Bernard directed the Professor to the bleak far side of Armitage Shanks, and before the LP had finished they spluttered to a halt outside a tall, rickety-looking building that seemed to be a magnet for crows.
D'Urbrayne eyed the building apprehensively.
"Right, if you're quite sure about this, let's head in," he proposed.
"Actually, I think I'll wait here, but do take Simon with you. The man the travel agent shares an office with has developed quite a sinister fascination with me and I think it's best I avoid him, for reasons I'm sure you'll work out when you're in there."
Considering that the door wasn’t very wide, it took a considerable time; 47 seconds exactly, Professor D’Urbrayne counted; to squeeze Simon into the room, which dampened the grand entrance he was hoping for. The receptionist, a dignified-looking girl of about twenty four in twin-set and pearls, sat behind a large mahogany desk, looked at them, looked down at the large book before her, put down her writing quill, and looked at them again and smiled. Professor D’Urbrayne liked a person who favoured quills over normal Bics, Parkers and all that nonsense, which made him even more embarrassed by his and Simon’s gelatinous arrival into the building. Still, no point letting it get to him, so he strode as purposefully as you can in size 14 red Wellingtons, glanced down, noticed the girl wrote in the style of the Book of Kells and he instantly couldn’t think of anything to say.
He stared at the receptionist.
She smiled back.
His foot itched.
Simon bellowed in frustration as he tried to prize a seven-year-old Take-a-Break magazine from one of his tusks that had gotten stuck to him as he galumphed over to the waiting area.
“May I help?” asked the girl at last.
“Yes please."
“Have you come to see Mr Brockwell or Dr Fangleschnard?”
“Oh, erm, which one’s the travel agent?"
“Mr Brockwell. Dr Fangleschnard’s a taxidermist; they don’t get on.”
“Oh. Oh dear. Well, yes, in that case I’ve come to see Brockwell, please."
The girl flicked through the huge tome on the desk, tapped a very pretty and neat index finger on an intricate Celtic snake thing, “ah, are you his two-thirty?"
“I don’t know, “answered Professor D’Urbrayne. He glanced at the clock behind her, it was twenty-six minutes past two, “I hope so.”
“Professor P. D’Urbrayne?” she asked.
His foot was really itchy now. “To be honest I didn’t make an appointment, so, erm, this is quite strange, really, I mean to say, well, I did check on Teletext to see that you allowed walruses into your establishment, which, of course” – he swept his arm over in the direction of Simon – “you do, but no, I didn’t make an appointment as such. But, what-ho! at least we’re here! Is he free now?"
The girl tucked her shiny brown hair behind her left ear, picked up a snow globe containing a Nordic scene (or, at least to Professor D’Urbrayne, it looked Nordic. Or perhaps Alpine. There was a fir tree and a wooden house in it, anyway), shook it vigorously, watched it swirl and settle in her hand for a moment, then said, “he’ll be with you in a moment. Please take a seat."
He took a seat by a sleeping Simon, absentmindedly picked up a magazine to thumb through, put it down again (there was a great hole through the middle) and decided to count the ceiling tiles instead. He got to nineteen or eighteen (or perhaps it was already past twenty?) when he glanced at the receptionist and noticed that she was gold-leafing something on one of the pages of her book. She looked up, smiled, “invoicing” she said. He got very embarrassed to be caught looking and then realised he’d lost count of the tiles. He thought it best to start gain.
Something on her desk shouted “toucan!” very loudly in a mechanical, robotic voice. There was a ding as she hit something, then looked back over at Professor D’Urbrayne. She was smiling again. “Mr Brockwell will see you now, Professor D’Urbrayne.” She motioned towards an oak door to he right. Professor D’Urbrayne got up, thanked her, then said, “oh, can Simon stay in here? He’s sleeping.”
“Of course! What does Mr Spildevand like to eat? In case he wakes up.”
“Oh, sorry, who?”
She waved her quill in Simon’s direction.
“He has a surname?” D’Urbrayne scratched his head in puzzlement, “well, who knew?”
“It’s all in here,” she tapped her book again, “Simon Spildevand af Nuuk."
“Well, I’d let him sleep, but if he does awake, give him pilchards. He likes them.”
She nodded, still smiling, and continued to gold-leaf whatever it was she was doing.
