Greg Scowen: The Spanish Helmet

‘Can I have a word with you Dr. Cameron?’ Came the unmistakable two-cats-fighting-over-fish voice belonging to Matt’s head of department as he walked through the auditorium door.

Matt worked up his friendliest smile and turned to face him.

‘Yes Dr. Pick. What can I do for you?’

‘It’s about this trip of yours to New Zealand.’

Shit! How the hell does he know about New Zealand? Matthew racked his brain but could only come up with two people he had discussed it with. Julia and Rose. As far as the department was concerned he was just on leave. There was no way Julia or Rose told Dwight Pick anything about the trip. Certainly Julia hated him as much as Matt did. The jokes in the department were relentless. Dwight Pick, the right prick. No one liked the short balding bastard.

‘What about my trip?’

‘My understanding is that you’re going to New Zealand to do some work on a pseudo history theory. You know the department’s stand on issues like this.

‘Where do you get your information from, Dwight?’

‘That isn’t important, since your lack of denial confirms it’s true.’

‘I don’t have to justify what I do in my own time.’

‘Nothing you do during this journey of yours will escape my attention. If you step one foot out of line and embarrass this school, it’ll be your job. It doesn’t matter if you aren’t on the clock, your name is associated with me, and I won’t accept any foolish witch-hunts.’

‘I think you’re blowing this out of proportion.’

‘You have no idea what sort of trouble you’re delving into, do you? Be very, very careful what sort of ideas you play with. You’ve been warned.’

Matt watched, as with his final words, the right prick turned on his heels and shuffled off back towards their office block, his comb-over clinging to his head like six lonely strands of spaghetti on an upturned bowl in a cheap Italian restaurant.

Thursday, August 13, 1525

We made good time to La Gomera. The winds and saints are in our favour. We have taken on food stores for the expedition and depart for South America tomorrow. During the two weeks here I have enjoyed the company of the master and pilot. They are good men in both their navigational skills and their attitudes. Between us, I am confident we have a crew capable of making a safe passage through the Estrecho de Magallanes. Tonight we will go ashore together and toast our pending journey. A last drink on land before the long weeks that lie ahead.

Tuesday, January 12, 1526

We have reached a safe haven at the Santa Cruz River, about forty-three leagues from the Estrecho de Magallanes. It is a great relief to have made it here alive. We are now but five ships. The flagship, Santa Maria, has rejoined the fleet, since we were all separated in a storm that struck us south of the Rio de la Plata. The rest of us found each other within a few days. However, the San Gabriel went astray went astray. I fear deeply for the men that sail her. They remain in our prayers. We have sent the pinnace, the Santiago, to a small island near the mouth of the river to erect a cross and to leave a message for our kinsmen. It tells them we are going to continue to the Estrecho de Magallanes to refit and collect wood and water, and that we will wait for Loaisa at the port of Sardinas.

These southern climes are warm at this time of year. The air is fresh and standing on dry land again has brought immense joy to myself and the crew. The coastline is beautiful and would surely make a wonderful home for any fellow Spaniards who choose to come. Fresh water and food are available in abundance. We will all make the most of the time we stay here, for the journey ahead promises to be harder yet.

Matt wasn’t a good flyer. Once he was up it was basically all right, but take-off and landing made him bloody nervous. It was something about not being in control. He had the same problem with heights. Walking along a cliff without a railing or travelling in an aerial cableway in the Swiss Alps always made his palms sweat like this. Regardless of how much he looked forward to skiing back down. To calm himself, he would slip a couple of pieces of chewing gum into his mouth just before the aircraft would taxi off down the runway. He felt calmed by it. It gave him something else to concentrate on.

Matt stole glances at the attractive young woman sitting next to him, by the window. Her clothing was quite a contrast to his own. While he was dressed in his staple of trousers, collared shirt, and brown leather shoes, she wore the ever-casual and popular sneakers, jeans and T-shirt. Just before executing his chewing gum manoeuvre he worked up the courage to use her as a distraction from his lack thereof.

‘Where are you off to then?’ he asked. He cursed himself for not being witty enough to come up with something exciting and original.

‘Home,’ she replied, looking happy for an excuse to close her in-flight magazine, ‘Auckland, New Zealand.’

‘Oh really? Me too.’

Matt was genuinely surprised the person in the very next seat was also transferring to the same connecting flight as him when they reached Singapore. He wondered if they would be seated near each other on the second leg of the journey. Hold back, he thought, she might yet turn out to be a real fruit loop, better get to know her before you decide you want to sit with her the whole way.

They sat in silence again as the aircraft tore off down the runway and pushed them back into their seats. Matt concentrated on chewing and covertly wiping his palms dry down the front of his beige trousers. He hoped she didn’t notice the faint marks his sweaty hands left on the light fabric. He seemed to be safe, since she appeared to be engrossed in an article about a resort near Singapore. But it was her who looked up and broke the silence.

‘I’m Aimee,’ she offered.

‘Matthew Cam… Matt.’ He reached out his hand.

‘Wait a second,’ she said, with such gusto his hand leapt backwards in shock, ‘you’re Matthew Cameron, aren’t you?’

Matt was confused. He was one hundred percent convinced he had never met Aimee before, yet she seemed to know him. He wasn’t sure whether he should be honoured or terrified. She must have sensed his apprehension because she softened a little and relaxed.

‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I’m just amazed that of all the people I could sit next to in plane, I get seated next to someone whose lecture I attended yesterday.’

‘I beg your pardon? You were at my lecture?’

Matt racked his brain. He had used all fifty minutes of his lecture to look around at who was in attendance. He had noted to himself which of his students didn’t turn up and also which of the academic staff did. There had only been about thirty members of the public in the theatre, and Matt was convinced he would have noticed a pretty woman his age. Then it hit him.

‘You weren’t by chance wearing a purple pullover were you?’ Matt asked, hoping he wasn’t giving away his feelings about that monstrosity.

‘You don’t like my jumper?’ she asked with a cheeky grin, ‘my mum knitted that for me I’ll have you know.’ Her smile told him he didn’t have to defend himself.

‘So what brought you to my lecture?’

‘I’m a Post Graduate student at Auckland University. I’m working on a doctorate in history. I’d been attending a workshop at the department during the week and had the afternoon off. I thought it might be interesting.’

Matt decided not to press his luck by asking if it was.

‘So what takes you to New Zealand?’ she asked.

‘Actually, I’ve been asked by a friend of mine to come over and look at some revisionist New Zealand history. He has a theory New Zealand was discovered prior to the Maori or British and wants the opinion of some outside sources.’