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

I was certain that a telegraph office would have been located in close proximity to the main railway station. But then again, I am not a town planner, and I am sure that our driver - in common with his cab-driving brethren all over the world - could always be relied upon to take the quickest route between two points. The lengthy journey through the Cape Town traffic, however, gave Bertie more time to fidget incessantly in his seat. In the end I could take no more of it.

'Bertie! Whatever is the matter with you?' My sharp tone made him stop.

'What, what?'

'You are all of a dither, man! What in heaven's name is troubling you?'

'It's the telegraph office Knolly. Do you think it will be open at this hour? I mean look... the roads are getting quieter and the day's work is done.'

'Open? Why of course it will be! Great Britain is the hub of an Empire upon which the sun never sets and none of our colonies ever sleeps.'

I felt quite stirred by my minor outburst of patriotism. It seemed also to perk up my colleague.

'Plus the fact', I continued, 'you are forgetting about that conference in Washington a few years back where all of those time zones were created.'

'Hah, yes! I remember now. I'm still not at all sure how it all works, but it sounded jolly clever. Been out here for so many months I'd quiet forgotten that we are on a different time to back home. So what time is it really, Knolly?'

'Where? Here or at home?'

'Errrmm. Back home?' asked Bertie.

'Let me see... '. I tried to remember how these new-fangled zones were arranged. 'The Cape is two hours ahead. Or maybe one hour? Or is it behind?'

'Behind what?' asked Bertie. I had a feeling that he was about to become terribly confused. He did not disappoint.

'Home, of course! No, wait. It's ahead. The Cape is most definitely ahead of London.'

'But we are in the Southern Hemisphere. Does that make a difference? Being upside-down and rotating the other way and all that?'

'We are neither upside-down nor rotating the other way. And being in the Southern Hemisphere makes no difference. I don't think so anyway ... '

'Ah! But how does it know where our home is?' asked Bertie, treating himself to a self-congratulatory smile to himself for asking such a good question. This self-same question indicated to me that Bertie was now well and truly headed for mental maelstrom.

'How does what know where our home is?' I sighed wearily as if addressing a four year old child.

'The time-machine thing that manages all of these zones.'

'There is no machine! The time zones are lines of convenience... '

'Like lots of toilets, then?'

'No! Nothing at all like toilets. The zones are imaginary lines that divide the Earth into convenient areas so that the management of time may be consistent around the world.'

Bertie's brow furrowed as if ploughed. I attempted to provide a metaphor.

'Look... Imagine the segments of an orange... '

'No thank you. I don't much care for oranges. Could I perhaps have a banana instead?'

'I was about to say that the segments of an orange are a model for how the Earth is divided into time zones. A segment of 15 degrees represents an hour.'

'I would say that it has been much hotter than 15 degrees lately.' said Bertie, completely missing the point.

'Not fifteen degrees Celsius, Bertie. Fifteen degress of latitude.'

'Oh! Yes. That makes sense' nodded Bertie sagely. 'And the pips in this orange. Could they be used for signalling the time?'

I could feel myself being drawn in to Bertie's field of beffudlement.
'Yes, Bertie. They probably could,' I replied and then started to envisage a global network of people, each of whom would take precisely one hour to peel an orange and who then would count out, say, 6 of the pips to signal the hour. I shook my head to rid myself of such nonsense. Pips indeed!

'Anyway,' said Bertie. 'You still haven't told me the time. And after all this talk about fruit, I'm rather hungry. Is it dinnertime? Is there a dinnertime zone? And what about that banana? Do you not have any bananas?'

I drew a deep, calming breath and took Bertie gently by the shoulders.

'Yes, I have no bloody bananas. Look... purge your mind of the time zones and fruit. The point is, the time is not an issue. As I've said, the sun never sets. We will be able to complete our business, I promise.'

Bertie nodded and asked quietly: '... And if the office is closed?'

I crossed my fingers behind my back 'It won't be!'

Our goliath of a driver tried to gain our attention by leering over his shoulder and coughing as politely as he could. The sound was like the warning roar of a bull walrus.

'Ere we are gents!' he rumbled. 'Now, are you sure that you want me to take your luggage to this address?'

Bertie had had enough and pulled himself on to the driving seat so that he was face-to-face with the driver.

'Now look here my good man! I was given that address by a lady whose nature you seem to be casting aspersions upon. You've been paid for your troubles, so kindly keep your thoughts to yourself and we'll see you back here in an hour. Understood?'

The driver was quite taken aback by this and nodded in meek compliance. Bertie then jumped down and the cab pulled away from the kerb.

'That was well put Bertie,' I said, also surprised at the manner in which he squared up to the driver.

'Yes, I thought so, too.' he replied. After a short pause, he asked: 'Do you think we'll ever see our belongings again?'

