When the Professor Got Stuck in the Snow Read online

  When the Professor Got Stuck in the Snow

  Dan Rhodes

  For Wife-features, Arthur & Eddie

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Thursday, 28th November 2013

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  Friday, 29th November

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  Saturday, 30th November

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  Sunday, 1st December

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  Monday, 2nd December

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  Tuesday, 24th December

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  Acknowledgements

  About the Typeface

  About the Author

  Also by Dan Rhodes:

  Copyright

  Thursday, 28th November 2013

  1

  Two men were sitting opposite one another in an otherwise empty railway carriage. The first was hidden behind a large newspaper while the second, a man of indeterminate age who went by the name of Smee, looked out at the landscape as the train made its way through the countryside. The carriage was warm, but the trees were bare, and ponds were freezing over. Ducks could be seen walking on water. I wonder if it will begin to snow, thought Smee. It certainly seems cold enough.

  This moment of idle conjecture was brought to an end by a series of snorts from behind the newspaper, followed by a ‘Ptchwwfffff’. The paper was folded, to reveal an exasperated face. ‘Take a letter for me, Smee.’

  ‘Certainly, Professor.’

  Smee opened his computer. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, waiting for the words to flow.

  After a little academic chin-stroking, the Professor began. ‘To the editor of the Daily Telegraph of London: Sir, I find it quite extraordinary that you have allowed your newspaper to be used as a forum for the propagation of poppycock. Today you published an article by Justin Welby, the – quotes – Archbishop of Canterbury – close quotes – in which he discusses his – quotes – faith – close quotes. This is a man whose entire life revolves around his belief in fairy stories. If this piece had appeared on your world-renowned Funnies Page it would have been in some way understandable, but to treat it as serious comment defies common sense. You might as well have told your readers that there is a goblin with a purple face. With all best wishes, Richard Dawkins – brackets – Professor – exclamation mark – exclamation mark – exclamation mark – exclamation mark …’ The Professor thought for a while longer. ‘Exclamation mark. How many exclamation marks are we up to, Smee?’

  Smee counted. ‘That would be five, Professor.’

  ‘Hmmm … Four would not be quite enough, and six excessive. I am resolute that five is the correct amount for the circumstances. Close brackets. The end. Put it in one of those email things of yours and send it off, would you?’

  ‘Certainly, Professor,’ said Smee. What a mind, he thought, as he went back over his typing to smooth out the punctuation and make sure his fingers had not, in their excitement, made any mistakes. What a brilliant mind.

  The Professor closed his eyes and began to make having-a-nap sounds, and with each man occupied in his own way neither noticed the first snow begin to fall. It was powdery, hardly snow at all, but before long the flakes were coming down large and thick, and there was no getting away from it.

  Winter had arrived.

  2

  The train juddered to a stop, rousing the Professor.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ he thundered, as he typically did upon being woken from a nap. He blinked for a while, until the world came into focus and he deduced the root of the problem. ‘Ptchah. One little snow flurry and the country grinds to a halt.’

  Smee pulled an expression that indicated agreement with the Professor’s comment. It was an expression he had been using a lot.

  ‘Remind me, Smee,’ said the Professor, ‘where are we going?’

  Smee checked his notes. ‘Upper Bottom, Professor, where you are due to give a talk at the village hall to the All Bottoms Women’s Institute on the subject of “Science and the non-existence of God”. It’s not until tomorrow afternoon, so I’m sure we’ll get there on time.’ As Smee spoke, he wondered where this confidence had come from. Far from being one little flurry, the snow was now so thick that the landscape had all but vanished; a strong wind was blowing, and already it was starting to drift.

  The public address system clicked into life and a voice filled the carriage: ‘Dmmf a vmmph whmpf crumph a sthmph wpff tmphf mmpff hmpff.’

  ‘Are we in Wales, Smee?’

  ‘No, Professor, we are in the very heart of the English countryside.’

  ‘Then why is the conductor speaking in Welsh? Proud language as it is, it hardly seems appropriate.’

  ‘It wasn’t Welsh, Professor; it was just a rather fuzzy-sounding announcement.’

  ‘Are you telling me that was supposed to be Her Majesty’s English?’ he raged. ‘It was an inaudible disgrace. I shall be writing one of my letters about this. Could you understand a word of it?’

  Smee had an uncommon talent for deciphering railway announcements. ‘Due to adverse weather conditions,’ he said, ‘this service will terminate at Market Horten.’

  ‘Market Horten? Phmph. I’ve never heard of it.’

  Smee hadn’t either. He opened his computer and was relieved to find a faint signal. He tapped away for a while and extracted the required knowledge. ‘It’s a town a few miles down the line from where we are now. Population six thousand.’

  ‘Is it close to where I am due to give my talk?’

  Smee again referred to his computer, looking at a map of the cluster of villages that made up the Bottoms. ‘Market Horten is described as being “the Gateway to the Bottoms”, but I’m afraid it’s still some way away. Lower Bottom is the nearest of the Bottoms, and that’s around three miles from town. Then you have East Bottom and West Bottom, with Middle Bottom in between; then comes Inner Bottom, followed by Great Bottom, and our destination is a full eleven miles from Market Horten. It’s looking rather unlikely that we shall be able to reach Upper Bottom tonight.’

