This is the first time that the Knolly Estate has allowed the great man's memoirs to be published. What follows is the forty-first section of 'An African Adventure'.

As we were getting dressed in our room, I could tell that Bertie was a little unnerved. Then he spoke.

'Knolly? What if sailor-boy from the sauna finds us? He'll probably rough us up and keelhaul us, won't he?'

'Ah! I've taken care of that. I slipped Messrs Ferdinand and van der Poom a few shekels. The official report of the steamy sauna sailor situation will now read that our tar was hopelessly drunk, that he slipped and banged his head and that we rescued him. Anything that he might waffle on about being locked behind fire doors would be a result of derangement brought about by alcohol, concussion and dehydration. And we look like heroes to boot. Howzat?'

Bertie applauded and looked mighty relieved. 'Let us celebrate with a drink. Or several. Let us away to L'Innuendo!' he called theatrically as he strode confidently from the room and down the wrong corridor.

Of course, we still had trouble finding our way around the ship. During one wrong turn, we made ourselves somewhat unpopular as we barged through a door that we mistakenly thought was the bar entrance but which was, in fact, a 'Son-et-Lumiere' theatre. On another wrong turn, we found ourselves to be inadvertently in charge in the kitchens, acting as chef and sous-chef for a fortunately fleeting period. Finally — after several twisty-turnies and dead-ends and threats of physical violence if we ever went near that person or room or part-of-the-ship ever again — there, atop one of these moving-stair thingummys, was 'L'Innuendo'.

As we entered the bar, we were greeted by two rows of staff whose only job it seemed was to bow and curtsy as customers walked in. We were led to our table; it was ideally placed inasmuch as it was set away from the gaze of the wider public, yet within easy reach of the bar. It also afforded a decent view of the dance floor, so we could watch and admire as the dancers twirled elegantly to the genteel music from the house orchestra.

Bertie proceeded to explain to our hovering waiter that we were waiting for two ladies.

'Aren't we all, messieurs?' he replied without as much as hint of a smile.

Bertie then tried again, stating that the ladies in question went by the names of Eugenie and Lillian.

'Ah, oui! They are not yet on duty. They will be here soon,' he replied in an almost enigmatic fashion.

'Really, well I'm sure they are busy tucking up the little chaps, must be quite a fun place for children.'

The waiter's face took on a thoughtful expression and continued, 'There are no children on board, sir — rules, you know.'

'Is that so, well I'm sure I saw some little folk running around on our way here. Isn't that right, Knolly?'

I nodded in agreement, but my thoughts were more on the term 'on duty'. Bertie seemed to have let this pass and was examining our surroundings, so I did not press the point any further. Instead, my attention turned to drink. I stated to the waiter that I was desperately dehydrated following the sauna episode, to which he recommended that 'un visa' might quench our thirsts. Bertie and I were presented with a little passport-style book that had detachable sheets therein. Upon each sheet was the name of a country (or region) and the name of the most popular beer from that country (or region). The concept of being able to effectively drink our way around the world without leaving our table sounded like the only way to travel. What's more, according to the pictures each drink was served in its own unique glass.

Our first drink was something called 'sidd'; the waiter told us that it emanated from the sands of Arabia.

'Emanated from an Arab, more like,' said Bertie rather unkindly as he nosed the unique bouquet. He sipped it warily but did not fall over or froth at the mouth. This meant that 'sidd' had met our basic criteria for accepting an alcoholic drink into our vast repertoire.

We passed the time in muted discussion of our African adventure. In particular, we were both concerned that we knew little or nothing of the recent activities of Rhodes and Jameson. We decided that we could reduce this concern by increasing our alcohol intake, so we called for our second and third visa drinks ('Vyzywata' from Poland and 'Wan-bi-sik' from Japan). After our fourth visa ('Kolon', supposedly a Bohemian brew) a French waiter approached our table in a prim-and-proper glide and, with a flurry and a flourish, presented us with two small menus that were covered in a rich mauve silk. He asked, 'Might messieurs be interested in the specials ce soir?'

'I should say so!' said Bertie and I with much enthusiasm. After the stress and strain of recent events on this mission — and what with missing Elspeth and all — I was ready for some alcoholic distraction over and above that provided by the visa.

We perused the specials menu and became a little dismayed. In common with fancy cocktail drinks, they had typically impenetrable names such as 'Ripe Steamer', 'Down Below' and 'Handmaiden' — and with no accompanying descriptions to assist, neither of us could determine the alcohol base of this fancy new selection.

