Dr. Stephen Pettigrew was the man who decided when the river
became the sea. It had always been a bone of contention amongst British marine
biologists and geographers, quarrelling over who had greater rights to research
in the area, and the relative responsibilities for marine life. This had led to
a war of attrition over a five mile stretch of water around the Essex coast
where the Thames bled into the North Sea. Death stares, cold shoulders and
whispered insults echoed the dilapidated halls of the University of East Essex,
situated on the sea-front by Southend Pier, in a building, aptly, more damp
than dry. The argument had rumbled on for so long, the university faculty had
commissioned Pettigrew to spend the last three years researching the question
so that a line could conclusively be drawn under the issue. When asked to undertake
the research he had been certain he could answer the question, dependent upon
the salt volumes in the contended stretch of water, calculating what level of
salt officially constituted sea water.
Pettigrew was about to present his conclusions on the thorny
question at the 19th Annual Salt and Freshwater Conference the university
was hosting. His findings were eagerly anticipated, with academics from the
Americas, Asia and Australasia poised to utilise his findings and take them
back to their respective places of research. They had made the long trip to the
peculiarly British sea-side town; and encountered the salty wind whipping
through the courtyard of the University making many of them glad of their
sunnier climes. It took someone truly dedicated to the majesty of coastal
formation and the effect on local wildfowl to brave the Essex seashore in the
depths of winter. Pettigrew was just such a man.
Gunther, his post-graduate researcher sat next to him in the
small ante-room he had been assigned to wait in before his speech. Never before
had Pettigrew been afforded such a luxury in his up to now, fairly non-eventful
career, despite being a well-seasoned public speaker. Before this commission
however, his work had been mainly based upon the composition of coastal
sediments, which, as it wasn't to do with climate change, (the current global
hot topic), was met with no great fanfare. Having remained staunchly ambivalent
to the question of responsibility in the Thames Estuary, being drawn into
neither camp, he was seen as the natural, if safe choice to settle the argument
once and for all. The attention that was being paid to him made him nervous,
and he'd shared clammy handshakes and back slaps with both sides of the warring
factions, each group certain that he would be supporting their assertions.
The University had bought a little coffee machine and
installed it in the room, along with a plate of over-sized doorstep sandwiches,
a small glass bowl full of crisps, and even a whole carrot cake. Gunther had
delighted in brewing cup after cup of strong coffee, having become used to the
instant weak dish-water provided in the post-graduate social space. That might
explain the rapid jerking of his knee which was irritating Pettigrew, the young
man's leg bouncing up and down to some insistent inaudible rhythm, a
combination of caffeine and nerves. This was unlike Gunther. Gunther was from
the University of Osnabruck, and displayed all the signs of Teutonic reserve,
keeping his head down, gathering information and collating the data needed to
measure salt levels, water volumes and calculate complex future predictions of
the rates of coastal erosion. The young man was clearly excited to be part of
such a high-profile project, which had only grown to national and international
attention when the PR department of the university had heard about the project
and created a fuss in the media about this seemingly simple question. There had
been a large upsurge in interest in Geography and Marine Biology courses as a
result of the publicity, and the university were keen to make the most
marketing potential from his findings.
Pettigrew had selected Gunther especially for his
disciplined, ordered, structured approach to the project. He hadn't been the
most enthusiastic candidate, but his strong CV and precise speech (a
peculiarity of the Germans Pettigrew valued hugely), had indicated that they
would work well together. Gunther's robust constitution also meant he had no
qualms about sending him down to Osea Island in the midst of a storm to gather
samples, his Germanic stoicism driving him to continue even as the rain lashed
his face and the waves crashed upon the waterproofs he had, of course, bought
in preparation. Never a word of protest, even when by the time he returned to
the lab with the samples for analysis his hair and skin were sopping wet, both
from the sea-spray and the perspiration clammily built up inside the shiny
plastic coat. Gunther didn't even bother to change, so eager was he to get on
with the task, and as he slowly warmed up a light steam would rise from his wet
clothes and skin in the hot laboratory. At the end of one such day, when
Pettigrew had dismissed him, he noticed the light flecks of salt in his dark
hair, crystallized around the hair shaft, distinct from dandruff which came off
in large flakes. Dandruff didn't slightly glisten with a jagged transparency
like these tiny crystals did. A small piece of scientific perfection.
