Henry Pfeffel de Lancelyn Moggett FRS was the world’s foremost authority on stick insects. His occupancy of the chair of entomology at Magdalen College, Oxford was unassailable, and his impending transition to Professor Emeritus, and a gentle decline as consultant and reviewer, amply cushioned by his substantial laurels, assured. Until one Thursday in May.
For more than a decade, since the completion of his comprehensive taxonomy, Henry had been acknowledged peerless in his field. If a researcher in Honduras needed to confirm details of a field discovery, Henry was the man. Disputes concerning the reproductive biology of a species inthe Cameroon rain forest canopy were conclusively arbitrated by Henry. His renown was such that two species had been named for him, Moggett’s Green-shanked Walking Stick, identified from a single specimen collected at a bus stop in Heidelberg, and Irrisionis pfeffeldelancelynmoggettii, a minute creature from Sumatra, of particular interest for its habit of running backwards to confuse predators – not to mention researchers.
It would be instructive to consider the man himself. His expertise had earned him the nickname Henry the Stick, or, in the popular media, every time troubling issues concerning stick insects dominated public debate, simply as ‘the Stick Man’. Now, these names probably suggest to you an elongated gentleman, tall and extremely thin. Nothing could be farther from the truth. Henry, in fact, stood 5 feet 2½ inches in his socks, slightly more in his shoes, and was remarkably rotund, and bald. As he scuttled around his Oxford domain the impression he conveyed was of another order of insects entirely, a beetle, you would have said. Dressed in his customary black, he looked like one of those common creatures a dor beetle, frequently known, for its habits, as a dung beetle. When he sported his academic gown the image was heightened, of a beetle freshly landed, and with its wings yet barely stowed. So it seemed, too, for Henry’s habits, rolling around his ball of studious dung in which to place his eggs. But I digress.
That fateful Thursday Henry received a letter. Unsurprising, you might suggest, but the content of Henry’s envelopes could generally be predicted in detail without opening them. This plain brown wrapper with the address lettered awkwardly, as though the sender had written deliberately with the wrong hand, gave no clues. Curious, Henry sliced it open, and tipped out a small sheet bearing glued letters and words cut from some magazine: ‘STICK it where it hurts’. He turned it over, and shook the envelope again, but there was nothing more, no name, no clue. A prank, thought Henry, who considered it an inescapable fault in the young to delight in such japes. Had he not as a young fresher once adorned a university statue of Francis Bacon with prime rashers of the best Danish? He had, and still looked back on the event fondly, as proof of the wild independence and wit of his youth.
Inclined, then, to think little of it, Henry settled to work on the paper which he would deliver at next month’s conference. This, Towards a provisional taxonomy of the anterior sternal musculature of Phasmodea species endemic to the NullarborPlain, marked the culmination of years of painstaking research. It would be a tour de force, and a fitting pinnacle to his career, demonstrating once again the essential unity of the various branches of the creatures to whom he owes so much.
A mere 65 miles to the south of Henry’s study Robert Sheridan nevertheless considered himself in a different time zone. Thirty years Henry’s junior, the older man represented to him a world consigned to history. Or it would, if Sheridan had anything to say about it. Sheridan’s specialism was spiders, and he considered his work represented the future, developing a detailed classification of spider genera based on DNA analysis, creating new sub-divisions, proving the great variety of lineages.
Fashionably bearded and long haired – fashionably, that is,only a little more than 20 years previously – Sheridan looked at his present position at the University of Sussex as a step towards the greatness he deserved. The graduate students he took on he treated as tools with which to build the ladder that would take him there, the original research which he encouraged them to undertake published under joint names, with his own of course, as the senior figure, always first. Not that we might call him lazy, you understand, or lacking imagination. The stamina he displayed regularly in the bar, and at parties, was much admired. So was the inventiveness with which he praised the work of the Faculty of Zoology, and its push against those in the profession who sought to lump species together, relying on specious connections. Still, he had a tendency to forget the names of any of his colleagues when he did so. Sheridan liked to think of himself as ebullient; there were few who disagreed with the second syllable.
