When the Professor Got Stuck in the Snow Read online

  On their first meeting the Professor had explained that he had been having some difficulties while his local branch of Lloyds Bank turned into a TSB, so it had been down to Smee to cover their day-to-day expenses. Smee didn’t have the opportunity to ask for a receipt from Dave though, so he knew he wouldn’t be seeing the money again. Still, he was pleased to have got away with leaving a tip, and with that behind him he allowed himself to be ushered alongside the Professor into the warmth of the sitting room, where a log fire blazed.

  ‘Welcome, Professor Dawkins,’ the Reverend said, extending his hand. ‘What an honour to have you under our roof.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course.’ The Professor shook the vicar’s hand in a businesslike manner.

  The Reverend turned to Smee. ‘And welcome to you too, Mr …’

  ‘He is my male secretary,’ said the Professor, ‘and his name is Smee.’

  ‘Is that Mr Smee, or Smee something?’

  ‘Just Smee,’ answered the Professor on Smee’s behalf.

  Smee had become quite used to his new name, and liked that it stood alone. On their first meeting the Professor had looked him up and down and said, ‘Henceforth you shall answer to Smee,’ and Smee couldn’t think of a single reason why he would not be happy about this.

  ‘How unusual,’ said the vicar. ‘If you have no objection I shall pour you each a brandy and leave you to thaw out while I nip off to see if my wife has finished preparing your room. I wonder, would you condescend to join us for a rather humble meal this evening?’

  ‘That would be very kind,’ said Smee, who was ravenous. ‘Thank you.’ As soon as he said this, he realised his mistake: he should have waited for the Professor to answer, and then followed his lead. It was too late now.

  The Professor must have known that they would be hard pressed to find succour elsewhere on a night like this. He forced his lips into a smile. ‘How nice,’ he said.

  ‘Do you see how cordial I can be?’ said the Professor, when the Reverend had left the room. ‘Even when confronted with the very worst kind of reckless imbecile I shake hands and smile and so forth. Cordiality always.’

  ‘You are an inspiration, Professor.’

  ‘You’re not wrong there, Smee.’

  The men stood near the fire, sipping their brandies. Following his earlier indiscretion, Smee made a point of not speaking unless spoken to, and for several minutes the Professor said nothing. Eventually, though, he broke the silence by looking disdainfully at his brandy glass, and saying, ‘Supermarket rubbish.’

  Smee, who had been greatly enjoying his brandy until that moment, elected to remain silent, but once again he found himself pulling a face that signalled agreement.

  Mrs Potter came into the room and introduced herself to her guests. ‘Could I show you to your room, gentlemen?’ she asked. ‘I hope you don’t mind sharing, but I’m afraid it’s the only one we could possibly prepare at such short notice.’

  ‘Needs must when the Devil drives,’ said the Professor, as they followed Mrs Potter out of the room. ‘I mean that as a figure of speech,’ he explained to Smee, clearly aware that Mrs Potter was within earshot. ‘Of course there is no such thing as the Devil; that would be preposterous.’

  They went upstairs and into a small room with twin beds. Nearly everything about it was just as would be expected from a country bed and breakfast. It was simply decked out, with dark wooden furniture and watercolours of rural scenes. There was, though, one unusual aspect to it.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ bellowed the Professor, pointing at a garden gnome on a bedside table, blank eyes staring from a cheerful face. ‘And this?’ He had noticed another. ‘And this?’ One by one he pointed at gnome after gnome, until a dozen were accounted for. All cordiality had drained from him.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Mrs Potter. ‘I seem to have made one of my mistakes. Dave told me you were a big fan of G-gnomes, and I thought you might appreciate us putting our collection in your room, to make you feel at home. We’ve brought them in for the winter, you see, and I thought I would get them out of the cupboard and put them on display. It’s my mistake; I should have known that our little garden gnomes might not be up to scratch. Do they not meet your exacting standards, Professor?’

  ‘G-gnomes, you say?’ The fury on his face melted away. ‘Of course.’ He looked again at the gnomes. ‘Well, yes, I am rather taken with them, as it goes. Not bad specimens, all told. They are rather jolly little chaps, aren’t they? They will do.’