  ‘But we must reach Upper Bottom, by hook or by crook. That is a shepherd’s crook, you understand, not a bishop’s crook. I have women to speak to tomorrow afternoon, many of whom will be deluded churchgoers who urgently need to hear the truth about religion from somebody who has done all the experiments.’

  ‘If the snow eases, the rail service might resume by the morning,’ said Smee, at once hopeful and hopeless.

  As they sat immobile, the snow showed no sign of easing. ‘Pfff …’ said the Professor, looking at his watch. ‘There goes Deal or No Deal.’

  When, at last, the train lurched back to life and started to move slowly towards what would now be its
final stop, there was little daylight left and Smee knew in his heart that they would have to find shelter for the night in the small town of Market Horten.

  He went back online to find out what he could about their temporary home. He made a telephone call, and before the train had reached the station he had arranged for them to be met there by a taxi driver called Dave, who would help them find accommodation.

  The Professor took this news with interest. ‘Imagine me, Professor Richard Dawkins, consorting with a taxi driver named Dave. Remember this, Smee, and if anybody puts it to you that I keep only elite company, and that I am out of touch with the common man, you be sure to tell them about the time we spent with Dave the taxi driver from … Where are we again?’

  3

  The Professor and Smee were bundled up in overcoats and scarves, but even so they shivered as they waited in the dim light of the small shelter outside Market Horten’s two-platform railway station. Smee wished he had worn an extra pair of socks.

  The snow was swirling around them and blowing into high drifts. Some parked cars were completely buried. ‘This is some pretty bad weather, Professor,’ said Smee, at once regretting having spoken.

  ‘Some pretty bad weather? Listen to yourself, Smee. Try again.’

  Smee was disappointed in himself. He thought for a moment. ‘The meteorological conditions are somewhat inclement, Professor.’

  ‘That’s more like it. There remains room for improvement, but progress has been made.’

  They didn’t have to wait long before a light grey car approached, making tracks through the snow. As it neared them, large blue letters on the side were revealed: ‘Dave’s Taxi’.

  ‘You do the talking, Smee.’

  ‘Of course, Professor.’

  ‘Evening, boys,’ said Dave in his mild rural accent. Leaving the car running, he opened the boot and put their four heavy cases in. Smee sat in the front, and the Professor in the back. Dave got in. ‘Interesting journey, boys?’ he asked.

  ‘You might say that,’ said Smee. ‘Now, I wonder if you would be able to find us something in the way of accommodation?’

  ‘It’s a bit tricky at this time of year,’ said Dave, carefully pulling away. ‘Most places round here close for the winter, but I’ve made a phone call or two and found you a room. There’s a nice old couple that does a bit of B&B in the summer, and they’ve agreed to take you boys in, even though they’re shut. They said they couldn’t have you freezing on the streets.’

  ‘Splendid,’ said Smee. ‘Thank you. Did you discuss with them the small matter of recompense?’

  ‘Er … what?’

  ‘Did they give you any indication of how their out-of-season tariff might impact upon our budget?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘How much will it cost?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. They’re putting you up for free. Wayfarers caught in the snow, and all that. We’re like that round here, boys, I’m afraid.’

  ‘That is ever so good of them.’ Smee felt the inevitable response at being the object of kindness: warmth coursed through his body.

  The taxi moved slowly through the snow.

  ‘I’ll be off home after this,’ said Dave. ‘Back to the wife and three. Even with my winter tyres on I won’t be able to keep going much longer.’ His was the last car on the road.

  From the back seat the Professor spoke to Smee. ‘Ask him about the chances of me reaching Upper Bottom.’

  Smee had become quite used to the Professor’s aversion to small talk, and his reluctance to engage in direct conversation unless it was within the context of a professional engagement or fevered debate. Before he could ask the question, Dave, having heard everything, answered.

  ‘That depends on the weather. I hear the Bottoms are blocked. If this white stuff keeps coming I can’t see that changing.’

  ‘Ask him if there’s a local helicopter we can commandeer. This is something of an emergency: I have an important talk to give.’

  ‘We ain’t got no ’copter, boy, but we might be able to load you into a trailer and pull you up there behind a tractor. But even that’s not looking likely. There’s some big hills between here and there, and the snow could be six foot deep by the morning.’

  ‘We shall get there somehow, Smee. On horseback, if necessary.’

  Dave was thoughtful for a moment. ‘Upper Bottom, you say? Giving a talk?’

  Smee answered on the Professor’s behalf. ‘Yes, the Professor is due to address the All Bottoms Women’s Institute tomorrow afternoon.’

  Dave craned his neck and looked in the rear-view mirror. ‘Prod me with a parsnip! It’s him, isn’t it? It’s Professor Dawkins.’

  ‘The very same,’ said Smee.