Sheridan had never seen the need to become accustomed to not getting what he wanted. Recently learning that his nomination to the Royal Society had been blocked was a slight not to be borne. He knew who was to blame. Well, he told himself, we shall see. The upcoming conference on declining arthropods, promoted by the International Union, to incorporate the Scrimsworth lecture, would bring together the finest minds of the profession, and with the eyes of the world upon them. An opportunity not to be missed; there was work to be done.
Lydia was disappointed at being voted out of The Big House. Viewers made it clear: she was just too nice. Hadn’t badmouthed any of the housemates, not when Kelly shook a packet of black pepper through her avocado and chia seed muesli, not when Yusuf cut two strings off her mandolin to tie a pair of his underpants over Lorraine’s bed, not even when Lorraine likened Lydia to the slime trail of a garden snail but with less purpose.
Not one to wallow, Lydia soon found herself an agent, who,for a mere 30% of any earnings, plus an agency fee, legal fees and one or two other details so minor they could only with difficulty be found in the contract, quickly lined up a series of personal appearances, gigs at which she need only be her cheerful, illustrated self. There may be no shortage of young hopefuls whose professional opportunities depend upon shedding items of clothing, but Lydia had an edge. Among the numerous inked images that adorned her pleasant person were a brace of reproductions of famous works of art. Across her shoulders blazed a faithful rendition of Turner’s Rain, Steam and Speed, its swirling clouds of moisture following the gentle curves of her trapezius, and the little engine emerging from her scapula, though the effect was somewhat diminished by the way the tall smokestack slipped into the depression alongside her deltoid.
But the chef d’oeuvre of the tattooist’s art covered her abdominals. When Lydia stripped down to a skimpy bikini, all eyes were on her midriff, with its glorious image of Jackson Pollock’s Autumn Rhythm 30. Or it might have been Autumn Rhythm 28. Or perhaps 32. Anyway, everyone agreed it was a great success. Small wonder that Lydia found herself in demand for music videos, when she needn’t talk, and for art college appearances, when she needn’t move.
Encouraged by her agent, and always keen for contemporary relevance, she acquired some new tattoos of endangered wildlife. Little could she have thought what they would lead to.
Ansel Eastman’s career had at last begun to look up. He had never wanted to do anything else, but for the first few years he had struggled to establish his business. The main difficulty he faced was his extreme short sightedness. That might perhaps be no barrier for a photographer, but for Ansel’s forgivable quirk: only a mild vanity, after all, and common, to decline to wear corrective eyewear. In the circumstances it had taken time, but he turned his difficulty to his advantage, and developed an aesthetic of hazy, soft focus. Clients and visitors to his studio entered a room of carefully arranged soft lighting, where carefully chosen large print reproductions of well-known paintings covered the walls, creating a blurred atmosphere. There were a couple of Monets, and – Eastman’sfavourite painter – Turner. The photos from the studio were distinctive, and Eastman gradually built a clientele among the many in his district who had reason to disapprove of the kind of pin sharp, crisp detail some of his competitors sought.
Eastman’s advertising had improved with his business, and a call to ask if he was able to cover a weekend conference was welcome. He could, and having confirmed, agreed to meet his client at the conference hall before the plenary session. That there might be some additional personal work on offer suited him well.
Ansel Eastman couldn’t know it, but he was about to complete the cast for a little drama. Now we have met them; time to follow them.
Henry’s paper was nearing completion. The evidence was masterfully set out, if he said so himself, which of course he did, and little more was left than to draw out the conclusions, unchallengeable bricks in the wall of discovery and theory he had been building throughout his brilliant career. This would impress, proving him the leading authority of his generation. Checking his laptop first for any messages, he was brought up short by an anonymous text, ‘STICK at nothing; nothing new, is there?’ Didn’t students understand that a prank is most effective when not repeated? What were they after? Henry was briefly unsettled, finding it hard to focus on his concluding remarks.