  Mrs Potter was relieved with this outcome. ‘Oh, I’m so glad,’ she said. ‘I was starting to think I had made another of my mistakes.’ She bustled around, telling them where the kettle was, and showing how the curtains worked, and giving directions to the bathroom. ‘We eat at seven, gentlemen. I look forward to you joining us.’

  She left them alone, to make themselves comfortable.

  ‘That was what is scientifically known as “a mildly amusing misunderstanding”, Smee,’ said the Professor.

  ‘Yes, Professor,’ said Smee.

  ‘But it is over now. We shall think of it no more, except perhaps to recall my jovial response to the episode when next I am wrongly accused of lacking a sense of whimsy.’

  For a moment Smee couldn’t wait to recount the story to somebody, but it hit him that there was nobody. Nobody at all. He had only the Professor now.

  5

  With an hour to fill before their meal, the men settled into their room, emptying cases and filling drawers. The Professor tutted when it became clear that there were no complimentary biscuits.

  Smee felt his days were full of purpose now, as he dealt with the logistics of an extended tour of Britain. There had been much to overcome, but at that moment he was more relieved than ever: he had conquered the blizzard and seen to it that the Professor had a warm bed for the night.

  ‘What is your opinion of our hosts, Smee?’ asked the Professor, as he separated his pH paper into colour-coded stacks.

  Smee knew that the Professor would scrutinise his answer, and he hoped he would say the right thing. His heart raced. ‘They are a pair of idiots,’ he said, ‘just like anybody who believes in all that superstitious nonsense.’ He could sense that the Professor was approving so far, and he carried on. ‘They are a throwback to the Dark Ages. But at least their stupidity manifests itself in some small degree of kindness; it was, I suppose, good of them to take us in.’

  Smee wished he had finished with them being a throwback to the Dark Ages. He could sense that this last comment had not met the Professor’s approval.

  ‘Kindness?’ said the Professor. ‘Good of them? Smee, what are you thinking? Have you learned nothing from me? Their kindness is as hollow as an eggshell. An empty eggshell, that is to say. They are only being kind in the hope that God sees them and gives them a pat on the back for it when they get to heaven. Well, let me tell you this, Smee,’ he roared. ‘There is no God and there is no heaven. I am disappointed in you. True kindness can only ever come from Humanists such as myself, we who know that there is nothing waiting for us when we die, nothing but decomposition and dissipation and that sort of thing. Unlike Christians, we don’t go around being kind in the hope of collecting heaven points. Do you think I am kind, Smee?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Well, do you?’

  Smee was desperate to make up lost ground. ‘You are very kind, Professor.’

  ‘You are quite right. I have devoted swathes of my life to kindly telling people how ignorant they are, and correcting them, and giving them the opportunity to think as I do. Look at me now, traipsing through the countryside, taking only modest fees, sometimes no fee at all, as I inform the clueless that there is no God, just as there is no goblin with a purple face, and that there is no consolation, none whatsoever, to be found in religion. If anybody is kind around here, Smee, it is me – and I am unanimous in that.’

  ‘Yes, Professor.’

  ‘Hmph. You keep quiet and think about what you said while I call my third wife. She worries so.’ The Professor pulled out his old-fashioned mobile phone and dialled. ‘Hello dear. Yes, there has been a bit of snow, but I’ve been taken in by some Creationist halfwits so at least I have a bed for the night. Yes, it is warm indoors. Yes, I do have a change of underwear.’

  There was a knock at the door. Smee answered, and in walked Mrs Potter. ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ she said, ‘but I had completely forgotten to leave towels out for you.’

  The Professor continued talking. ‘So here I am, trapped for the time being … What’s that, dear? Why no, your ears are not deceiving you; there is a woman in here with me, but that is not your concern. Right now I have just one ambition in life, and that is to see Upper Bottom. Only when I have achieved this shall I be satisfied.’

  Having placed a towel at the foot of each bed, Mrs Potter left the room.

  The Professor looked at his phone. ‘That was rather odd, Smee. My third wife seemed to be suddenly cut off. There was a loud clunk, and then nothing. Probably the meteorological conditions, Smee. Yes, that’ll be it. There is no mystery. See – there is a scientific explanation for everything.’

  6

  ‘I know it’s not really your thing, Professor,’ said the Reverend Potter, ‘but would you mind awfully if Mrs Potter and I were to say grace?’

