series...’ Mr Rothesay turned and wrote on the blackboard. The class stared glassy-eyed at the strings of numerals. They had heard that old Rothesay was nutty on Pi, but this was even more overpowering than they had ever guessed.
‘Most of you are probably not familiar with this particular progression,’ said Mr. Rothesay, ‘but it may interest you to know that I once discovered that Professor Shanks, an American who worked out Pi to seven hundred and seven places in 1873, had actually made a mistake at the five hundredth place of decimals ...’ Mr Rothesay’s voice rose thrillingly, echoing the joy in that moment of triumph. ‘In 1956, a computer calculated Pi to ten thousand places in approximately thirty-three hours, and I was right in all my thousand places!’
Without knowing why, the class burst out clapping. They were awed by such dedication, with some inkling of the intellectual perseverance and stamina required to build such a mathematical monument. Nobody thought to ask, what was the point of it? That would have been like asking what was the point of the Eiffel Tower?
The Bodger, passing down the corridor, saw Mr Rothesay’s name on the door. ‘How is old Rothers? Still trying to work out the square root of sweet Fanny Adams?’
‘No, he’s retired from all that,’ said Jimmy. ‘Hung up his boots, or his square roots, or whatever it is mathematicians do. But he still corresponds with some lady in America over some terrific mathematical coup he pulled off at the expense of her great-grandfather years ago.’
‘Shall we go in?’
But Jimmy was looking at his watch again. Even as a cadet, The Bodger recalled, Jimmy had been obsessed by time. He was a methodical man, and like many naval officers, like many schoolmasters and hospital staff, he lived in accordance with a mental time-table.
‘It’s coming up to stand-easy time,’ Jimmy said, in exactly the tone of voice a schoolmaster might say ‘there’s the bell for prep’.
The College wardroom anteroom had probably changed in appearance since The Bodger’s last visit, although he would have been hard put to it to explain how. The bar might be in a different place. The coffee urn was certainly new. There was an unfamiliar pattern of cup and saucer. Some of the pictures had been changed, or at least changed round. Possibly, though The Bodger could not be sure, the colour of the curtains and wallpaper was different. But nothing really important had changed. An intensely sociable and clubbable man, The Bodger had always loved wardroom life. It gave him a familiar pleasure to revisit it, although as the Captain he could never now enter except as a guest, by invitation of the President of the Mess. The modern Navy had weakened the peculiar intimacy of wardroom existence; earlier marriages, fewer foreign commissions of any length, higher pay, and more officers owning and living in their own homes, had all diluted the unique flavour of wardroom life. There were now far fewer of those bachelor officers, in their twenties, thirties, some even in their forties, who had really run the wardroom, and the ship. Wardroom existence had made such men abnormally conservative, insular and resistant to change, and uninterested in politics, or art, or sport, other than Service sport. It had led to largely monastic lives and narrow minds, but, in The Bodger’s opinion, it had been very good for the Service. But still, this wardroom was a kind of home to The Bodger, just as every wardroom was home, and he was delighted to be back.
Even the faces were strange, and yet so familiar. They all came up singly, or in couples, or in groups of three or four at Jimmy’s nod, the divisional officers, and the lecturers in various subjects, and the technical officers, and heads of College departments, and the padre and the civilian officers. The word had gone round, like a fiery cross, that the new Captain would be in the anteroom at stand-easy and anyone who could should
‘Most of you are probably not familiar with this particular progression,’ said Mr. Rothesay, ‘but it may interest you to know that I once discovered that Professor Shanks, an American who worked out Pi to seven hundred and seven places in 1873, had actually made a mistake at the five hundredth place of decimals ...’ Mr Rothesay’s voice rose thrillingly, echoing the joy in that moment of triumph. ‘In 1956, a computer calculated Pi to ten thousand places in approximately thirty-three hours, and I was right in all my thousand places!’
Without knowing why, the class burst out clapping. They were awed by such dedication, with some inkling of the intellectual perseverance and stamina required to build such a mathematical monument. Nobody thought to ask, what was the point of it? That would have been like asking what was the point of the Eiffel Tower?
The Bodger, passing down the corridor, saw Mr Rothesay’s name on the door. ‘How is old Rothers? Still trying to work out the square root of sweet Fanny Adams?’
‘No, he’s retired from all that,’ said Jimmy. ‘Hung up his boots, or his square roots, or whatever it is mathematicians do. But he still corresponds with some lady in America over some terrific mathematical coup he pulled off at the expense of her great-grandfather years ago.’
‘Shall we go in?’
But Jimmy was looking at his watch again. Even as a cadet, The Bodger recalled, Jimmy had been obsessed by time. He was a methodical man, and like many naval officers, like many schoolmasters and hospital staff, he lived in accordance with a mental time-table.
‘It’s coming up to stand-easy time,’ Jimmy said, in exactly the tone of voice a schoolmaster might say ‘there’s the bell for prep’.
The College wardroom anteroom had probably changed in appearance since The Bodger’s last visit, although he would have been hard put to it to explain how. The bar might be in a different place. The coffee urn was certainly new. There was an unfamiliar pattern of cup and saucer. Some of the pictures had been changed, or at least changed round. Possibly, though The Bodger could not be sure, the colour of the curtains and wallpaper was different. But nothing really important had changed. An intensely sociable and clubbable man, The Bodger had always loved wardroom life. It gave him a familiar pleasure to revisit it, although as the Captain he could never now enter except as a guest, by invitation of the President of the Mess. The modern Navy had weakened the peculiar intimacy of wardroom existence; earlier marriages, fewer foreign commissions of any length, higher pay, and more officers owning and living in their own homes, had all diluted the unique flavour of wardroom life. There were now far fewer of those bachelor officers, in their twenties, thirties, some even in their forties, who had really run the wardroom, and the ship. Wardroom existence had made such men abnormally conservative, insular and resistant to change, and uninterested in politics, or art, or sport, other than Service sport. It had led to largely monastic lives and narrow minds, but, in The Bodger’s opinion, it had been very good for the Service. But still, this wardroom was a kind of home to The Bodger, just as every wardroom was home, and he was delighted to be back.
Even the faces were strange, and yet so familiar. They all came up singly, or in couples, or in groups of three or four at Jimmy’s nod, the divisional officers, and the lecturers in various subjects, and the technical officers, and heads of College departments, and the padre and the civilian officers. The word had gone round, like a fiery cross, that the new Captain would be in the anteroom at stand-easy and anyone who could should
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