The Reluctant Cannibals

by The Reluctant Cannibals (mobi)

  ‘Must fnd a good quince dish for the faculty’s dinner this term.’ ‘Speaking of which, did you hear we’ve all been summoned for a meeting with the

  Master?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Flanagan was spreading the word this morning at breakfast. Do you know what it’s about?’ asked Arthur.

  ‘I believe the vice-chancellor might have something to do with it. Well, I must be get-ting back. I’ll see you later, Arthur, and please try to be there on time. The new Master is not a patient man.’

  ‘Glad to hear it. I never trust patient men, Augustus. They are too good at hiding their feelings.’

  With that, he turned and continued on down the path to the river, breaking out in song after a few yards.

  Augustus walked on, struggling to make sense of Arthur Plantagenet’s sudden good humour in the face of death and wondering about the mysterious experiment he seemed to be planning. Looking around he also wondered how he had managed to lose Eccles, hoping that the young man knew his way around Oxford well enough to get back on his own. He came through the large gates at the back of the meadows and pondered for a minute on which route to take. To cut back through the cobbled peace of Merton Street or walk along the bustle of the High Street? After a brief mental stocktake he convinced himself that his rooms were well enough supplied so he could avoid the physical and cultural shock of the world of commerce for another day. Merton Street it was.

  Winding his way past innumerable bicycles, almost all black and practically indistin-guishable from each other, Augustus fnally reached the old wooden doors of the col-lege. He silently nodded to the immobile Potts as he walked through to the back room of the gate lodge to gather his post from his pigeonhole. He didn’t pause today to review the letters. Instead he just pocketed the small bundle and set off towards Charles’ rooms. After a brief and unsettling conversation with the chaplain this morning, Bloom felt it prudent to tackle him again before the Master’s meeting. Had he been less concerned about the mental well-being of Charles Pinker, Augustus Bloom would have discovered that the long-awaited letter from California had fnally arrived.

  Chapter 6

  The sound of the old Bakelite phone shook the silence of the Master’s lodgings at St Jerome’s, resonating off the dark oak panelling that lined his study. Apart from this single intrusion of modernity, the rest of the room looked as it might a hundred years before. A small grate with a glowing coal fre, bookcases lined with leather-bound volumes nearly all published in the nineteenth century or earlier, a large mahogany desk whose green leather top was barely visible for the stacks of paper and a pair of high-backed green leather Queen Anne chairs. In this peaceful haven the accursed phone seemed to grow louder with each ring. It rang with a remarkable degree of persistence, which matched the personality of the short man at the other end of the phone, who was sitting in a brightly lit and tediously decorated offce on the other side of Oxford. Finally, out of desperation, the Master was roused from his newspaper and forced to lift the hand piece.

  ‘Faulkner.’

  ‘Good morning, Lord Faulkner. Dr Ridgeway here.’ ‘Dr Ridgeway… Dr Ridgeway… Oh yes, I thought you might call.’ ‘Indeed, but as this is a rather delicate matter I was thinking it would be better to dis-

  cuss it face to face.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Faulkner.

  As the vice-chancellor had managed to disturb him in the middle of completing the Times crossword, Lord Faulkner was in no mood to agree to any meeting and was equally determined to make this a brief conversation.

  ‘Well, speaking plainly I think it’s time we shut down this ridiculous gastronomy club before they cause any more harm to the university’s reputation. I met your Dr Bloom yes-terday and quite frankly was disappointed with his attitude to the whole affair.’

  ‘Dr Ridgeway, I can assure you that senior members of this college are not known for their recklessness. As you are well aware, Mr Tokoro was bringing a unique cultural del-icacy to Oxford. The fault in preparation of the dish was indeed his and we are lucky that he didn’t manage to kill any members of St Jerome’s, quite frankly. So I can’t see what there is to discuss.’

  In the slight pause that followed, Ridgeway’s imagination raced ahead to the halcyon possibility that a few more mouthfuls of toxic fsh might have ensured that Dr Bloom and the rest of his dining club would not still be around to vex him. Solely in the interests of

  diplomacy, he was forced to concur.

