DaDa Detective Agency Collection

4. The Geography Teacher and the Map Room-1

No sooner had Pimple settled his hyper active chops, arranged his cavernous oral cavity into a semblance of stress-free and casual assurance and, fastened all of that into position, than his mouth was fully agape again.

Dutifully, Pimple followed Hiawatha, presumably the last of the Mohicans, his eyes resolutely fixed on the moccasins so as not to excessively stare at the red Brillo hair, and upon entering the voluminous living room, Pimple found he was once again awestruck. The room was entirely wallpapered with maps of the world. He noticed immediately Ireland, Wales and England with a blown up section especially for Bristol and its waterways. The ceiling was not omitted in the amazing display, except, as Pimple craned his neck, for the ceiling was lofty, maybe twelve feet, he saw the pictorial Michael Angeloesque tableau could be viewed, not so much as geographical, but more as an historical display, although it did have a Copper-plate scripted title block, beside a huge compass point, saying South-West Coast of Spain, just west of Cape Trafalgar. Most of the ceiling was painted a glorious azure blue, clearly ocean, complete with crested waves, and this sea was populated with authentic appearing, to scale, paper model ships of the line, complete with canon puffs in cotton wool.

BrilloSouth-West Coast of Spain, just west of Cape Trafalgar.Pimple forced his eyes away from the Battle of Trafalgar and back to the moccasins, knowing this was not important, as Nelson was assured of Victory even if he did not survive kissing Hardy, who probably had peanut butter behind his ears, which, and knowing of the prevailing conditions on these old ships, was likely rank. So Nelson had no chance, and neither did that floozy mariner Hardy, if you follow the logic.

Pimple’s subsequent visual consciousness, once his courage allowed him to remove his eyes from the Red Skin footwear that appeared well worn, probably from tramping through forests, was titillated further as he absorbed the contrasting colouring, patterns and shapes of the geographical maps from around the world. These were augmented by geological charts, which had been amalgamated and inserted, presumably relating to the regions beside which they had been carefully placed. The stark diagrammatic, graphic colouring of this and that rock, or geological type or stratum, was beautifully and artistically balanced by the water colour shades of the old fashioned, cartographical, pastel hues.

Aedd Murphy noticed Pimple’s state of avid interest and especially the toothy gawk, but ignored it and muttering in Welsh, ‘Tea, boyo, isn’t it, and whose coat is that jacket?’ Casually flailing a hand as he disappeared, indicating as to where Pimple could throw his jacket, or coat, coincidentally, adjacent to the Norwegian Fjords. Pimple discarded his jacket in a Scandinavian direction and began settling into this new environment, unaware he had inadvertently and a tad gingerly, picked his way to an armchair and then he became aware that, although very summery and warm outside, the living room was cool and clearly faced north. Pimple thought this must account for the knitted fjords breasted by Aedd.

If you could ignore the cartography, geological illustrations and the Battle of Trafalgar, the principle feature of this beautifully proportioned, high ceilinged and voluminous living room, was a wide and almost floor to ceiling, Georgian paned, sash window, which afforded an excellent view to the western end of Frisian Tun, now gloriously bathed in late afternoon sunshine. This warm image was bright, compared contrastingly to the gloomy chill air in the living room. The sunlight, he observed, exaggerated the jig and jag shadows of the Duchess’s bomb site, which exacerbated further, the alien disparity of violence with the sublimely smooth, though bullet pockmarked, ashlar of the Victorian villas, which had until recently stood proud in semi-detached unison, presenting an image of complete English tranquillity and invulnerability. A peaceful repose, a natural order of things in a way, Pimple supposed.

The cill to the sash window was set just above the deep skirting board and the obvious generous view could be enjoyed whilst taking one’s ease in the plump, overly stuffed, 1930’s, wide, brown leather armchairs. The form of these armchairs curled and curved generously like the South Downs, almost as though they were respecting the curves of the meandering street, directed as the furniture was to the sash casements, as if the window was the telly, which alien modern appliance Pimple became aware was noticeably absent.

This recumbent sightline was also evidently directed toward the now devastated front garden of number 13, the Duchess’s former abode and, if one was minded, a penetrating inspection was apparent through the twisted and singed wisteria and Rose trees, to the previously well-bred villa and presumably, equally aristocratic net curtains.

Aedd, now back with the tea and a beguilingly delicious looking Battenberg cake, the chequered harlequin colourings complimenting the geological cartography delightfully, he seemed to get a degree of pleasure from Pimple’s awareness of the visual line to the former patrician villa. He remarked upon this whilst serving the tea, a Darjeeling he said, by way of introduction to the infusion and a segue into a geographical discourse about the Darjeeling region of India. Pimple saw it coming, but could do nothing to stop it. He was feeling unusually comfortable.

‘The Darjeeling region…’ Aedd started off, ‘… is cool and wet, tucked into the foothills of the Himalayas, don’t you know.’ And he pointed with the dripping tea strainer, causing Pimple third degree scalding to the back of his hand, to what was presumably, the Himalayan region of India and source of said Darjeeling leaf. ‘The tea is exquisite and delicately flavoured and is considered to be one of the finest teas in the world.’ Aedd Mmm’d as Pimple began to nod off, rubbing his hand with no noticeable immediate soothing effect. ‘The Darjeeling plantations have 3 distinct harvests and the tea produced from each, “flush”, has a unique flavour.’

