Part 5 (2/2)

”Mind you, I might need your help myself,” said Pyke. ”With a fluid dynamics problem...”

”Involving sea lions?” I asked, bemused.

Pyke laughed. ”No. Another project. Lev works in all weathers.”

The animal opened its mouth to display a ferocious looking set of teeth. ”He can see in low light, which allows him to dive very deeply.” I looked doubtfully into the sea-lion's cloudy eyes.

”There's another team training dolphins, down in Devon,” his trainer continued. ”At Ilfracombe. Teaching them to carry tools to divers. They're also using them for hydrodynamic studies, to improve the performance of torpedoes. Lev here, his job will be to find mines on s.h.i.+ps and be a prophylactic against attacks by frogmen.” Pyke talked very freely, I thought again.

The sea lion roared, as if in appreciation of his master's voice. It was a spine-tingling noise at such close quarters and the beast's breath did not exactly make you want to kiss it. But when he flapped his Tibetan ears, all the fearsomeness went out of him.

”Toss him another herring, Julius,” said Pyke.

The other man did so. ”Human and animal in perfect harmony,” he said as he threw it.

”Julius is an idealist,” said Pyke. ”But now and then he stoops to earth. He's using crystallography to uncover the structure of haemoglobin. The secret of life is hidden there, isn't it so, Julius?”

Brecher pulled a face, then shrugged.

”In blood?” I prompted.

”In blood,” said Brecher. ”And other proteins. Cells in general. After the war it will be the job of scientists to unlock that secret more fully. We will be like explorers looking for a new continent.”

”Inspiring, isn't he?” said Pyke, slapping Brecher on the back. ”I keep asking him to join Combined Ops, but he won't. Why don't you come to Canada with me, Julius, to work on Habbakuk?”

”Habbakuk?” I asked.

”Ah, sorry, old chap, that's the other project. Can't say too much about it right now. But as I say, we might need a fluid dynamics man. I'll bear you in mind as there don't seem to be that many people about with a grasp of these issues.”

Suddenly Lev roared again. He leaped into the water, springing off with all four flippers, causing an enormous splash. With a valedictory turn of the head and a last look at us from his deep black eyes, he disappeared. I wondered why he should not do so for ever, but I suppose sea lions, just like humans, become inured to patterns of behaviour.

”Yes,” Pyke replied, when I asked if he came back because they fed him. ”But I like to think there is affection there, too.”

”Cupboard love,” said Brecher.

”Your English is improving,” said Pyke.

Brecher laughed. ”Let us go for a drink, my friend.” He turned to me, the aerial wafting above his head like a giant wizard's wand. ”You will come? There is a good pub just up the hill.”

Pyke picked up the half-finished sandwich and tossed it into the air, where a gull swooped on it. At once I was back on Lake Nyasa, where, out in our boat, my father used to wave chambo chambo that were too small to eat up at the fish eagle, who would lift from his hieroglyphic lakeside tree and break magnificently out of the sublimely blue sky to receive the gift full toss. that were too small to eat up at the fish eagle, who would lift from his hieroglyphic lakeside tree and break magnificently out of the sublimely blue sky to receive the gift full toss. Chambo Chambo is like a perch or bream, but there are plenty of others to choose from: there are more species of fish in Nyasa than any other lake on earth. is like a perch or bream, but there are plenty of others to choose from: there are more species of fish in Nyasa than any other lake on earth.

But it was by Loch Eck that Brecher knelt down to gather the sea lion's reins, and the rare fish in that place was powan or freshwater herring, the descendant of salt.w.a.ter cousins trapped in the loch when glacial moraines blocked the route to the sea. Looking back, I don't know which type were the fish we fed the sea lion. I hope it was not that survivor from the age of neanderthal caverns.

”You can bring that,” Pyke said, pointing at the crate containing what Lev had not consumed. ”I'll have some for supper. Actually, they serve pickled ones in the pub, if you're hungry. Roll-mops.”

So I picked up the crate and we walked away from the quay up a steepish hill. On the way, Brecher told me more about his work with crystals, but what I found myself thinking about again was Gwen and Joan's painting. I think it was that the notion of herring roll-mops reminded me of the picture's curling dog-tails and breaker tops...