Bertie just tsk-tsk-ed, closed his eyes, ran his finger up and down the list and made his choice at random. 'There!' he said. 'Fate has decreed that I should have a "White Russian". How about you, Knolly?'

I followed Bertie's selection process and it appeared that it was my destiny to have a 'Fruit of the Amazon'. Sounded very pleasant indeed.

The waiter nodded, bowed and said 'Messieurs, I shall have them delivered to your room tout de suite.'

Bertie and I were rather enjoying the atmosphere in the bar and requested that our orders be delivered to our table.

'As you wish,' he said with a Gallic shrug, and off he went in his efficient glide.

Having been distracted from our conversation, we noticed that the music had evolved into an altogether more raucous style. It was played at a fast pace with a great emphasis on drummed rhythm and it incorporated saxophones across the musical range. It was also very loud, and neither Bertie or I could make out the lyrics that the young gentleman singer was bawling though his megaphone. Not the sort of music that would grace one of Aunt Lettice's garden parties, but nevertheless, it struck a chord — quite literally — with us both. It led to much foot-tapping, but no actual dancing as such.

'Maybe we should have a dance after the next drink?' said Bertie as he supped his beer and eyed the ladies sitting on the sidelines. I agreed. Even though he said exactly the same thing during our next four drinks, we continued with our procrastinatory process apropos prancing, but also continued with hearty foot-tapping activities. Mr LeTang would have been so proud of us.

Just as we were getting acquainted with the ninth beer (a Prussian blond beer named 'Knatzpiz' which we had taken a shine to many years back), the Master of Ceremonies called out 'Hold tight!' As he did so, the ship began to pitch and yaw in response to a swell in the harbour. The regulars amongst the partygoers moved around the dance floor in a synchronous yet peculiar manner, dancing to this loud music in an exaggerated style due to the motion of the ship.

It looked like fun. Bertie wanted to know what they were doing and so hailed a passing waitress.

'Excuse me, young madam. What are these people doing?'

She did not understand him, but in an instant we knew why. Like our waiter, she too exercised a clearly Gallic shrug when Bertie asked his question. So he tried again in French.

'Pardon, mademoiselle! Qu'est-ce qu'ils fait?' he hollered, gesturing at the gyrating mass.

'Balancant et roulant,' hollered back la belle dame de drink.

Bertie nodded, satisfied. I asked him to translate what she had said.

'She said that they are "rocking and rolling". Wonder how it would go down at a Regimental Ball or Senior Service soirée,' said Bertie.

After a while, we both yearned to hear something from the music halls back home in Blighty. Threading my way across the dance floor and apologising every third or fourth step, I asked the conductor if his combo knew of any such material. In an apologetic tone, he replied that he was under contract to the ship's owners to play only music that went 'bumpty-bumpty-bumpty'. Oh well! He was a pleasant enough chap, though. George Bentson, I think he said his name was.

Having had our requests rejected, Bertie and I decided to amuse ourselves by singing the songs that we wanted. There was a fundamental flaw in this. When I say 'songs', I actually mean 'song'. Both of us were just the wrong side of inebriation for the full recall of lyrics and melodies that would have allowed a decent stab at a rendition. As it was, we could remember just one song between us. It was an old favourite drinking song that went thus:

'Nose! Nose!

Jolly red nose!

Who gave thee thy jolly red nose?

Nutmeg, ginger, cinnamon, cloves!

That's how I got my jolly red nose!'

We would usually repeat this little ditty ad infinitum, ad nauseam or (more likely) 'ad enough of it. However, this time we were interrupted, as we heard the voice of our French waiter from behind us.

'Pardon, messieurs. One White Russian and one Fruit of the Amazon. Voila! Your specials.'

'Splendid!' said Bertie. 'Just pop them on the table, would you?'

As we turned around, there followed two loud crashes — the sound of our jaws hitting the floor. Bertie's 'White Russian' was served in a white fur hat, white fur coat, white gloves and white shoes, and her name was Katarina. My 'Fruit of the Amazon' was called Lucia and was... well... a dusky South American maiden dressed in... well... not a lot, apart from a braided leather hairband and an extravagant wrap made from the feathers of exotic birds. Between the two ladies — our specials — there was no trace of drawers or bloomers.

Given that we were in a public place, it was most peculiar that not one patron glanced our way. This type of incident would have caused at least a 'Steady on!' if it were executed back home at a stiff-upper-lipped event such as, say, teatime at the Ritz. But here? Not a peep.