Pettigrew had always been glad he was a scientist, an
explorer of the concrete, the definable, the empirically sound. Where do we
come from? Why are we here? Can language ever communicate what we truly want to
say? He'd never been one for such pointless, circular discussions with no hard
evidence or fact to corroborate anyone's arguments. Having been forced to take
morals and ethics as part of his earliest studies in medicine (quickly
abandoned for less volatile subjects to work upon), he had written desultory
papers on what he thought the tutors wanted to hear, then quickly abandoned
such topics to concentrate on the properties of calcium carbonate. Atoms could
do extraordinary things, but there were rules, calculations, experiments,
requiring pain-staking methodology until there was enough evidence to draw a
conclusion. There weren't corridors, avenues, side-streets that you would end
up being dragged down, abstract concept after abstract concept having to be
defined in physical, biological, cognitive, rational, ontological,
anthropological and linguistic terms. He had wondered how humanities professors
could stay sane in the knowledge that the majority of the work they taught
illustrated that the very subjects they were teaching were built upon shaky
foundations.
Pettigrew could see the camera crews lined up at the back of
the hall and the journalists sitting impatiently, notebooks in hand in the
front of the rows of seats in the freshly painted lecture theatre. Katie, the
young PR officer looked somewhat frazzled as she settled a hard-looking female
journalist in the seat closest to the lectern, nodding her head with a fixed
smile upon her face, eyes glazing over as the woman talked and talked and
talked. They had not sent out a press release in advance, wanting to ensure the
findings weren't reported before the conference actually took place (before
talking to the girl, he had no idea such things happened), and the journalist
was making it clear she was not happy about this arrangement. Katie kept
nodding and nodding, her face becoming redder and redder with embarrassment and
frustration.
What Pettigrew hadn't expected was that his investigation
would become an existentialist quest. Having accepted the commission without
doing a scrap of research, certain of his sphere of knowledge, he was surprised
to find in the recesses of the library that he'd never ventured into that the
debate had been raging amongst philosophers for centuries, no, millennia.
Ancient Greek philosopher Thales' edict that all began with water, and to water
we would return made a mockery of his research. Aristotle, Russell, Nietzsche
had grappled with this theory, names that he’d heard of, but never had the need
or desire to read.
Questions he’d never considered began to invade his brain
like apparitions. How big is a drop of water? When does a drip become a puddle,
a puddle a lake, a lake a stream, a stream a brook, a brook a river, a river
running into the sea from a tributary? Where is a river's source, where can it
truly be said to start and stop, barriers and dams flooding it, water-logging
ground, bursting banks, wreaking havoc on houses built on flood plains? These
were the questions that now dogged him, kept him awake, until he dreamt fitful
dreams where he encountered bearded be-togaed Ancient Greeks and demonstrated
to them the modern techniques of reverse osmosis desalination on brackish
water.
Pettigrew had taken himself to the Victoria and Albert
Museum, fighting through the hordes of Italian foreign exchange students
loitering outside the entrance in Cromwell Road, turning right into the
Medieval and Renaissance galleries. Moving swiftly past the marble effigies,
Corinthian columns and ancient artefacts, he found what he was looking for. The
spidery hand-writing, written backward so as to be near impossible to decipher
and the faded brown drawings had a strange effect on him. Leonardo Da Vinci's
notebook, no more than five inches tall by a few inches wide. It contained the
thoughts of a man for whom science, art and philosophy were indivisible. The
thoughts of a man whose scientific predictions were light years ahead of his
time. The thoughts of a man who could paint, draw, think, feel, see, analyse,
philosophise. Da Vinci was the Vitruvian man- arms, legs, torso, face, all in
perfect balance and proportion with his beliefs.
He had stood with his face to the glass for a full 20
minutes, his breath misting on the surface until a young gallery assistant had
asked him to step away. He had moved back, but still he’d stood there until his
eyes began to hurt. He had then wandered dumbstruck out into the bright
Kensington sunlight. How could he have been so closed minded? So sure of his
own knowledge? Da Vinci’s genius was not conducted through empirical means, but
by imagination, contemplation, sometimes irrationality. Yet he was hailed as
one of the greatest scientific minds of all time. Pettigrew began to feel
dizzy, and sat himself on one the concrete steps, populated by London pigeons
that quickly scattered away from his shaking feet.