I stared after the cab and mentally noted the licence number. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a figure watching us from a doorway.

'Well, we shall know in an hour or so, shan't we?'

The telegraph office was located on the corner of the street; it was a utilitarian looking building, much like a post office back home. I breathed a sigh of relief, for the lights were still on and the sign on the door said 'OPEN'. The rain we had left behind on the plain was now making its presence felt on the street and so Bertie and I hurried on inside.

Beyond the counter and in a closed off room we could see many clerks beavering away at whatever clerks in a telegraph office do. All the while there was the constant and all-pervading sound of the telegraphers' keys tap-tap-tapping away. I nudged Bertie and whispered (though I know not why).

'See... communication is the key. Think of the information that is whizzing along those lines... to every corner of the globe... knowledge is power, they say...'

'Knolly, you're getting louder. And you're starting to scare me,' Bertie complained.

'Hm... oh sorry. Well! No-one seems to have noticed us yet. Let us ring that little bell, shall we?'

Bertie hit the bell which gave a merry little tinkle that was quite pleasing on the ear. It seemed, however, to be connected to a myriad of other bells that had been strategically placed around the building so that soon we were treated to a cacophony which would have put Aunt Lettices' village bell-ringers to shame. The clerks of the inner office all stopped as one and stared at us through the window, for all the world like the meerkats we had seen during our travels. Despite the interruption, the tapping of the telegraph continued its syncopated rhythms.

'I think that they know we are here now,' said Bertie from out of the side of his mouth as he waved at the army of tappers who - as one - went back to what they were doing. Bertie was about to ring the bell again, when through a door came a bespectacled fellow of indeterminate age. As he rested his hands on the counter, his index fingers immediately started tapping and he welcomed us in a most garrulous manner.

'Good evening to you two gentlemen! How may I help? A message home perhaps? The forms to fill in are in those pigeonholes over there. Or perhaps you have come to collect a message? A business message? Or a personal message from a loved one?'

Before we could answer, he began a further fusilade of feel-outs, all accompanied by the tapping of fingers.

'Or... perhaps you are enquiring about employment vacancies in our fine establishment? Well, I am sorry. There are no vacancies. Or... perchance you are experts in the fine art of telegraphy. Tell me. What is it that you desire?'

The tapping seemed to help this strange little man to speak, but I found it quite off-putting. I grabbed his hands to stop any further finger fandangos.

'None of the above, I'm afraid sir. Are you in charge here?' With my hands resting on his he seemed to have difficulty forming words. 'I shall let go, but only if you can stop this infernal tapping. Can you do that?'

He nodded and I gingerly released my grip. He was obviously finding his enforced abstention very difficult, highlighted by the fact that he had developed a twitchy eye which started to make his spectacles dance.

'Hullo! Yes, I'm the supervisor for this evening. I am Mr Henry LeTang.'

'Do you have an office where we can talk in private? We are seeking information that is of a rather delicate nature.'

'Certainly, gentlemen! We deal with all sorts of correspondence here and pride ourselves in discretion and confidentiality. Please... walk this way.'

LeTang lifted a flap in the counter and gestured for us to follow him. His fingers twitched and wriggled and we observed that his feet were similarly syncopated. As Mr LeTang tippety-tapped and clickety-clacked his way up the stairs, Bertie pulled me to one side.

'I hope he doesn't take too much pride in his discretion, otherwise we may never find out where that message originated.'

'Hmm.' He had a point.

'Oh yes! And I think he's been working here far too long. The man's almost part of the telegraphy system! I'll wager he hasn't slept properly in years. Mind you... he seems very light on his feet, does he not?'

'Thank you Bertie, I had noticed.' [I discovered some time later that the poor wretch was suffering from the dreaded ailment known as Hoofer's Tic. This affliction causes the sufferer to not only constantly hear music in his head, but also to react to it with precise and rhythmic movement of limbs and appendages. Some unscrupulous devils saw ways to make easy profit from this. They assembled large troupes of such sufferers and exhibited them en-masse in theatres and showhouses in the name of music-based entertainment. I am sorry to say that this sordid barbaric practice is still very much in evidence today, even in civilised places like the West End of London and Broadway in New York.]
'Now, when we are in-camera with Mr LeTang, please just follow my lead. Understood?'

LeTang offered us chairs and then sat down himself, first ensuring that he sat on his hands.

'Mr LeTang, I'll come straight to the point...'

LeTang's feet continued to tap. I raised an eyebrow and the offending appendages were tucked behind the legs of his chair. There was still a tapping noise from within the room, from where I knew not. Bertie looked at me and shrugged. Mr LeTang raised a hand and then pointed at his mouth. His teeth were the source of the latest outbreak of tapping. He carefully removed his choppers and placed them on the armrest. I swear that the disembodied dentures continued to chatter in a quite autonomous and alarming fashion.

