Beach Walker – Chapter 18
All About Kelp
We needn’t have worried.
With five minutes to spare, Leonard arrived, clutching an ancient leather briefcase and wearing a tweed jacket of comparable vintage, rather warm for the time of year but respectable. I’d never dreamed that he might possess such an article. Had it been Uncle Jimmy’s, I wondered?
The accompanying black trousers were grey at the knees, and I doubted that his shirt would bear close inspection – I could see a stain on the chest, part-concealed by the buttoned-up jacket. Still, he’d made an effort. Clearly he was taking this seriously.
He shook hands with Peter, then glanced around the marquee. It was filling up fast. He frowned, bent down to take a thick loose-leaf file from the case and place it on the lectern. It seemed an awful lot of paper for a half-hour talk.
‘You mentioned some visuals,’ said Peter, cheery now his presenter had turned up. ‘A thumb drive?’
Leonard fished in his jacket pocket and produced a USB stick. Handed it over with a mumble. Placed his half-moon reading specs on his nose. I gave him a reassuring smile but I don’t think he saw it: his gaze was locked on his papers.
‘I hope it all goes well, Leonard. I’m sure it will.’ I gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. Finally he glanced up. ‘Thanks, love. I hope you’re right.’
Was there a hint of desperation in those blue-grey eyes? A tremor at the corner of the mouth?
Peter plugged the little data stick into his laptop, tapped a few keys. An image appeared on the projector screen.
Laminariales of the Bass Strait Coast
An Elementary Taxonomy with Some Remarks on Phylogenesis
Leonard Voss, M.Sc. (Sydney)
‘Ah,’ said Peter. ‘You decided not to go with my title, then? Only I thought it might be more … uh, approachable … for the … uh … layperson.’
‘Imprecise … unscientific,’ mumbled Leonard, shuffling his papers anew.
‘Only it’s what I put down, when I didn’t … uh … hear back from you …’ continued Peter. ‘It says “Kelp: Rainforest of the Sea,” in the programme. So maybe explain …’
‘Peter, for God’s sake,’ I wanted to shout, ‘let the poor man compose himself!’ Now was not the time for two stubborn, elderly blokes to be at loggerheads over titles.
‘Who’s giving this fucking talk?’ It was said evenly, without apparent anger, but loud enough to be heard in the front row. Thankfully Leonard’s microphone wasn’t on yet.
Well, that was Peter told. I thought it best to return to my seat.
‘Hello, everyone! Thank you for turning out on this lovely Sunday morning.’ Peter’s melodious, rather high voice came through the speakers. Brisk, professional, cheery, as if he were addressing a PTA meeting. Two red spots on his cheeks were the only hint that all was not quite as well as it might be.
‘… I’m delighted to welcome Mr Leonard Voss, local resident and marine biologist, to tell us all about kelp — ah, laminaria. Please put your hands together for Leonard, ladies and gentlemen!’
‘Laminariales,’ corrected Leonard with a sideways glare. ‘Laminaria are just one …’ His subsequent words were smothered in a brief, polite surge of applause.
There was an expectant silence from the audience. My friend cast a harried glance at us over his specs, then he was off.
It was excruciating.
The man I knew, the man who could fascinate, entertain, make me laugh for goodness sake with anecdotes about brown algae, that least promising of subjects, seemed to have been replaced by a robotic clone.
The clone recited the text from the lectern in a rapid monotone. It was impossible to make out more than the occasional phrase. Minutely labelled graphs and drawings, as incomprehensible as the stream of speech, made their brief appearance on the screen, to be replaced by others equally impenetrable.
All around I could hear people shuffling, sighing, shifting uncomfortably in their seats. It was the sound of one-hundred-and-twenty-seven human beings realising with horror that they were about to waste the next thirty minutes of their lives. Precious minutes that they could never, ever retrieve.
Soon I could hear people in the rear rows murmuring apologies, squeezing past their neighbours, making for the freedom of the open air, just on the other side of that flap of canvas.
Leonard was on his third, fourth page already. Droning on and on, he seemed utterly lost in the mechanical process of converting the densely printed symbols before him into sounds. Sounds that meant nothing to those of us without a higher degree in botany.
Then he stopped. Looked up in confusion. Seemed to register the thinned-out audience. Looked down again. Muttered.
‘Sorry, missed a bit.’
He reshuffled his papers, trying to identify where he had gone astray. Cleared his throat, faltered.
‘No, that’s not it. Bugger.’
A ripple of giggles from somewhere behind me. Bastards.
This is all your fault, Grace Davies, you interfering baggage. Thanks to you, this dear, this lovely man is making a fool of himself. He will never forgive you – and you will never forgive yourself.
Something had to be done. It was all or nothing.
I stood up and strode across the beam of the projector to my friend’s side. He looked up at me: uncomprehending, horrified. I gave him what I hoped was a warm, reassuring smile.
I leaned into the microphone.
‘Sorry, ladies and gentlemen. Would you give us a moment, please?’
I took the sheaf of papers from Leonard’s startled hands, returned them to the cardboard file, which I laid carefully aside. Standing shoulder to shoulder at the lectern, I gave my friend a wink, a nudge, a cheeky grin I wasn’t feeling at all, and said, loudly and clearly:
‘Now, Leonard. Tell me all about kelp. Please.’
Next week in Beach Walker:
Chapter 19: Fame at Last
Grace is pleased with the publicity from the Festival. Leonard worries about repercussions.
Disclaimer: The people and events described in this story are entirely the product of the author’s imagination; they bear no intentional resemblance to real-life people and events. The locations are authentic.