  ‘Indeed Master, we are grateful for that, but you should understand that this event did cause very signifcant problems for the university. I was forced to call in favours at the highest – and I mean the very highest – levels to keep this out of the newspapers and to placate the Japanese ambassador.’

  ‘I’m sure you handled things admirably, but then isn’t that your job? And in relation to the newspapers I do believe a certain Neil Armstrong stepping onto the moon in July kept the journalists busy for most of the summer.’

  ‘Indeed, indeed, but I don’t want a repeat of this sort of incident. To that end I sug-gested to Dr Bloom that the activities of this frivolous dining club be drawn to a close. My problem is that Dr Bloom has refused to do so.’

  ‘So there you have it. I don’t believe you have authority over senior members of this college and I have the greatest faith that Dr Bloom will in future act with all due care and attention.’

  ‘I’m sure he will, but I felt sure you could prevail upon Dr Bloom, and indeed the other members of this club, to do the honourable thing.’

  ‘Well, Dr Ridgeway, you will be glad to know that I have already arranged a meeting with the entire shadow faculty of gastronomic science, as I believe they are called.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said the vice-chancellor, taken aback by this sudden turnaround. ‘Well that is excellent. And what sort of message will you be conveying to these gentlemen?’

  ‘I shall take heed of your comments, Dr Ridgeway, and decide later precisely what I shall be saying to them. Suffce to say that I am happy to ask them to act honourably, though I would not expect any of our fellows to do otherwise. Now I think that wraps up the matter for the time being, don’t you think?’

  Dr Ridgeway placed the receiver down on its rest and stared at it intently as he went over the call in his mind. He had made his way in the challenging world of university politics not by interpersonal skills, but by ceaseless analysis of each development and preparing for every eventuality. He took comfort that Faulkner didn’t issue a straight re-buff. Ridgeway had personally briefed the foreign secretary on the events of last term and knew that Faulkner had been called up to the Foreign Offce in London. On bal-ance he felt that Faulkner would be minded to look after his own reputation in diplomat-ic circles rather than support the frankly bizarre culinary interests of the fellows of St Jerome’s College.

  Faulkner had indeed received an ear-bending from the foreign secretary on account of the incident. It had taken the offer of a case of 1927 Dow, one of the century’s fnest Ports, for both the foreign secretary and Japanese ambassador to calm the waters. For-tunately the College had amassed a large stockpile of this divinely complex transforma-tion of mere grapes just before the Second World War. This was especially farsighted as most of the stocks of this fne vintage were destroyed by the Luftwaffe during the Blitz following a tragically direct hit on Dow’s London warehouse. Unknown to most of the wine world, St Jerome’s now had the world’s largest stock of the ’27 vintage, so this was in reality a small price to pay for international goodwill. Personally speaking, this was not the start to his tenure as master of St Jerome’s that Faulkner had hoped for, and the incident had most certainly not endeared the members of the shadow faculty to him.

  Faulkner returned to his favourite chair by the fre and sat back, pausing for a second until the annoying spectre of Dr Ridgeway faded in intensity. He took back up his folded newspaper and returned to the more important task of the Times crossword. He plucked a gold stopwatch from his waistcoat pocket. It w
as still running. He watched the ornate black hand glide around the dial for a few seconds before clicking the large furled top. He’d forgotten to stop the watch when he answered the phone. Today a potential person-al best time was ruined and the vice-chancellor was of course entirely to blame for the failure of Lord Faulkner’s right thumb to stop the clock before answering the phone.

  *

  That same morning, Augustus Bloom was refecting on how he had singularly failed in his mission to placate Charles Pinker. On hearing that the entire faculty had been summoned by the Master, the chaplain had fallen into a state of inconsolable anxiety. Neither Bach, God nor Bloom could offer anything to improve matters. The only thing that would bring the Reverend Pinker peace was to hear his fate and that of the rest of the faculty. Lord Faulkner was new to the College, having been elected to the post barely six months ago. He had brought with him a formidable reputation and, most challenging of all, was his experience of the world outside Oxford. The world was a large, exotic and threatening place for the likes of Charles Pinker, and indeed many Oxford dons. To be called before Lord Faulkner for admonishment carried with it the prospect of having to face the judgement of the outside world, a world that Charles felt knew little of the ways of an Oxford college. The time and place were at least already settled: the Master’s dining room at 6 p.m. Augustus set off from college on his bicycle, knowing he could do no more for his friend Charles.