'As I was saying. My friend - of whom you have no doubt heard - Mr Cecil Rhodes...'

As soon as Bertie heard the phrase 'my friend' used in conjunction with the name 'Mr Cecil Rhodes', he almost choked in spectacular fashion. The last time I heard such a commotion from him was when he had accidentally swallowed his fob-watch at the Greenwich Assembly Rooms during a particularly dull and uninspiring lecture on the merits of carbolic compound. I continued:

'My friend Mr Rhodes received a telegram-message a few days ago. It was issued from this very office, but we suspect that it originated from London. However, Mr Rhodes has lost the original transcript and has asked us to procure a copy. Is that at all possible? My colleague and I understand that this is a most unusual request, but - given the current political climate - I am sure that you will co-operate.'

Bertie had now recovered from the shock of discovering of my 'friendship' with Rhodes and he continued our ruse.

'Mr LeTang, it is of the utmost national importance. And you are in a particularly important and pivotal role.'

LeTang began to answer, but all we heard was a series of muffled sounds. I indicated that he might want to put his dentures back in.

'Thank you. Yes, of course I understand. Do you have some proof of who you are? I mean, Mr Rhodes is our Prime Minister and I cannot hand over transcript of messages sent to him to any Tom, Dick or Harry.'

'Good!' I replied. 'You are a cautious man and we can assure you that neither of us is Tom, Dick or Harry. We have proof that we were with Mr Rhodes when he received the original telegram, Bertie the envelope if you please.'

'Oh!'

I turned to my colleague.

'Oh?'

'Yes,' said Bertie. '"Oh" as in "Oh, no."'

'Oh, no!' I groaned.

'Well, you didn't say that we would be needing it just yet!' he hissed. 'It's in one of the bloody bags!'

'Would you excuse us for one moment, Mr LeTang. My friend and I need to discuss something.'

'Of course. I'll just check downstairs, hmmm?'

LeTang seemed to relish the opportunity to free his hands and feet, both of which worked themselves into a frenzy of movement. I waited until the sound of his feet had died away and then I exploded.

'Bertie! Are you honestly telling me that the envelope is in our bags and they are God-knows-where?'

'Well, you didn't make your plan very clear did you? How was I to know you were going to use it as part of your little story? I thought we were going to do a little bit of breaking and entering to find a copy of the original.'

'We just might have to now! Right here's what we do. Go and get Mr 'Happy Tappy' back up here and we'll tell him we'll return in the morning to complete the Rhodes-business.'

Bertie shot out of the room to escape my wrath as much as anything else. I paced up and down trying not to listen to the tapping noise that seemed to infiltrate the very walls. Bertie and LeTang returned after a short while.

'I'm sorry Mr LeTang, but we have realised that the proof of our mission is currently being delivered to our lodgings and so we shall return tomorrow if that is all right by you?'

'Of course, of course! I'll be here from 4 pm.'

'What time is that in London?' asked Bertie.

'Please! Not now, Bertie!' I interjected, fearing another distracting discourse.

LeTang continued: 'Is there anything else I can do for this evening?'

'No thank you. And we apologise for taking up your time,' I replied.

'Um... although we would like to send a message to London please,' Bertie said.

'WHAT?!' I blinked.

'CAN SEND STANDARD MESSAGE EMERGENCY CODE' Bertie blinked back.

'Yes, yes - of course, we'd like to send a message to London.'

'Well if you'd like to fill in the form downstairs, I'll make sure it gets sent right away.'

Back at the counter, Bertie scribbled out the following message:
'Mr Smith stop 221 Baker Street stop Wish U were here stop Luv Bertie stop'

LeTang took the message and read it, whilst I made my way to the window and peered around the curtain.

'Is that all?' he enquired.

'Oh yes, thank you. I am sure that we will have a reply from uncle when we come by tomorrow. How much is that?'

LeTang picked up a pencil and (of course) tapped it against his teeth whilst he thought.

'I expect this is all Government business and you look trustworthy souls, so I shall put the cost on the monthly bill.'

'Capital! Until tomorrow then. Bertie! Our carriage awaits.'

'Really?'

'Good evening Mr LeTang. Oh! One other thing. Is there a public library that we can visit.'

'Why yes indeed. You will find it a few streets up from the railway station.'

'Excellent. Good evening to you.'

With that, we found ourselves once more outside. A steady drizzle was now falling but fortunately our cab was waiting for us. The driver doffed his cap.

'Ready as promised, gents. And the ladies were waiting for you when I left.'

We climbed into the cab and it pulled away. As it did so I looked out of the back window. Someone - some shadowy figure - had crossed the road and entered the telegraph office.

'Bertie, I don't wish to alarm you, but we are being watched.'

The Great Knolly Archive

The Shepherd and
huzzah4knolly

13.07.06 Front Page

Back Issue Page