How foolish I was about those two, how foolish I was altogether. In days since I have often read about Liss and Lamb in the papers. I saw them in London a couple of times, at their house in Limerstone Street in Chelsea, and once in the 1960s they dropped in on me in Cambridge and we had tea in my rooms. They were exuberantly dressed in kaftans and beads and taffeta skirts. I remember one of the porters staring at me in surprise from under the rim of his bowler hat as we walked across Trinity Great Court. they dropped in on me in Cambridge and we had tea in my rooms. They were exuberantly dressed in kaftans and beads and taffeta skirts. I remember one of the porters staring at me in surprise from under the rim of his bowler hat as we walked across Trinity Great Court.

We must have made another strange trio, coming up from Loch Eck to the pub: Pyke carrying the tangle of leather; Brecher with the radio on his back; me with a herring crate. Perhaps Joan was right about scientists. We can seem odd to others-but the truth is that like any part of society we are a mixed bunch.

The pub was called the Whistlefield Inn. A sign outside showed an old-time drover with his sheep. Pus.h.i.+ng open the door, we were immediately surrounded by company: ancient locals in shabby brown jackets, white s.h.i.+rts and Wellington boots, and a number of young men with short hair, dressed in US Navy uniforms.

As well as the ornamental bronzes to be found in most pubs there were buoys, lobster pots, fis.h.i.+ng nets, coils of rope and other, stranger objects hung from the ceiling and walls, such as a blunderbuss, a trombone, a sailor's cutla.s.s and a bra.s.s deep-sea diver's helmet. There was even a small pram. There were framed brocades and unframed oil paintings, all sorts of ivories and other colonial monstrosities, carved from stone and wood, and shelf after shelf of old books covered with dust.

”I love the chaos of this place,” said Pyke. ”There is always something else for the eye to settle upon. You two get us a pew.”

We shouldered our way through. The locals of the Cowal were talking loudly in soft Scottish accents, emitting vast clouds of smoke from distended cheeks as they spoke. The sailors, murmuring in low tones, were bent over their pints of heavy, staring at the contents-which resembled mola.s.ses or motor oil-with consternation.

Pyke, Brecher and I sat down to drink more of the same. I noticed a wooden tailor's dummy standing in a corner of the room, unclothed except for a Kitchener-era helmet and-a recent addition in honour of the town's guests-a Stars and Stripes flag over its shoulders. There was also an unusual ebony cabinet with two serpents painted on its doors, their heads facing each other and their bodies joining and separating at intervals in the design.

”The caduceus,” said Pyke, seeing me study the conjoined serpents through the smoke. ”A symbol of the opposing forces of the universe. The endless dance of life. It's why the best solution to any problem is always to be found in the most extreme form of the contradiction that const.i.tutes the problem.”

He drew a figure 8 with his finger in some foam which had spilled on the table. The number disappeared before it had been written.

”Eight. Or infinity. The snake that chases its tail. Probably the most important number in the universe, eight. Don't you think so, Julius?”

”I think the universe is pretty oblivious to what we think important or not,” came the reply.

The discussion continued, as pub discussions do, in desultory fas.h.i.+on. Describing his research, Brecher mentioned the pa.s.sage of rhesus antibodies from mother to baby in the blood. Individuals either have or do not have the rhesus protein on the surface of their red blood cells.

”There may be danger to the fetus when the mother is rhesus negative and the father is rhesus positive,” he said. ”The first pregnancy might run smoothly, but it becomes problematic with each subsequent one, as maternal antibodies attack the rhesus-positive child. Sadly, these mothers may never carry a child to term. They tend to miscarry earlier and earlier.”

”Rhesus was king of Thrace,” Pyke said gravely, with beer on his moustache. ”Came to a bad end by not staying on the qui vive qui vive.”

At some point or other in the winding course of the conversation I quizzed Pyke about a subject-for I was innocent of it then-which had been puzzling me since we were down on the quay. I felt it was only fair, since I had filled them in on Ryman.

”Tell me about Habbakuk,” I said. ”You mentioned it before.”

”Habakkuk,” said Pyke, ”-with a b and three k's-is the name of a prophet in the Old Testament.”

”A magus,” said Brecher.

”A wonder worker,” said Pyke, slurring.

”For I will work a work in your days, which ye will not believe, though it be told you.”

They both laughed, as if in recognition of some private joke.

”On the other hand,” said Brecher, ”Habbakuk-with two bs and two ks-isn't.”

They both laughed again.

Cross at being shut out like this, feeling as if I was being pulled down by some Lev-like creature into a swirling sea of alcohol, I abruptly made my excuses and left. The wind had got up and the sign outside the pub was creaking as it swung to and fro. I stumbled down to the quay and rode steadily back to Kilmun on the motorbike, grateful for the freshening air on my face.

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