  Augustus turned away from the gothic brick edifce of Keble College and swept around the corner towards the University Laboratory of Physiology. As he approached the large tree in front of the main door, he stood up and slowly swung his right leg across the saddle and around the back wheel. Standing aloft on just the left pedal, his black policeman’s bike tilted away from him to achieve a perfect balance, he glided to a halt. He pulled the two books from the wicker basket in front of the handlebars and walked through the double doors of the laboratory. He was met by the building’s unique smell and the sound of his brogues on the polished foor echoing off the ceiling thirty feet over his head. The building was undeniably modern compared to collegiate Oxford, a 1930s temple to scientifc progress. He picked up his departmental mail from the diminutive and equally modern porter’s lodge, and stuffed the whole bundle into his jacket pocket that was already bulging with the unopened mail he’d collected in college.

  On reaching his offce on the frst foor he gathered the letters and perused them all, taking his time in choosing which letter to open frst. On some days it was a challenging task to fnd anything interesting on the envelope or postmark, but today there was only a single contender for the frst letter. Augustus saw the California postmark and tore open the envelope.

  My dearest Augustus ,

  I was delighted to get your letter. As ever a breath of fresh air to brighten dull Californian days. How I miss Europe and the delightful twists she shows us Amer-icans at every turn. I know you English don’t think of yourself as European. I’m forever intrigued by your love/hate relationship with the ‘Continent’. A word that is full of allure and promise yet mixed with a heady combination of distrust and danger. Although I have never set foot in Oxford, I feel I know her like a dear old friend .

  I know I promised to visit this Christmas, but my publisher in New York has single-handedly dashed these plans. It seems that I have been rediscovered by those who thought I was dead and discovered for the frst time by a generation that never knew I existed. Long-lost books are being reprinted and I am to rise from the grave of anonymity to do a tour of the East Coast. My dear editor John still looks down on the folk of the West Coast as barely literate sun-baked children not worthy of proper literature, indeed not even my frivolous literary morsels. So I don’t even get the chance of fame in my own backyard .

  I can sense as I write these words your disappointment, but trust me dear Augustus this is a deferral not a cancellation and I know you will be happy for my new-found popularity. I hope I can count on you to invite me again. I’m making frm plans to visit London in the summer and I do so wish to make history as the frst woman to grace the table of the faculty of gastronomic science. I’m fascinated to see frst-hand how all you men survive locked up in your famous ivory towers. Who knows, it may start a trend. I may become the Rosa Parks of Oxford and stim-ulate your dear St Jerome’s to allow in students of the fairer and dare I say far brighter sex. I have fanciful visions of letting my long hair down from an ivory-towered window and letting my young sisters climb in . Do please send me the menu for your next dinner and report on your latest discov-eries in gastronomic science. They will brighten the long cold winter I’ll have to endure from Boston to Philadelphia. In return I shall savor a martini at the Wal-dorf Astoria in memory of our last delightful gin-soaked meeting . So long, my dearest Augustus, and if another invitation does not arrive soon I shall descend into a sulk of transatlantic proportions. Be warned, a woman scorned is a fearsome foe .

  Sweetest regards,

  Mary Frances

  Augustus smiled and shook his head in wonder as he folded the letter back in its en-velope. Totally outfanked. She breaks her promise and he is left feeling guilty about an invitation that has yet to be made.

  *

  By the time Augustus returned to college in the darkening gloom of an October night, the clouds and surviving members of the shadow faculty of gastronomic science were gathering. Passing through the heavy wooden gates of the porter’s lodge, Augustus met Professor George Le Strang and Dr Theodore Flanagan. Le Strang, a man of strong opin-ions usually delivered with a strong dose of Gallic superiority, was holding forth. Bloom sensed Flanagan was in need of rescue.