Pimple had gone. He was all over the place, he was seriously heady and in grave danger of Zizzing. Aedd carried on, oblivious. ‘First flush teas are light and aromatic, while the second flush produces tea with a bit more bite. This is a second flush,’ he said waving the tea strainer, again scalding Pimple’s hand and now alert, Pimple looked at the Darjeeling second flush as it tumbled from the spout like a rusty waterfall and indeed it did look like it had just been flushed. A sort of urine orangey yellow. ‘The third, or autumn flush, gives a tea that is lesser in quality,’ Aedd continued, shaking his head as if he would have nothing to do with a third flush. Pretty obvious Pimple thought, waving and cooling his hand, trying to alleviate the pain, now fortunately turning into a more tolerable dull ache, beneath the rosy discoloration he thought would likely blister.

Aedd finished spouting, both geographically and with his urinated beverage, and Pimple sighed in relief, a puff of air that was audible from about ten paces and of sufficient force that it served ably to cool the back of his hand. Aedd seemed to remain oblivious, although he did manage a cursory inspection of Pimple’s scalded appendage and appeared satisfied. This must be what it means to be a Hermit, Pimple thought. It’s as though nobody else existed to Aedd. It was all Pimple could do to stay awake, but he was made of stern stuff and, he had a journalistic mission to execute, not to mention the tenderness in his hand was now more of an irritant than a pain and could be easily soothed by mental distraction of the Crumpet kind.

Satisfied Pimple had only minor scalding, Aedd settled himself into the other armchair and awaited his interrogation, manipulating his jaw in a contemplative manner. Pimple stirred his tea and waited for the two natural cane sugar lumps to dissolve, wondering why he had not been shown the source of the cane?

He already had his opening lines worked out and had rehearsed them yesterday evening, while Dame Pimple washed him in the bath. An uncomfortable wash as bathing goes, as he had to try not to think of Crumpet while mother did his bits and pieces. “Very important” she had said, “for a boy to be spick and span in that department”, removing her marigold gloves and departing to get a bath towel she had warming somewhere.

Pimple went to start off, but was interrupted by the geography teacher. ‘Aedd is a Welsh name you know, meaning a King of Ireland. My mother, Blodwyn Jones of Swansea, one of a very long line of Jones’s you may be aware, married my father Brian Diarmait-Murphy, which in English translates as Dermot-Murphy. My father can trace his line back to Diarmait the 1st, King of Connacht and a King of all Ireland, the last in fact to celebrate the pagan ritual of Feis Tmrach,’ Aedd said, whilst applying an authentic manner of conversing and he spat and sprayed some second flush at Pimple’s blushing face as he enunciated the old Irish. ‘Feis Tmrach… the feast of Tara, which is the ancient home of the great Kings of Ireland, don’t you know?’ Pimple didn’t and was not sure if he cared. ‘My mother wanted me to have a Welsh name and Aedd suited, as it meant a King of Ireland for my father and the ancient Irish Kings of Ireland, of course, drank their tea from saucers. I’m not sure why I mention that, but my father thought it had some significance, though dad quite naturally wanted me to be called Dermot and my mother preferred it if I drank my tea from a cup. So technically my name is Aedd Dermot-Murphy, but I’m known generally as Aedd Murphy.

Pimple had definitely dropped off now, a combination of the story and the melodic, up-and-down Welsh tones, interspersed with a soft Irish brogue, except for the old Irish of course and this had done it for him. But worse, he had allowed his sap to rise with thoughts of Ceeley’s bosoms and stocking tops, by way of an efficacious distraction from the irritating soreness on the back of his hand. This distraction was causing the cup in his saucer to rattle. He did wonder if he should drink the tea from the saucer, but he wasn’t of regal Irish descent.

Thankfully, none of this was noticed by Aedd, who had now risen from his armchair and walked to another wall and to another map, this being of Ireland and was pointing to and announcing Cashel, a fortified town in Connacht. He moved and pointed to Tara, just up a bit and to the left of Dublin. You see, I have a knack for these things, Pimple thought to himself with a self satisfying smile, pleased he had identified the Irish region to relate to the accent of the time.

‘Tara, is the ancient seat of all Irish Great Kings’ Aedd continued. And Aedd’s dad Pimple presumed, but it was Ceeley’s seat that preoccupied the Pimple brain goings-on, that and how much of this diatribe was Blarney, which if Pimple was not mistaken, was a lot further south and resided in the County of Munster, near Cork, and the Munster people had a completely different accent.

Pimple was unconvinced of the veracity of all he had heard, although the Darjeeling seemed to be spot-on geographically and tasted divine and he was, as previously mentioned, unsure if he cared about all of these shenanigans; pleased with himself that he had begun thinking in Irish. And all of this did enable him a passage of time to reflect upon the Crumpet assets a little more.

In the meantime, Aedd rambled through Ireland and thence to another part of the wall that had a map of Wales and something about Grufydd ap Llewelyn, an illustrious leader and the Welsh rebel’s historic relationship with the Swansea Jones’s, or something like that.