The Professor Peregrine Papers

I found these postcards in a manila envelope on which was written “Deep Extra Cover” and “lost tuning fork”. The Professor has no recollection of these postcards.  But, then again, neither do I.

I came across the following photograph, stapled to a receipt for spoon rests, as I tried to make sense of the Professor's treasury of learned papers and other tea chests. The Professor considered the photograph with some interest before beginning to explain.  “Ah, the Case of the Disappearing Bails. A cause célèbre of the 1960s. At critical moments during significant matches, the bails would suddenly and inexplicably vanish. People were up in arms and stiff letters were written to the MCC, various members of the House of Lords and other incorrigibles. Eventually, Chief Inspector Drongway was called in to investigate.” The Professor stared absent-mindedly out of the window at a passing milkman before continuing: “Everybody had the greatest faith in Drongway of the Yard, so called because he owned a small yard behind a pub where he kept his valuable collection of Edwardian unicycles. However, no arrests were ever made. The belief expressed by journalists and other wastrels was that t...

I had been pressing the Professor to reveal more of the details of his questionable family history with patchy results. Eventually he pulled a faded photograph from a dog-eared copy of Wisden (circa 1949, I believe) and began to tell a sad tale:  “Let me tell you about Great Uncle Purlicue. His notable skill was to entice an audience to a remote, bucolic location on the pretext of delivering a speech of national importance or distributing free tickets to a Minor Counties match with associated hog roast before unexpectedly removing his hat and delivering a heartfelt rendition of ‘Who Were You With Last Night?’.” The Professor stared wistfully from the window overlooking his fine display of prize dahlias, statuettes of first-class umpires signalling wides and enamel buckets before going on in subdued tones:  “Sadly, Great Uncle Purlicue was so successful at gathering a crowd that he was accidentally elected to various positions of dubious authority. This proved to be his undoing...

One day recently, as the Professor was working on his paper discussing the social and metaphysical ramifications of deploying a deep square leg, he suddenly looked up from his endeavours and asked me if I knew the story of the year his brother * entered the International Hedge Climbing Contest in Claxby Pluckacre.  I did not. To this day, I still do not know the story. * The Professor is widely believed to be an only child.

To further my understanding of the Professor's baffling family tree, I sent him a note enquiring about the life of his Great Uncle Quidnunc. The Professor's reply arrived the following day together with a half-eaten Eccles cake. I present that reply in full together with a facsimile of Quidnunc's original design drawing: "Great Uncle Quidnunc avoided almost everyone, including me, for most of his life, except when he understood that there might be a little spare cash on offer. He preferred to live a scholarly life. In his will, however, he was generous to a fault and I inherited the only completed example of his Inverted Solleret Pantomorphic Machine. The paper he authored concerning the theory of this device was described by an anonymous academic and quodlibetarian as 'The grand piano of theoretical physics but without the pedals and the bit that holds up the lid.' The gift was accompanied by a simple note, written in large, capital letters: 'WHEN NEAR THE...

 I came across a photograph in the Professor's archive. On the back, written indistinctly in pencil, were the words: “We met at noon in the restaurant on the Quai General Leclerc. M Lebeurre had some interesting information for me. Must remember to buy milk and a piano on the way home.”

While assisting with the cataloguing of the Professor's extensive archive, I came across a photograph of a slice of toast. The Professor poured himself a small glass of Beaumont Cranfield Memorial Scrumpy Cider, settled into his favourite armchair and began to explain: “One summer many years ago, I found myself acting as the captain of a benighted team of academics and other ne'er-do-wells in a rain-shortened match at Whitchurch Canonicorum. Having won the toss, I decided to bat second. It was a thoroughgoing disaster.  At breakfast the next day, the face of W.G. Grace appeared on my toast as if to mock me. What you see before you is a photographic representation of that slice of toast. At least, I think it's W.G., although some have expressed the belief that it may, in fact, be Dame Edith Sitwell; herself a fine orthodox left-arm spinner.” The Professor stared wistfully into his empty glass and continued in a solemn tone, “I ate the toast with marmalade. It's what W.G....