  ‘Well, now, it’s an honour to have him in my taxi. I saw a poster for his talk when I was taking Old Aggie up the Bottoms the other day. I thought about going myself, but it’s the WI isn’t it? They wouldn’t let me in unless I was wearing a dress.’ Dave chuckled at his joke, and even Smee smiled a little. Only the Professor remained stony-faced, making it clear that to him this was no laughing matter. ‘I happen to have read your books,’ said Dave.

  ‘Do you really think he has read my books, Smee? A simple taxi driver from the countryside? A taxi driver named Dave?’

  ‘Oh yes, I’ve read ’em alright, boy. Actually I’d better not call you boy, had I? I’ll call you “Prof” from now on.’

  ‘Ask him what he thought of The Extended Phenotype, Smee. I have always had a soft spot for that one, you know.’

  ‘Well, I’ve not actually read that one,’ said Dave.

  ‘Then perhaps River Out of Eden?’

  ‘Er, no, I’ve not read that one neither, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I wonder which ones he has read.’

  ‘The one about genes, and the God one. Interesting stuff, Prof.’

  ‘Obvious choices, Smee, but it is still rather heart-warming to hear that my work, albeit the more populist end of my output, has touched the life of somebody as humdrum as this Dave character.’

  ‘I am pretty humdrum, you’re not wrong there,’ said Dave, cheerfully, ‘but I do like a bit of a read on the rank from time to time. Now then, here we are.’

  They pulled up outside a small stone house with the ghost of roses around the door. The front path had been shovelled clear and gritted, ready for their arrival.

  ‘Nice people,’ said Dave, as he opened the boot of the taxi and took out half of the men’s luggage. ‘He’s a retired vicar, and she’s a retired vicar’s wife.’ Dave carried the bags up to the door of the house, leaving the men to get out of the car in their own time.

  ‘Christians, Smee,’ said the Professor, looking straight ahead, his eyes glinting, alive with the possibilities that lay ahead. He even smiled a little. ‘Christians! Let us remember my motto.’

  ‘There is no God.’

  ‘No, not that one, the other one.’

  ‘I am the expert.’

  ‘No, no, one of my other ones: Cordiality always.’

  ‘Of course, Professor. Cordiality always.’ Smee had never heard him use this motto before. He was sure he would apply it though. The Professor would be as civil as it was possible to be as he made mincemeat of their elderly hosts. And he would have a ringside seat.

  This was the stuff of dreams.

  4

  It was Mrs Potter who answered the door, all silver bun and smiles. ‘Hello Dave,’ she said.

  ‘You’ll never believe who I’ve brought you today, Mrs P.,’ said Dave. ‘You could have bopped me with a beetroot when I recognised him. It’s only that science bloke, Professor Richard Dawkins.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Mrs Potter, flustered. ‘I’m afraid I don’t think we ought to have agreed to this. If I had known it was him, I would have had to say no.’

  ‘What’s the problem, Mrs P.?’ asked Dave. ‘I thought you were the open-minded type.’

  ‘I am, Dave, it’s just the practicalities. This is a very old house, and
it really wasn’t designed with wheelchairs in mind. I would hate for him to be uncomfortable. He’ll have to go up half a dozen steps if he needs to spend a penny in the night. He has to sleep somewhere though; let me think where else we could try for the poor man …’

  ‘Wheelchairs? What are you …?’ The penny dropped. ‘No, Mrs P., it’s not him – it’s the other one.’

  ‘The other one? I didn’t realise there was another one.’

  ‘You’re thinking of the space one. This one’s Richard Dawkins, the one who’s really into his genomes. He can’t get enough of them; he’s even been on BBC2 talking about them.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Mrs Potter, turning red. ‘Me and my mistakes.’

  Reverend Potter appeared, his remaining hair just as white as the world outside. ‘Hello Dave. Are they here?’ he asked.

  ‘They certainly are. And – touch me with a turnip – it’s only that scientist Professor Dawkins, and some other bloke – his male secretary, I suppose. Nice enough pair of lads, anyway, just a bit weird – but you’d expect that from people like them, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘How exciting,’ said the Reverend. ‘I do hope I shall be able to have a little chat with him over supper. He seems like a jolly interesting fellow. Will you show them in, Dave?’

  Mrs Potter scuttled off to make some final preparations to their room, and the vicar heartily greeted the men as they crunched their way up the garden path. At the door Smee discreetly settled up with Dave as he brought in their remaining bags. It had been a short journey, and the meter had only read four pounds sixty, but he pressed a twenty-pound note into Dave’s hand in a way that made it clear that no change was required and nothing needed to be said. Dave had, after all, been extremely helpful and would be out of work until the snow cleared up. He hoped the Professor wouldn’t notice him doing this. ‘Never tip taxi drivers, Smee,’ he had said on a number of occasions. ‘It only encourages them.’

  As the son of a taxi driver, whose annual family trip to the seaside had been paid for out of the tip jar, Smee couldn’t bring himself to leave a decent cabbie without a little on top of the fare. This rare insubordination had to take place in the shadows, and Dave stuck to the script with a valedictory ‘Much obliged’.