As he arrived at college the following day he was called aside by the porter. ‘Message for you, sir.’ From the gloom of his cubicle the old man produced a small brown envelope.
Henry’s eyebrows rose, as he tore it open. A scrap of lined paper with the clumsily lettered words ‘STICK em up, old man. We got you covered’. His face blanched. ‘Wendell, who left this for me?’
‘Couldn’t rightly say, sir. Visitor, could be. Not this college, anyway. Youngish chappie, ‘course they all are after a certain age, isn’t that right, sir?’
Henry was unimpressed by Wendell’s toothy smile. ‘But what did he look like?’
‘Tallish fellow, no, tell a lie, medium height, I would say, maybe a bit on the short side. One thing: a big moustache like in them old pictures, how they used to ‘ave a false one. You remember them silent ones? Pictures, I mean, not moustaches. My old dad loved ‘em. Perils of Pauline, Chaplin. Ooh, he was grand, was Chaplin. ‘Ave you ever seen …’
‘Yes, yes, Wendell. I’m rather busy at present. He didn’t give any details?’
‘No, sir. Just said as to be sure it was got to you.’
With less than a week until he was due to present his paper, and college responsibilities in the meanwhile, Henry had little time to spare. A pity, then, he should find the departmental computer network displaying a new message, its intent obvious to all, ‘Stick coming unstuck? He will.’ No doubt now: this was an orchestrated campaign, and Henry didn’t like the tune it was playing. Who was conducting? Someone with malicious determination. Where would they strike next?
The morning of the conference Henry picked up his usual copy of the Daily Telegraph, and dropped it on his eggs and bacon when he read the headline ‘Stick to your guns, PM urges party.’ Could it be? His nemesis was rapidly assuming sinister outlines. Henry set off for the conference in a state of alarm.
Lydia’s circle of acquaintances was wide, and she was gregarious. Backstage at a TV station, waiting for a chat show, she was engaged in conversation by a tall man with a trim beard and rather unkempt hair. His clothes (Lydia noticed such things) would have been fashionable when her father was young, but now served to emphasise the man’s age. The show would talk about animals, and her companion proved to be a professor, brought on to talk about an invasion of killer earwigs from Iceland, about which he managed to alarm everyone. Lydia’s main contribution was to show off her new tattoos.
After the show the professor, ‘Call me Robert,’ asked whether he might be allowed to buy her a drink. He seemed charming, urbane and flattering, so Lydia thought he might. ‘What would you like? Do you drink wine?’
‘Yeah, sometimes, it’s alright. No problem.’
‘Good. I’ll take you somewhere special I know, find you a good wine. Exclusive place, they know me there.’
They adjourned to Keystone, a fashionable city wine bar, where the professor called for service. ‘Ah, sommelier?’
The barman broke off a conversation, and greeted them. ‘Hey, Lyd, how’s things? Who’s your friend?’
‘Hey, Marco. Yeah, I’m good; you? This is Robert. He’s a professor.’
Robert suggested a cabernet, Lydia had another idea. ‘You got any of that pauillac still?’
‘Attagirl. Yeah, I can find you a bottle. Beautiful stuff.’
They settled with their bottle. ‘Animals, yeah, I like animals,’ Lydia said. ‘Had a hamster when I was little, but it died.’
‘Mm, they do. You must have been upset.’
‘Not really. It’s how you learn, when you’re a kid, innit. What I learnt is hamsters can’t hold their breath under water. Did you know that?’
‘Ah, I think I guessed. But you have those wonderful tattoos.’
‘Yeah, why not. You know, I’m like, we all got to do something, you know?, or they’ll all go extinct. Animals, not tattoos. This is my way of helping them.’
‘You’re absolutely right. There are a good many things we canall do. Many conferences and so on.’
‘Meetings? I guess so, but not just sitting around talking to the same people. You have to reach out. TV and that.’
‘Oh certainly, but the people we have to reach are those who have the power to change things. And we need to learn as much as we can about the problems. There’s a big conference coming up soon. A lot of important people will be there, professors, politicians, press, TV people. I could arrange for you to attend.’
