Stepping through the door, he saw a small, dark study, full of old
books, peeling wall maps precariously held onto said walls by yellow,
brittle Sellotape, and an angry-looking badger behind another large mahogany
desk. On the desk were a calculator, what appeared to be a large glass of Scotch, and a large hardback book entitled My First Atlas of the World, whose cover proudly announced that it included over 200 stickers.
One corner of the book looked rather chewed. The badger stared at D'Urbrayne with beady, implacable eyes. An
ear twitched. Its paws were clasped together on top of the chewed atlas. The overall impression was, perhaps unsurprisingly, of a very large, very angry badger.
“Hello? Mr Brockwell?” D’Urbrayne made to push his glasses up his nose, even though there was no need. It was his nervous thing.
“It is indeed,” growled Brockwell. He was wearing a green Barbour waxed jacket and had a strong West Country accent.
“Ah.”
Stuck for something to say and do, D’Urbrayne fidgeted from one foot to
another, scratched an elbow that wasn’t itchy, then said, “I must say,
that’s quite unusual for a travel agent to have a receptionist.
"Receptionist?" asked Brockwell, getting up and sticking a drawing pin
on one of the wall maps, right in the middle of the Gobi Desert.
"The nice receptionist out there, with the quill."
"Oh,
her, she’s not a receptionist. She’s just there. Always has been. Never
goes away. But she sometimes brings me dead rabbits, so I let her stay.
Do you like rabbit?"
"Not really, I’m more of a hare person myself."
"Hare
per-son" mused the badger, as though rolling the words around his jaws,
“interesting, interesting".
He stuck another pin into Venezuela, stood back, paws behind back, surveyed the map, then returned to his desk.
He stuck another pin into Venezuela, stood back, paws behind back, surveyed the map, then returned to his desk.
"Why am I here?" blurted the Professor, by now completely unnerved by the scrutiny of that unwavering musteline stare. He instantly busied himself in nervously fidgeting with his beard.
"An interesting question, that," replied the badger, "yes, one that philosophers have been asking themselves for centuries. But I don't go in for philosophy myself; it's an impractical pastime and too much thinking makes me cross. Is that fizzy pop you have there in your satchel?"
D'Urbrayne eyed the can of Dr Pop protruding from the battered pocket protectively. It was his last one. After a brief pause he decided that honesty would be the best option. After all, the badger's angry face looked very menacing. The large vertical stripes didn't help, thought the Professor to himself.
"Yes, that's my last can."
"Oh, I'll have that as payment," replied Brockwell, dipping his paw into the satchel, "money isn't of much use to me, but I never turn down an offer of fizzy pop".
The Professor decided it best not to point out that the drink had not, in fact, been offered, instead opting to remain silent and scrutinise Brockwell's desk. The green leather surface was covered in deep scratch marks from the badger's claws, interspersed with Celtic patterns drawn in biro that appeared to be crude copies of the ones the girl downstairs had been creating. His gaze shifted upward to focus on the spectacle of Brockwell guzzling from the can with apparent relish.
"Yes, I was saying, money. No use to me... the bank won't let me have an account. They told me it's because I'm a badger and that made me ab-so-lute-ly furious. Of course I'm capable of handling fiscal responsibility. I read the Financial Times and I've never got myself into debt. I think it's disgraceful."
"Well, er, yes, how, erm... inconsiderate of them" remarked the Professor, figuring that appearing cross on Brockwell's behalf might earn him Brownie points. The badger looked at him inscrutably. Clearly it hadn't worked. "Erm, yes. Er..." The badger was completely unblinking. D'Urbrayne began to sweat a little. "What was the outcome of that map exercise of yours?" he asked, rather desperately.
"Inconclusive," muttered Brockwell, rummaging in his desk drawer and bringing out a substantially-sized hammer. D'Urbrayne flinched as the badger proceeded to nail his atlas to the desk. He then wrenched the book from the nail and ripped out a seemingly random page.
"Harvard University," he announced, holding up the atlas page, which had a hole exactly where Boston should have been, "I'll alert my contacts and get you invited to give a guest lecture".
Brockwell produced two pristine plane tickets from his Barbour jacket pocket, and slammed them into D'Urbrayne's hand. "There you go," he growled. "Now... sod off."
"Yes, that's my last can."
"Oh, I'll have that as payment," replied Brockwell, dipping his paw into the satchel, "money isn't of much use to me, but I never turn down an offer of fizzy pop".
The Professor decided it best not to point out that the drink had not, in fact, been offered, instead opting to remain silent and scrutinise Brockwell's desk. The green leather surface was covered in deep scratch marks from the badger's claws, interspersed with Celtic patterns drawn in biro that appeared to be crude copies of the ones the girl downstairs had been creating. His gaze shifted upward to focus on the spectacle of Brockwell guzzling from the can with apparent relish.
"Yes, I was saying, money. No use to me... the bank won't let me have an account. They told me it's because I'm a badger and that made me ab-so-lute-ly furious. Of course I'm capable of handling fiscal responsibility. I read the Financial Times and I've never got myself into debt. I think it's disgraceful."
"Well, er, yes, how, erm... inconsiderate of them" remarked the Professor, figuring that appearing cross on Brockwell's behalf might earn him Brownie points. The badger looked at him inscrutably. Clearly it hadn't worked. "Erm, yes. Er..." The badger was completely unblinking. D'Urbrayne began to sweat a little. "What was the outcome of that map exercise of yours?" he asked, rather desperately.
"Inconclusive," muttered Brockwell, rummaging in his desk drawer and bringing out a substantially-sized hammer. D'Urbrayne flinched as the badger proceeded to nail his atlas to the desk. He then wrenched the book from the nail and ripped out a seemingly random page.
"Harvard University," he announced, holding up the atlas page, which had a hole exactly where Boston should have been, "I'll alert my contacts and get you invited to give a guest lecture".
Brockwell produced two pristine plane tickets from his Barbour jacket pocket, and slammed them into D'Urbrayne's hand. "There you go," he growled. "Now... sod off."