  ‘Good evening, Gentlemen. Any sign of the others?’ Flanagan spun round to see his saviour.

  ‘Augustus, good evening. Apart from the professor here I haven’t seen hide nor hair of the others all day.’

  At that moment, Charles Pinker emerged from the passageway that led to Chapel Quad. They watched as the chaplain made his way towards them with all the enthusiasm of a man walking to the gallows. Flanagan tried valiantly to lift Pinker’s spirits as he came within earshot.

  ‘We’ll be grand Charles, have a little faith.’

  ‘Just a slap on the wrists over a glass of revolting sweet sherry,’ added Le Strang. As these weak attempts foundered, Augustus Bloom decided a change of topic was

  needed.

  ‘So where will we fnd Arthur and Hamish?’

  ‘Well they are both late and so wherever they are, they are likely to be together.’ ‘Very true, Theodore, but where?’

  ‘At a guess fnding courage hidden beneath the cork of a bottle or two of Claret.’ As if on cue, the cellar door swung open and the bear-like fgures of Arthur Planta-

  genet and Hamish McIntyre emerged, just as the distant bells of Tom Tower began their ninety-nine chimes to mark the stroke of six o’clock. Augustus took the lead.

  ‘Gentlemen, let’s not be late.’

  Chapter 7

  They were fne rooms for a frst-year undergraduate. The shared sitting room was magni-fcent in scale; the two large bay windows onto the quad provided an unparalleled view of the comings and goings below. On this particular evening, if anyone had been looking out of these windows, they would have witnessed the procession led by Augustus Bloom heading towards the Master’s lodge. But the occupants of the room were otherwise en-gaged. The ceilings were plain, grandeur coming from their height at almost fourteen feet. The furnishings were completed with an elegantly faded oriental rug, two small desks and a three-piece leather chesterfeld suite, which had seen better days but was matur-ing gracefully into shabbiness. In contrast the two bedrooms attached to this grand room were tiny and a little sad looking. In each, a small wooden locker accompanied a narrow single bed, the hair-flled mattresses sagging in the middle in memory of the horses from whence the hair came.

  Such scale was, as a rule, strictly reserved for second or third-year undergraduates, but Patrick Eccles, Bloom’s new charge, had benefted from
the temporary absence of one of its intended occupants. An enthusiastic member of the high altitude club, the dashing Argentinean Felipe Banzarro, had come a cropper during the summer, descending an An-dean glacier in a bathtub. He was moments away from the prestigious honour of being the frst person to perform such a feat in the southern hemisphere, when he had dropped into the mouth of a glacial moulin at high speed. These ethereal blue caverns carved by melt-water are things of great beauty and the unfortunate Felipe had several hours to admire them until he was rescued. He emerged with his reputation amongst his peers elevated yet further but with a spectacularly fractured right arm, pelvis and left femur, that removed all prospects of returning to Oxford for the coming academic year.

  It was in Banzarro’s stead that the very young and decidedly unadventurous Patrick Eccles ended up sharing this magnifcent room with one of St Jerome’s leading socialites, Matthew Kingsley-Hampton. The honourable Kingsley-Hampton, educated at Eton and recently elevated to this title thanks to a life peerage his father had received for services to the Conservative Party, was less than impressed by this new roommate. Staircase fve, room three was to have been the social epicentre of undergraduate college life in this

  coming year. Kingsley-Hampton wasn’t one to be easily distracted from this goal, but it would be all the harder to achieve without the foil of his handsome Argentinean sidekick.

  Stretched out on the chesterfeld sofa, Kingsley-Hampton was ficking through the books on this term’s reading list. His attention was diverted by the discovery of a menu tucked inside the pages of a book he had collected from the library that day. The menu, elegantly printed with an embossed college crest and bound with a black and purple rib-bon, described a feast that challenged both credulity and imagination. As he read down the list of assorted gastronomic pleasures his fascination was marred by a growing sense of pique. This menu was clearly from a dining club from which he was not only ex-cluded, but even worse, hadn’t known existed. On both counts this was a novel and a thoroughly unwelcome experience for The Honourable Kingsley-Hampton.