alacrity.
They pressed on into the drawing room. Michael was sitting where they had left him by the fire, but he was not asleep and Nick noticed his chest was heaving, like someone out of breath doing his poor best to disguise the fact.
'Are you all right, Dad?'
'As all right ... as I'll ever be ... Where is everybody?'
'They're just finishing up in the kitchen.'
54
'Good.' He coughed, taking a moment to recover himself. 'Why don't you two sit down.'
They obeyed, perching together on one of the sofas. Half a minute or so passed, during which neither found anything to say. Michael took out his pipe and laboriously filled and lit it, studying them through the first puffs of smoke and seeming to smile faintly - unless it was merely the curl of his lips round the pipe stem.
'Caught that big cat yet, Andrew?'
'No, Dad.'
'Think you ever will?'
'On videotape, yes. Eventually.'
'And that'll be the proof you're looking for?'
'It'll be the proof everyone's looking for.'
'I doubt it. A skeleton's what you need. Tangible remains. Strange none have ever turned up. These creatures have to die ... if they live.'
'They live.'
'What do you think, Nicholas?'
The?' Nick had been hoping not to be asked for his opinion. He wondered if his father had realized that. 'Oh, I've got a pretty open mind on the subject.'
'An open mind? Well, that's an excellent thing to have in its way. Pity you've not put it to better use, but . . . there's still time, I suppose.'
'Tell us what you think, Dad,' said Andrew, so abruptly that Nick suspected he had intervened for his sake. 'About big cats.'
'What I think, my boy, is that people want to believe in them. Perhaps they need to believe in them. Myth can be as powerful as reality. That was one of the first lessons I learned as an archaeologist. Your grandfather and I assisted Ralegh Radford with his excavations at Tintagel in the nineteen thirties.' Nick and Andrew nodded in unison. This was, after all, a tale they had heard before. The first serious archaeological investigation of Tintagel, north Cornwall's famous clifftop version of Camelot, had begun in 1933, under
55
the supervision of the subsequently celebrated director of the British School at Rome, C. A. Ralegh Radford. Godfrey Paleologus and his teenage son Michael had been among his amateur helpers. There was a photograph in the study of the pair of them on site with Radford in the summer of 1935. 'Those excavations revealed that the castle was constructed, probably in the twelve thirties, at the behest of Richard, Earl of Cornwall, brother of King Henry the Third. There wasn't a trace of King Arthur. Not a splinter of the Round Table, nor a single shard of knightly lance. But do you think that stopped the Arthurian connection being peddled? Do you think that stopped people believing they beheld the ruins of Camelot? Of course not. They saw what they wanted to see. Well, much the same applies to your elusive big cats, I'm afraid. They--'
'Beverages ahoy,' announced Basil, propelling the door open with his foot and steering the tea trolley smartly through. 'Plus birthday cake, of course. We're all sybarites today.'
Basil was hardly to know it from the response he received, but Nick for one was grateful for his arrival. Their father's lecturing mode could easily segue into a rant, which would make even-tempered discussion of a delicate issue all but impossible.
Oddly enough, however, Michael did not seem to mind breaking off from his disquisition. He puffed at his pipe and spectated placidly as seats were taken, cups of tea or coffee distributed, slices of cake handed round. He even mumbled an endorsement of the tribute Irene paid to the absent Pru. He laid his pipe aside, nibbled at his cake and drank his tea, then asked for a second cup.
And then, after Andrew had given a vaguer answer to a vague question from Anna about how it felt to be fifty, he suddenly made his move.
'Which of you has been nominated to tell me I've got to
They pressed on into the drawing room. Michael was sitting where they had left him by the fire, but he was not asleep and Nick noticed his chest was heaving, like someone out of breath doing his poor best to disguise the fact.
'Are you all right, Dad?'
'As all right ... as I'll ever be ... Where is everybody?'
'They're just finishing up in the kitchen.'
54
'Good.' He coughed, taking a moment to recover himself. 'Why don't you two sit down.'
They obeyed, perching together on one of the sofas. Half a minute or so passed, during which neither found anything to say. Michael took out his pipe and laboriously filled and lit it, studying them through the first puffs of smoke and seeming to smile faintly - unless it was merely the curl of his lips round the pipe stem.
'Caught that big cat yet, Andrew?'
'No, Dad.'
'Think you ever will?'
'On videotape, yes. Eventually.'
'And that'll be the proof you're looking for?'
'It'll be the proof everyone's looking for.'
'I doubt it. A skeleton's what you need. Tangible remains. Strange none have ever turned up. These creatures have to die ... if they live.'
'They live.'
'What do you think, Nicholas?'
The?' Nick had been hoping not to be asked for his opinion. He wondered if his father had realized that. 'Oh, I've got a pretty open mind on the subject.'
'An open mind? Well, that's an excellent thing to have in its way. Pity you've not put it to better use, but . . . there's still time, I suppose.'
'Tell us what you think, Dad,' said Andrew, so abruptly that Nick suspected he had intervened for his sake. 'About big cats.'
'What I think, my boy, is that people want to believe in them. Perhaps they need to believe in them. Myth can be as powerful as reality. That was one of the first lessons I learned as an archaeologist. Your grandfather and I assisted Ralegh Radford with his excavations at Tintagel in the nineteen thirties.' Nick and Andrew nodded in unison. This was, after all, a tale they had heard before. The first serious archaeological investigation of Tintagel, north Cornwall's famous clifftop version of Camelot, had begun in 1933, under
55
the supervision of the subsequently celebrated director of the British School at Rome, C. A. Ralegh Radford. Godfrey Paleologus and his teenage son Michael had been among his amateur helpers. There was a photograph in the study of the pair of them on site with Radford in the summer of 1935. 'Those excavations revealed that the castle was constructed, probably in the twelve thirties, at the behest of Richard, Earl of Cornwall, brother of King Henry the Third. There wasn't a trace of King Arthur. Not a splinter of the Round Table, nor a single shard of knightly lance. But do you think that stopped the Arthurian connection being peddled? Do you think that stopped people believing they beheld the ruins of Camelot? Of course not. They saw what they wanted to see. Well, much the same applies to your elusive big cats, I'm afraid. They--'
'Beverages ahoy,' announced Basil, propelling the door open with his foot and steering the tea trolley smartly through. 'Plus birthday cake, of course. We're all sybarites today.'
Basil was hardly to know it from the response he received, but Nick for one was grateful for his arrival. Their father's lecturing mode could easily segue into a rant, which would make even-tempered discussion of a delicate issue all but impossible.
Oddly enough, however, Michael did not seem to mind breaking off from his disquisition. He puffed at his pipe and spectated placidly as seats were taken, cups of tea or coffee distributed, slices of cake handed round. He even mumbled an endorsement of the tribute Irene paid to the absent Pru. He laid his pipe aside, nibbled at his cake and drank his tea, then asked for a second cup.
And then, after Andrew had given a vaguer answer to a vague question from Anna about how it felt to be fifty, he suddenly made his move.
'Which of you has been nominated to tell me I've got to
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