Lydia was curious, and Sheridan told her more.
When he checked in at the conference centre, the desk clerk recognized his name. ‘Ah Professor Moggett, welcome sir, you have a message.’
Henry held back for a moment, reluctant to take it, then received an envelope. Perhaps there was some information from the conference committee, but the brown envelope was afamiliar, troubling indication. Yes, as before, a single small sheet, lettered with cut outs ‘Stick in the mud.’ Henry wasrattled, his eyes darting around the assembling guests. That one? The young couple laughing together by the window? That woman in the blue suit, marching so purposefully through the lobby?
At the first session a wildlife film was shown, its producer and narrator introducing it and taking questions. Then, before dinner, Lydia changed into a long gown with low cut back, to show off to advantage her Rain, Steam and Speed. Sheridan met her at the entrance to the dining room, and escorted her around the buffet.
‘Do you know all the creatures in those tattoos of yours?’Sheridan had had an opportunity to see them during the TV show.
‘No, I can’t see them, can I, not without some arrangement of mirrors. Got a photo, but I dunno: a panda? Some sort of fish?’
‘Ah, that’s a porpoise. They’re not really fish.’
‘Oh, yeah. Like dolphins.’
‘Mm. You should identify them all. Make your message stronger if you were able to say what they all are. I could tell you some, but you have a rare insect there, you need a specialist. There is an expert here, that short man in black over there, I’d introduce you but I must speak to, er, a delegate from Zimbabwe, about, um, our conservation plan for the African hunting dog. You should show him. You’d need somewhere – best to take him to your room.’
‘Ok, no probs, good idea. I’ll have a word with him.’
‘Best not lock your door if you take him.’
‘Sure thing. Course not. What do you take me for?’
Arranging for accreditation for an additional photographer proved easy enough but Sheridan wanted to ensure he arrivedat the registration desk first. Ansel did not have far to travel, and was prompt. Making his way to the table, he stumbledover a fallen leaflet, and careered into Sheridan. Ansel had experience at collision with furniture, but in its absence in a hotel lobby there were always his own feet. ‘So sorry,’ he said, extending a hand, but the big beaming smile gave no such indication.
Perhaps it was the unfortunate introduction, but Sheridan seemed strangely unconcerned about the conference work, while Ansel was creative enough to appreciate the free hand. It was the personal job he appeared more anxious for, taking Ansel aside and lowering his voice. ‘I need you to do some urgent divorce work for me, my wife and her lover, can you do it?’.
Ansel laughed. ‘No one does that any more; my uncle did some in his day in the business, I believe.’
‘Look, I realize this is unusual, but it’s very important for me.A sizeable inheritance could be riding on this. It’ll be worth your while.’
‘Okay, tell me.’
Lydia introduced herself to Henry. She let him know she hadseen him on TV, which pleased him considerably, and he invited her to sit with him for dinner. Over the meal, he talkedto her about stick insects, and in particular their mating habits.
‘Fascinating creatures. You know they hold the record of any animal for the length of time they remain locked together in union, mating, up to 80 days in one case.’
‘I thought the females ate the males.’
‘Ah, that’s more common among spiders.’ Henry looked edgy, ‘but some stick insects are parthenogenetic.’
‘Partho what?’
‘Parthenogenetic, means they reproduce asexually.’
‘Without a man, you mean? You’d think it takes all the fun out, eh? Anyway, I hear you’re the man to give me some info.I got tattoos, see.’
‘Ah, yes. I see that.’
‘Well, some new ones, endangered animals, and one of them’ssome rare sort of insect, so I was hoping you could tell mewhat it is.’
‘Certainly. I’d be pleased to. May I see?’
‘Not exactly, not here. Can’t start stripping off in here, can I?’
Henry’s eyes light up. ‘Ah yes, I mean no, I mean of course.’
‘We can go to my room after, if that’s okay with you. It’ll only take a moment.’
