Ned Beauman - Boxer, Beetle

(So in fact no new language, not even Esperanto, triumphed. Yet long after Erasmus Erskine’s death in 1912, Pangaean maintained a small foothold in Europe. Hitler wrote in Mein Kampf that when the Jews had enslaved the world they would wish to establish a universal language, and later banned the teaching of both Pangaean and Esperanto throughout the Third Reich, even though arguments were advanced that they might help to purify German by preventing the assimilation of foreign words. After the invasion of Poland, the Gestapo chief in Warsaw received specific orders to imprison members of the Zamenhof family. Zamenhof’s son was shot and both his daughters died in the Treblinka concentration camp, although his daughter-in-law and grandson did escape. Meanwhile, Stalin believed that a world revolution should have a world language, and tried to learn both Pangaean and Esperanto. He failed, and decided to ban them from the Soviet Union, ordering the withdrawal of the postage stamps that had already been issued in Pangaean by over-eager subordinates. Neither Erasmus Erskine nor Philip Erskine would ever hear the true story about the Pangaean, the Esperantist and the Jew who walk into a jail cell in Vilnius in 1939. ‘Shalom,’ says the Jew. ‘Saluton,’ says the Esperantist. ‘Ilaksh,’ says the Pangaeaphone. None can understand each other; all starve.)

But by 1905, Erskine was worrying less about the Delegation for the Adoption of an International Auxiliary Language than about some suspicions he had concerning his wife. She was behaving secretively and writing lots of letters. Twice now he had come back unexpectedly early from trips to London and heard doors opening and shutting that had no reason to be opening and shutting. And often, when Richard Thurlow was paying a visit, Erskine would come into a room and the other two would abruptly stop talking, then interrupt each other in their rush to cover it.

So one day, having announced a week in advance that he would be attending a meeting of the Westminster Pangaean Club, he went out and hid in the stables where he could watch the road up from Scranville. At about noon, Thurlow’s carriage arrived. Erskine waited another half-hour and then went into the house and tiptoed to the drawing room. Pressing his ear to the shut door, he could hear his wife and his friend, just as he’d suspected, making the most revolting animal noises. He flung open the door.

There they were, on the chaise-longue. They looked up, faces full of shock and shame. Between them, thrown open indecently, was a book of Orba grammar.

He turned and walked away, holding back tears. ‘I’m sorry, Erasmus,’ Thurlow shouted after him. ‘Lydia and I just find it such a great deal easier than, er. …’

Erskine went to his study, picked up his notes for the third edition of the Pangaean Grammar and Lexicon , went outside, threw them in the pond behind the house, and watched them sink down beneath the water to join the lost kingdom of Kumari Kandam, in the optimistic pursuit of which he spent the remaining seven years of his life.

Philip Erskine put down his pen and looked over what he’d written. He couldn’t send any of this to his father. He would have to start again tomorrow, perhaps go back to the United Universities Club and take a second look at the papers in their library. His boxer was snoring in the spare bedroom. He got up and went into his laboratory. Although he’d been busy with the biographical essay, he had still found half an hour a day to supervise the breeding of his beetles and he was making excellent progress. Their germ plasm was improving faster than he’d dared hope. For the first time in his life he realised the contentment a project like this could bring.

But as he bent down to examine the case containing one of the most promising strains, he saw that in one place the glass was badly cracked. Angry, he went into Sinner’s room and woke him up. They’d been living together now for nearly a month. The boy still slept all day like an old cat, but he seemed to be recovering from his illness. The pink was seeping back into his skin, and he wasn’t dragging his feet so much as he walked — once or twice Erskine had even noticed him bouncing on his toes as if he were back in training. Also, the undershirts that Sinner borrowed from Erskine no longer came back smelling so acrid, which was fortunate, since Erskine sometimes wore them himself for a day or two before passing them on to Mrs Minton to be washed.

‘Why did you do that to my equipment?’ demanded Erskine.

‘What?’

‘You have attacked one of my glass cases. Why?’

‘I ain’t been in there for ages.’

‘Don’t lie to me.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘The damage is obvious. You’ve made threats on the subject before.’

‘Yeah, I have, so do you think I’ll be afraid to tell you when I smash up your fucking things? I ain’t touched them.’

‘We shall see.’ Erskine walked to the door and then turned back. ‘By the way, as I’m here: quite soon I must go down to my family home in Hampshire for two weeks. My father is holding an important conference.’ He waited, hoping that the boy might ask if he could go too. The boy did not, so he said, ‘Obviously I cannot leave you alone here for that long. If you wish, you may come with me to Claramore.’

‘Come with you?’

‘Yes. I can’t force you.’

‘Expect it’s a bit posh for me.’

‘You could come as my manservant.’

‘Manservant? Think I’m going to dress you every morning?’

‘Good God, do you really think I would want you to? No. Nothing of the sort. You would have no actual responsibilities in private. You would just have to play the part in public. And I think you could do a plausible enough job. Of course, you would be fed and watered as part of the bargain. And you would be witness to history. Albeit witness through the keyhole.’

‘Supposed to be a treat for me, is it?’

‘I’m merely extending an opportunity. An opportunity you will never have again.’

‘Why do you want me there so much?’

‘It’s only that my observations are proving very fruitful. It would be a shame to halt them entirely.’

Sinner shrugged. ‘Oh, what the fuck does it matter, then? Long as there’s better grub than the old bag downstairs brings up.’

‘Very well. In that case you’ll need to be my chauffeur as well as my valet. I’ll arrange for some driving lessons. And some more new clothes.’

Erskine went out happy. He had been beginning to worry that the conference wouldn’t be much fun. Earlier that day, on the telephone to his sister, he had said, ‘By the way, has Father made a mix-up over the dates? In my diary it’s the same week as the Olympics. That can’t be right, can it?’

‘Oh dear, you’d better not mention the Olympics in his earshot.’

‘Why not?’

‘He didn’t realise, and then Mummy saw it in the newspaper and told him, and of course now he’s too stubborn to postpone. He says the Olympics are a waste of time.’

‘But all the important fascists are going off to Berlin for them.’

‘Yes, exactly, but luckily Daddy hates all the “important fascists” — and by the way it’s rather laughable the way you utter that phrase with such reverence. Although he’s heard Mosley isn’t going to the Olympics, so he might still come.’

‘But he hates Mosley in particular.’

‘Yes, but he’s having to invite everyone he can think of now, otherwise there will only be about three of us at the “conference”.’

‘I must say, I rather wish I was going to the Olympics too.’

‘Don’t be silly, Phippy, you hate sport.’

Erskine did hate sport, but he loved watching athletics, and also he desperately wanted to meet Hitler. ‘Not always, Evelyn.’