It soon became apparent why the waiter had earlier offered discrete delivery of these feisty fillies to our rooms. The ladies made their moves as we sat in stunned silence. Bertie quickly became engulfed in Katarina's furs and I soon found myself held hostage in a feathery Amazonian embrace that certainly left my own feathers more than a little ruffled. I could feel stirrings beginning to stir and wished for one of Hobbes' Gender Benders so that I might not be distracted from our mission and that my reputation might also remain intact for Elspeth. However, at that juncture I was willing to admit that the stirring effect of the stirrings was rather pleasant, and it had been some time since I had been stirred in such a stirring manner. Bertie, no longer visible 'neath his furry cocoon, was obviously enduring similar torment, judging by the muffled sounds from within.

I was close to submitting to my urges when there came two voices — two female voices — from without my prison of plumage.

'Typical!' said one of the voices in a scolding manner. 'Leave them alone for a few hours and this is what they get up to!'

'They are all the same. Just can't be trusted, can they?' said the other voice in agreement with the sentiment expressed by the first voice. And then the two voices started laughing, presumably at our predicament.

I then heard Bertie's voice — meek and muted due to it having to negotiate several layers of fur — say 'Eugenie? Lillian?'

'Hello!' they responded in harmony and then added 'Hoppit', which was presumably aimed at the Russian and the Amazon.

It was as if a spell had been broken, for Bertie and I were released by the specials, who sauntered off in rather sulky manner, and we both ended up in dishevelled heaps on the floor. (Bertie later remarked that Katarina and Lucia did not even say 'goodbye'. I pointed out that they had not even said 'hello'.)

'Thank heavens!' said Bertie. 'Rescued!' He straightened his hair, moustache, tie, shirt and anything else that had become dishevelled during his clinch. After the briefest of introductions, he felt that he needed to give his new friends an explanation and decided that it was best for all concerned if he bluffed his way out of the situation.

'Ah! Yes. Those other girls who just left. Old friends of ours, aren't they Knolly?'

THANK YOU SO MUCH. I SHALL NOT FORGET THIS, I blinked. 'Oh, yes!' I replied breezily. 'They are the nieces of the estate manager at my aunt's home in Wiltshire. They are just... erm...' I looked to Bertie for assistance.

...visiting their sick uncle who manages a diamond mine, and they just happen to be... errmmm...'

...staying in the same hotel as us. Remarkable coincidence, what?'

'Oh, I see!' said Eugenie and Lillian. They nodded at each other.

GOOD SHOW, blinked Bertie.

THINK WE GOT AWAY WITH THAT ONE, I replied.

And then the girls both laughed hysterically.

OR MAYBE NOT, Bertie added.

'You were aware that this was a brothel, weren't you?' Lillian asked Bertie.

It was our turn to speak in harmony: 'Brothel?'

'You didn't really think that it was a hotel, did you?' said Eugenie. 'Weren't there enough clues?'

With hindsight, it was so easy to see that we were on a floating house of ill repute. Our stay had been littered with many clues — it was just that we had been too tired or too distracted to spot them. We must have look disheartened. Lillian spoke: 'Look. From what Bertie told us on the train, you've been busy travelling to and fro between Lord-knows-what forsaken places on Lord-knows-what business, and it looks like you've hardly slept at all. Why don't you come back to our room?'

HERE WE GO AGAIN. MORE SPECIALS? I blinked.

Bertie just shrugged and blinked in reply: WHAT HAVE WE TO LOSE?

'Thank you for your offer, but what of your two boys, your recent tragedy and all?' I enquired.

The pair looked at each other. 'Oh, the boys are elsewhere. You didn't expect us to have them here, did you?' asked Eugenie in horror.

'I'm sorry, it's been a long few days for the both of us,' I explained.

They nodded as one, then helped us from our seats — for, it seemed, Eugenie and Lillian were kindly souls and had indeed taken pity on us. They led us gently away from the cacophony of the Innuendo Bar and to their elegant (and quiet) suite of normal design. We were fully expecting another episode in strumpetry — but instead, they gave us silken nightgowns, tucked us into quilted beds with fluffy pillows, lit scented candles and then left us to get a decent night's sleep.

As we were starting to doze off, I heard Bertie chuckle softly.

'What is it, Bertie?' I asked drowsily.

'I was just thinking about that specials menu, Knolly...'

'Oh yes?' I replied with a yawn.

'Just as well that I didn't order the Nutcracker...'

The Great Knolly Archive

The Shepherd and
huzzah4knolly

05.10.06 Front Page

Back Issue Page