While they were eating musicians arrived. The Roy Widdecombe Quintet were to provide the evening’s entertainment, and Lydia was getting a coffee refill when Royapproached. ‘Lydz! Surprised to see you. How do you come to be here?’
‘Hey, Roy. I came with this prof, I mean, not with him exactly, but he got me the invite. But he had to see a man about a dog, and I’m just chatting with that fella, you know him?’
‘No. Should I?’
‘They call him Stick, you know? He’s been on the telly. Come. You can meet him.’
Roy looked impressed, and accompanied her. ‘Evening. Roy Widdecombe. Lydia here told me who you are. Me and the band are great admirers of your work.’ Henry simpered. ‘So. I wonder if you’d like to give us a bit of the benefit of your skills?’
‘But of course.’ Henry was pleased for an opportunity to show off to Lydia.
Returning to the stand, Roy spoke to his drummer, who was setting up his kit with much of the gusto he exhibited in his day job as a plumber. ‘Know who that is? Cameron ’Stick’ Melville.’
‘Get away, I would never have recognized him.’
‘Well, you wouldn’t. You can see why he doesn’t like photos, can’t you? I asked him to sit in, and he’s willing. You don’t mind?’
‘Absolutely. Great idea.’
Lydia and Henry then left for her room. They had been there just a few minutes, Lydia had removed her gown and rolled down the top of her lilac panties. Henry, meanwhile, hadremoved his suit jacket and shoes. At her invitation he tracedthe curve of her gluteus maximus from iliac crest to sacrum and on round, checking all the tattoos. There was no stick insect, no insect at all that he could see. He was contemplating what this meant when the room door burst open, and there was a sudden flash burst, followed by a crash. Lydia turned to help Ansel up. ‘You okay?’ Henry, meanwhile, shrank back.
Ansel was surprised. ‘You’re Lydia. I didn’t know you were married to a professor.’
‘This fella? You kidding me?’
As explanations seemed to be in order, Henry thought it appropriate to allow them confidentiality, and as soon as he could do so, grabbed his jacket, slipped his feet into his shoes, and backed out of the room.
He arrived back in the hall, flushed and sweating, as the musicians were labouring to the end of another Sinatra lounge song. It’s said that, for all the success it brought him, Ol’ Blue Eyes disliked Strangers in the Night, finding it turgid and dreary. The Ray Widdecombe Quintet more than lived up to the great crooner’s assessment. Henry tried to loiter as inconspicuously as possible at the back of the hall. Had he embarrassed himself as deeply as he felt? His weekend was fast unravelling, but the night was yet young. Roy spottedhim.
‘Ladeez an gennelmen, I have a surprise for you. We have a secret talent among us tonight.’ He waved an arm in Henry’s direction, and people turned to look. ‘And it gives me greatpleasure that he has agreed to join us on stage here tonight.Please give a warm hand for the renowned jazz drummer Stick Melville.’
Some near him smiled and applauded, and a path opened to the stage. Henry looked and felt like a specimen pinned to a board. He began to try explaining himself, to say No, no you’ve made a mistake, but at that moment saw Lydia and Ansel arriving from the lifts, and changed his mind.
‘Yes, yes, of course, one moment please, er, the er, I’ll be right back.’ Henry backed away towards the rear of the hall, and the toilets. Inside, he locked himself into a cubicle. What could he do? He must escape; but going back through the hallwas impossible. Any other way? Opening the door just slightly, he peeked out. Above the washbasins there was a frosted window. It opened, and he looked out onto a paved area. With considerable difficulty Henry succeeded in levering his rotund self up on to the washbasin, and then the narrow window ledge. A small space. He pushed forward, but couldn’t squeeze his bulk through. He tried again sideways,bracing a foot against a tap, but it slipped as the tap came on, and the shoe, still unlaced, came off, caught the force of water from the tap, and was swept onto the floor. At this angle hisshirt front caught against the window frame, just as the maindoor opened. With a desperate squeeze, Henry forced himself through, losing a button from his shirt, and fell to the ground, short legs in the air, one shoe gone, a beetle on its back.