  ‘Not at all, Reverend,’ said the Professor. ‘Even though we believe religion to be a pursuit of the feeble-minded, Smee and I are cultural Christians through and through, aren’t we Smee?’

  ‘Very much so.’ A few days earlier the Professor had informed Smee of this. He had been a little taken aback, but had quickly adjusted to the idea. ‘The Professor takes his cultural Christianity very seriously indeed, as do I.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said the Professor. ‘Just because religion is a heinous trick played on the credulous, century in and century out, there is no reason why I should go without my Christmas presents or Easter eggs. Tell them how many Easter eggs I ate this year, Smee.’

  ‘Forty.’

  ‘That’s right – forty in one sitting, and I even ate the sweets in the middle. There was chocolate all round my mouth. I paid the price the next day though. Do you have any idea – any idea at all – what eating forty Easter eggs does to the human stool? It is really quite alarming.’

  ‘I wasn’t there at the time,’ said Smee, ‘but the Professor has shown me a series of Polaroids of the incident, so I have seen just how violently the body reacts to such a diet. It was, to put it mildly, horrifying.’

  ‘It was worth it though. I do not regret a single egg, such is my commitment to cultural Christianity.’ The Professor drifted into a reverie. ‘Wispa … Galaxy … a Spider-Man one … The foil made a ball the size of a tangerine … Forgive me,’ he said, snapping out of it. ‘Please do proceed with your charmingly archaic incantation. Smee and I shall remain silent throughout as a mark of sensitivity.’

  The Reverend closed his eyes, bowed his head and began. ‘For what …’

  A partially stifled snigger came from one of their guests. The Reverend did his best to ignore it. He started again.

  ‘For what we are about …’

  There was more sniggering, this time from both guests. The Reverend paused for a moment, reflected, and tried for a third time.

  ‘For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful. Amen.’

  Mrs Potter joined in. ‘Amen.’

  ‘Wonderful!’ cried the Professor. ‘That was like a window into the past. Who needs a time machine with you two around? You do realise, don’t you, that you might as well have been speaking to a goblin with a purple face? There is no God, you know, just as there is no goblin.’

  ‘I think for now we had better agree to disagree on that one, Professor. Gentlemen, bon appétit.’

  The visitors had missed their usual teatime snack, and they tucked in enthusiastically. ‘Convention dictates that I now pay my hosts a compliment,’ said the Professor, ‘and may I say that this cottage pie is delicious. One hesitates to use the word “divine” because of its supernatural connotations, but it is certainly extremely tasty.’

  ‘Thank you, Professor,’ said Mrs Potter. ‘I’m so pleased you like it.’

  ‘Yes, in spite of your shortcomings, you religious types are capable of producing decent foodstuffs,’ said the Professor. ‘I will give you that. Your Islamic rivals make a splendid baba ghanoush, not to mention hummus.’

  ‘We had a lovely hummus on our trip to Jerusalem, didn’t we dear?’ said Mrs Potter. ‘In that nice Jewish restaurant, do you remember? I think it was the best I’ve ever tasted.’

  ‘Listen to yourselves,’ snapped the Professor. ‘That is just typical of you lot, incessantly pitting one religion against another. No wonder there are so many wars. The sooner you all realise you are wrong about everything the better. Your silly books are just collections of fairy stories; you might as well revolve your lives around the teachings of the Three Billy Goats Gruff. Science is the only way – and I am unanimous in that.’

  ‘Ah, wonderful,’ said the Reverend. ‘I was hoping you would raise the topic of science. I happen to know that you have done a great deal of groundbreaking work in the field, Professor.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I have done a number of experiments over the years, many of them rather fascinating.’

  ‘The Professor is being typically modest,’ said Smee. ‘In fact he has done all the experiments.’

  ‘I cannot deny it; although my primary field is biology, I have also done all the physics and chemistry ones. There is just no stopping me when it comes to science.’

  ‘I’m afraid I must confess, Professor,’ said Mrs Potter, ‘that I have never had a great interest in science.’

  ‘Then you can fuck off,’ said the Professor.

  Gently, the Reverend came to his wife’s defence. ‘Professor, wouldn’t you say that was just a little on the rude side?’

  Smee was surprised to find himself agreeing with a vicar; the Professor’s outburst had not seemed particularly appropriate.

