whether you liked them, Mr Bartlett,’ the Queen said tartly. ‘I didn’t ask you to bring one back for yourself, I asked you to bring one for me. I happen to like melidrops very much indeed.’

  ‘But I thought you said you’d never tasted one.’

  The Queen stared rigidly at Bartlett. Sir Hugh Lough all but laughed out loud. Bartlett may have been good at yodelling in the Alps, but he didn’t know much about talking to queens.

  Lord Ronald smiled. He liked Bartlett’s plain speaking more and more.

  ‘Your messenger should have told me what this was all about when he came to get me,’ said Bartlett. ‘Top secret: For the Queen’, that’s all he’d say. I could have told him then and there and saved us both a lot of trouble. The fruit rots! That’s all there is to it.’

  The Queen could have shrieked in exasperation. ‘I know it rots,’ she exclaimed, forcing the words out between clenched teeth. ‘We all know it rots, Bartlett. Even tiny children know it rots. You’re not here to tell me that. We want somebody who will find a way to get one back before it rots. There is a perfectly able gentleman who was prepared to go three months ago. But Sutton Pufrock convinced me to wait for you.’

  Bartlett shrugged. ‘You should probably send your gentleman, then, if he thinks he can do it.’

  ‘Madam,’ cried Sir Hugh in his most dashing fashion, striding forward with a grand sweep of his cape and one hand raised gallantly in the air.

  ‘Have we not seen enough of this man? Allow me to go and I shall soon return with the object of your heart’s desire. Just say the word.’

  Bartlett glanced at Sir Hugh. ‘Is this your gentleman?’ he asked.

  ‘It is,’ replied the Queen.

  ‘Well, I can see why you didn’t send him. Listen, Madam, I can’t guarantee that I could get you a melidrop even if I tried, but I can say this: don’t trust any man who promises he can. He’s a either a liar or a fool.’

  Sir Hugh Lough could barely believe his ears. His nostrils flared in rage. Either a liar or a fool? The courtiers began to titter. Even the Queen could not suppress a smile.