He couldn’t go back to his room yet, as that would mean passing through the lobby in full sight of the hall. His only option was to get away, to go for a taxi, but how? with a shoe lost, no phone and a long way to the road. The answer appeared: a line of coloured golf buggies parked up at the far end of this paved area. Henry jumped into the first, a green one, fiddled with the starter and, with a jerk, it trundled away down the slight slope towards the first tee, and in the direction of the road.
Around this time two figures ran out of the conference centre,looking around. ‘You’re right. There! Look, it’s him. Can we catch him?’
Henry had passed the first tee, and was skirting a large bunker on the approach to the eighteenth green when he heard shouts behind him. Turning, he saw a blue buggy in pursuit, with Lydia leaning out calling. The chase was on. Henry doubled down, pushing his buggy as fast as he dare, up to 8, and on tonearly 10 miles an hour. As he rounded the bunker on the seventeenth, the blue buggy was gaining on him, taking a sharp line around that bend, coming up fast behind him,Henry still in the lead, as the blue buggy edged out to pass him, Henry pulling across to block them, coming into the bend, look how close the two vehicles are, Henry has the inside line, struggling now to hold his line as the blue cart comes back at him, can they take him? He holds them off, it’ll take more than that to get past him. Oh, look at that, a lack of grip there for the lead buggy coming out of that chicane, Henry is distracted as he is overtaken by a duck, and makes a wild move, spinning off the track, out of control, and the green buggy topples from the bank and ends on its side in thelake.
Henry lay, dazed, unable to extricate himself, as Lydia ran up, wading into the shallow water to help him to his feet. Anselhad parked the second buggy as they came to the bank.
‘You okay? You look very wet. We wanted to tell you, all that stuff about the tattoo was invented by that other prof, that guy Robert with the long hair. He told Ansel – this is Ansel by the way, Ansel this is Stick, Stick, Ansel.’
‘Oh, you’re the drummer? I didn’t realize.’
‘No, he’s Stick as in insect. You aren’t a drummer, are you? Anyway, this Robert said he wanted evidence for a divorce.From me, can you imagine? Me getting hitched to a schmuck like that? So that’s why he got Ansel. But me and Ansel haveit figured out, it was all just to get at you.’
Leaving the green buggy on its side in several inches of lake, the three squeezed into the other, and returned to the conference centre. There, Henry deposited a small portion of the lake within, still leaking. Ansel and Lydia provided a little distraction while Henry made it straight to his room, Lydia’s words following him. ‘You get yourself sorted. Me and Ansel will come to see you in a bit, won’t we Ansel? We all got some explaining to do.’
Before breakfast next morning a message was delivered to Sheridan’s room, an envelope containing a wordless drawing, a stick figure with long hair and a beard, caught in a cobweb. In one corner there was a camera, radiating lines indicating a flash, and opposite it a tubular shape with a short tail labelled ‘STICK of dynamite’. Lydia and Ansel have combined their skills. Sheridan, left in no doubt the game was up, decided to check out before the morning’s sessions.
Introduced later for the keynote address, Henry strode to the platform, every inch the authoritative expert. Or nearly every inch, except for the last few. Several guests noticed that below the formal dress suit he wore only white socks, no shoes. This sartorial oddity notwithstanding, Henry’s paper was received rapturously. No one would ever look at the anterior sternal musculature of Phasmodea species in the same light.
And that’s how it happened. But I thought you may like to know: Henry has since retired, and has been working on his memoirs, titled Sticks and Stones. Currently running out at around 600 pages, he may have to consider two volumes. Hehasn’t found a publisher. Lydia and Ansel have become an item, and Lydia has persuaded him to wear contacts. Anselhas a show coming up, images of skin art, mainly tattoos of animals; a web or two, but no stick insects. Lydia has ditched her agent and started a successfully monetized lifestyle blog. Sheridan continues in his old post, and has withdrawn his applications to both the Royal Society and the Linnean Society.
Mick Chatwin
Dec 2020