  ‘Not at all.’ The Professor was indignant. ‘Science is all around us. It is everything, and if you are so blinkered, and so dull-witted that you cannot even muster a keen interest in it, then quite frankly you should never have been born. One of the other sperms should have got through, instead of the one that made you. And besides, I was quoting somebody and it doesn’t count as rude if you’re quoting.’

  Smee was relieved to find himself convinced by the Professor’s retort, and felt guilty for his moment of doubt.

  Reverend Potter, though, pursued the matter. ‘Perhaps so, Professor, but I do think it was a little over the top for the dinner table, and I wonder if you might say sorry to my wife.’

  Smee watched the Professor, wondering how he was going to respond, but knowing he would do the right thing.

  The Professor crossed his arms and made a Winston Churchill face.

  ‘Come along, old chap,’ said the Reverend. ‘I’m not going to ask you to look as though you mean it. All I’m asking is that you say the words.’

  ‘Very well,’ sighed the Professor, ‘if it means that much to you: I acknowledge that a swear word was quoted at the dinner table, and I request that we now draw a line under the incident and continue with our meal.’

  ‘Consider it water under the bridge,’ smiled Mrs Potter, who had faced a lot worse in her time, and forgiven far more extreme transgressions. Smee was amazed to see her carry on as if she hadn’t just been told to fuck off. ‘Now, speaking of water, there is one little question I hope you don’t mind me asking,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid you’ll find it rather elementary, but as I said I am not really of a scientific bent.’

  ‘Ask away, but I should warn you that my answer will shake your faith to its very foundations.’

  ‘It’s a risk I am prepared to take, Professor. Now, I know that water turns to gas at a hundred degrees centipede.’

  ‘Yes, yes, carry on,’ said the Professor wearily, knowing exactly what was coming next.

  ‘And evaporation happens when water turns to gas and goes up into the air. Am I right, Professor?’

  ‘If you say so, Mrs Potter,’ he yawned. ‘Do continue.’

  ‘So, I was wondering, if that is indeed the case then how come puddles aren’t particularly hot? They evaporate, but they never seem to be all boiling and bubbling, do they?’

  On his first day with the Professor, Smee had heard this question posed several times, and on each subsequent day it had reared up again, and every time it had come from somebody who seemed to think that, because puddles managed to disappear without ever becoming boiling hot, the whole of science must be wrong, or at best unreliable. The Professor rose to his feet and cleared his throat, and as he responded to Mrs Potter’s question, Smee knew the words so well that he could almost have joined in. He spoke of diffusion, kinetic energy and vaporisation, and quite a lot about molecules, and though Mrs Potter was not able to follow it all, she was clearly doing her best to keep up.

  ‘Fascinating,’ she said.

  ‘It is basic science, you know. You must understand, Mrs Potter, that there is much in the natural world which is not visible to the naked eye. I learned this during my undergraduate years at Cambridge University, or Oxford, whichever one it was – I am certain it would have been one or the other, but such trifling details tend to vanish amid the fog of achievement.’

  ‘It was Oxford, Professor,’ put in Smee.

  ‘Ah, yes, Oxford. Of course, the dreaming spires and so forth. Not that I ever paid them much heed, so absorbed was I by what I observed as I crouched day and night over my trusty microscope. I found world after world, tiny galaxies that lay a long way beyond the sphere of normal vision. Droplets that you might see with those blue eyes of yours, Mrs Potter, are as skyscrapers to grains of sand when compared to the molecules involved in the process of evaporation. Even now, every time I look into a microscope, the first thing to cross my mind is how the people who wrote that absurd book to which you so desperately cling had no idea of any of this. They had no microscopes, no telescopes; their understanding of the world around them was but an infinitesimal fraction of what we now know. Imagine how much metal there is in a paper clip, Mrs Potter. Now imagine how much there is in the Eiffel Tower. That comparison does not even begin to convey the difference I am talking about. To use that book as your primary source of scientific knowledge is … Now how shall I put this politely? It is pathetic. So you see,’ concluded the Professor, sitting down at last, ‘it isn’t fairy dust carrying the water away; there is a perfectly simple scientific explanation. As with all these things, it is not a miracle at all. Oh, and you know the clouds up in the sky? Those fluffy-looking things I mentioned in my explanation?’