Gunther had not been aware of this trip, thinking it a visit
to see a colleague at Imperial College in Bloomsbury. In his usual way, he did
not ask Pettigrew any questions, sure that if there was something important
Gunther would be told and instructed. Pettigrew did not tell Gunther to change
any of the experiments, the laboratory time, the research plan that they had
developed. Gunther had carried on as normal. But Pettigrew spent more time
thinking of those tiny notebooks, venturing deeper and deeper into the
philosophy of science, the philosophy of experience, the philosophy of language,
staying up all night trying to tie the threads together of what he’d previously
dismissed. He tried to think like Da Vinci. He tried to turn off his
rationality, to allow the different disciplines to intermingle inseparably in
his brain. The simple, agonising truth was- that
there was no answer.
Gunther had set up the power-point presentation he’d prepared,
given Pettigrew the remote and instructed him on how to move the slides on.
Pettigrew had paid cursory attention to him, but feigned enough interest so as
not to appear suspicious. He would not be using Gunther’s carefully prepared
methodological, evidence based presentation. Pettigrew listened to the
over-enthusiastic introduction by the Dean of the University, the warm
applause, then stepped up to the lectern. He was aware of the keen looks on the
faces in the audience, aware of the eyes focussed upon him. They would not be
prepared for what he would say. But he opened his mouth, and began to speak.
---------------------------------------------
He walked all the way along the length of the pier, the
wooden boards creaking beneath his feet. He would have once thought about the
corrosive effect of the sea-water on the struts, how the water-proofing
materials protected the wood from decay, the gradual seepage of the estuary
into the boggy, waterlogged Essex marshes. But now all he could think about was
the people who had constructed the pier, he thought about those who had walked
upon it, what they would have been discussing, wearing, thinking. How they
would have experienced what was once the most splendid and longest pier in the
world. About the gradual change of décor, from penny arcades to slot machines. He
thought of the clientele, once middle-class Victorians in their Sunday best,
now youths that loitered in the buildings not yet repaired from the fire in
2005.
He heard a faint voice in the distance. “Dr. Pettigrew!” it cried,
the voice half-swallowed back into the speaker’s mouth by the biting wind. “Dr.
Pettigrew! Dr. Pettigrew, please stop!” It was Katie, the PR officer who he’d
seen wrangling with the journalist. He slowed his pace so the girl was able to
catch up with him, but continued, shoulders hunched against the Essex drizzle.
He could hear her approaching, her breath ragged from running to reach him
after his immediate exit down the winding corridors after his speech was
finished, not even taking the requisite time for questions.
The girl finally reached his side, three-quarters of the way
along the pier. “I’m so glad I found you,” she panted. He remained
conspicuously silent. He was surprised to find he was crying, his eyes silently
seeping brinish tears that stung his cheeks and mixed with the sea spray. The
young girl noticed this, and didn’t know what to do apart from put her arm around
his damp grey suit and lead him to a bench. They sat in silence for some
minutes until the silent stream of tears began to wane. He wiped his face with
a tissue she provided, imperceptibly calming himself until his breathing settled
into a steady rhythm.
“Dr. Pettigrew,” she said softly. “I hope you won’t be
offended by me saying that I hadn’t expected quite such a speech from you.”
Pettigrew took no offence. He was a fool, a man who had devoted his life to
something so specific it would have no impact, no findings for posterity. He
was a failure. The girl continued. “The University is extremely excited by your
lecture. The Dean would like to talk to you about opening the UK’s first
interdisciplinary Scientific Experiential Philosophy department based upon your
findings.” Pettigrew felt a cold wave of shock sweep over him. “Subject to
funding, of course,” the girl swiftly added. Pettigrew was stunned. He had
thought that the speech would signal the end of his career, not the start of a
new one.
“We'd agreed that you'd do interviews afterwards, don't you
remember?” the young girl said. “They are desperate to talk to you. We've had
another request, from Radio 4. Radio 4!” she repeated. The young girl's face lit up, reddened again, this time with
excitement. Pettigrew still could not speak. After a short while he gathered himself,
thinking of what he would tell the waiting journalists and for the first time
in months, allowed himself a slight smile. Then he stood up, straightened his
tie, and slowly made his way along the length of the pier, the young girl
wordlessly supporting him with just one hand placed gently upon his shoulder.
