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Authors: Robert Goddard
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dock first alerted him to Luisa’s fame.
I couldn’t have said exactly what struck a false note in this paean to happenstance and true love. But something did. It wasn’t so much that I doubted the story was true. It was more a case of feeling there was a part of the story – the crucial part – that Francis wasn’t telling.
Maybe that’s what finally prompted me to ask Oliver’s planted question. Luisa gave me the perfect excuse by enquiring after him. I recounted my futile attempts to beat him at chess in a light-hearted, self-deprecating way calculated to lower Francis’s guard, then came sweetly to the point.
‘“To most people a pig’s egg is just a grey pebble,” he said, “but to someone who really looks at things it can be the key to everything.”’ I kept my eyes on Francis as I spoke and there was no missing his flinch of dismay. Oliver’s arrow had hit the mark. ‘When I asked him what a pig’s egg was, he just said, “Ask my great-uncle; he’s an expert.”’
‘“An expert”,’ said Francis, manufacturing a smile. ‘Is that what he called me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Expert in what?’ asked Vivien, frowning in puzzlement.
Luisa was also puzzled. ‘What does he mean,
caro
?’
Francis said something to her in Italian that contained the word
cristalli
. It seemed to satisfy her. But not Francis himself. His wineglass shook faintly as he raised it to his mouth.
‘So,’ I went on, ‘can you tell me what a pig’s egg is?’
‘I can,’ Francis replied, dabbing at his mouth with his napkin. ‘It’s a large crystal of potash feldspar – a phenocryst, to use the correct mineralogical term – preserved within a softer matrix during kaolinization. The clay workers find them in the pits from time to time. They’re geologically interesting and often quite pretty. I have one in a small collection of crystals I put together while I was at Wren’s.’ I felt he was regaining his confidence now. Whatever the nature of the shock Oliver had given him through me, he had swiftly absorbed it and probably believed no one had noticed anything amiss. ‘Now I think about it, I recall I showed Oliver the collection when you and he came out to Capri with Harriet last summer, Vivien. The “expert” description rather flatters me, however. I used to have a coin collection as well. That doesn’t make me any more of a numismatist than I am a crystallographer.’
‘But how can a pig’s egg – a feldspar crystal – be the “key to everything”?’ asked Vivien, genuinely bemused.
‘Ah,’ said Francis, beetling his brow thoughtfully. ‘I believe Oliver is referring to the way in which the rocks at our feet, of which a pig’s egg is merely one particularly decorative example, reveal, if properly studied, the history of our planet over hundreds of millions of years. Climate changes. Rises and falls in sea level. Movements in the magnetic poles. They’re all recorded geologically. And the record is there to see, for someone who really looks.’
‘Sounds like you
are
an expert, Uncle Francis,’ said Vivien.
‘Not at all, my dear. Far from it.’ He looked across the table at me. ‘I’m afraid none of this is going to help you beat Oliver at chess, though, Jonathan. Perhaps nothing can.’
‘Have you ever played him yourself?’ I asked.
‘Once. Last summer, in fact.’
‘Who won?’
Francis smiled. ‘I believe it was stalemate.’
‘You do realize Oliver set you up with that business about the pig’s egg, don’t you?’ Vivien asked as we drove away from the Carlyon Bay at the end of the evening.
Looking back, I could see Francis watching us from the hotel doorway, puffing at his after-dinner cigar, his free hand half raised in farewell. Did he also realize it was a set-up? I wondered. And, if so, did he think I was a party to it? ‘Perhaps Oliver thought your great-uncle would enjoy displaying his mineralogical knowledge,’ I suggested.
‘Rubbish. It was a code for
I couldn’t have said exactly what struck a false note in this paean to happenstance and true love. But something did. It wasn’t so much that I doubted the story was true. It was more a case of feeling there was a part of the story – the crucial part – that Francis wasn’t telling.
Maybe that’s what finally prompted me to ask Oliver’s planted question. Luisa gave me the perfect excuse by enquiring after him. I recounted my futile attempts to beat him at chess in a light-hearted, self-deprecating way calculated to lower Francis’s guard, then came sweetly to the point.
‘“To most people a pig’s egg is just a grey pebble,” he said, “but to someone who really looks at things it can be the key to everything.”’ I kept my eyes on Francis as I spoke and there was no missing his flinch of dismay. Oliver’s arrow had hit the mark. ‘When I asked him what a pig’s egg was, he just said, “Ask my great-uncle; he’s an expert.”’
‘“An expert”,’ said Francis, manufacturing a smile. ‘Is that what he called me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Expert in what?’ asked Vivien, frowning in puzzlement.
Luisa was also puzzled. ‘What does he mean,
caro
?’
Francis said something to her in Italian that contained the word
cristalli
. It seemed to satisfy her. But not Francis himself. His wineglass shook faintly as he raised it to his mouth.
‘So,’ I went on, ‘can you tell me what a pig’s egg is?’
‘I can,’ Francis replied, dabbing at his mouth with his napkin. ‘It’s a large crystal of potash feldspar – a phenocryst, to use the correct mineralogical term – preserved within a softer matrix during kaolinization. The clay workers find them in the pits from time to time. They’re geologically interesting and often quite pretty. I have one in a small collection of crystals I put together while I was at Wren’s.’ I felt he was regaining his confidence now. Whatever the nature of the shock Oliver had given him through me, he had swiftly absorbed it and probably believed no one had noticed anything amiss. ‘Now I think about it, I recall I showed Oliver the collection when you and he came out to Capri with Harriet last summer, Vivien. The “expert” description rather flatters me, however. I used to have a coin collection as well. That doesn’t make me any more of a numismatist than I am a crystallographer.’
‘But how can a pig’s egg – a feldspar crystal – be the “key to everything”?’ asked Vivien, genuinely bemused.
‘Ah,’ said Francis, beetling his brow thoughtfully. ‘I believe Oliver is referring to the way in which the rocks at our feet, of which a pig’s egg is merely one particularly decorative example, reveal, if properly studied, the history of our planet over hundreds of millions of years. Climate changes. Rises and falls in sea level. Movements in the magnetic poles. They’re all recorded geologically. And the record is there to see, for someone who really looks.’
‘Sounds like you
are
an expert, Uncle Francis,’ said Vivien.
‘Not at all, my dear. Far from it.’ He looked across the table at me. ‘I’m afraid none of this is going to help you beat Oliver at chess, though, Jonathan. Perhaps nothing can.’
‘Have you ever played him yourself?’ I asked.
‘Once. Last summer, in fact.’
‘Who won?’
Francis smiled. ‘I believe it was stalemate.’
‘You do realize Oliver set you up with that business about the pig’s egg, don’t you?’ Vivien asked as we drove away from the Carlyon Bay at the end of the evening.
Looking back, I could see Francis watching us from the hotel doorway, puffing at his after-dinner cigar, his free hand half raised in farewell. Did he also realize it was a set-up? I wondered. And, if so, did he think I was a party to it? ‘Perhaps Oliver thought your great-uncle would enjoy displaying his mineralogical knowledge,’ I suggested.
‘Rubbish. It was a code for
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