‘In that case, sir, the professor asked me to give you this. Said it was important you got it on the day he died. It was like ’e knew ’e was about to go.’
‘Thank you, Potts.’ Augustus looked up from the letter and caught the sadness in Mr Potts’ eyes.
Augustus spent the afternoon in his rooms where one by one the other members of the shadow faculty of gastronomic science had gathered for no other reason than to talk, knowing that when the talking stopped the real sadness would begin. Once everyone had departed, Augustus himself set off, reaching the Laboratory of Physiology in the late af-ternoon. A note had been left for him in his pigeonhole at the entrance of the building. Package arrived for you. Placed in frozen storage as per instructions .
Augustus had no recollection of leaving any instructions or expecting a package on that particular day, so he duly stuffed the note in a pocket and slowly wound his way up the echoing 1930s stone-effect staircase. He deliberately hadn’t yet read the letter that Potts had delivered this morning. When he fnally reached his offce he pulled the letter out of his tweed jacket pocket and examined the familiar handwriting. His name was spelt out in green ink from the over-sized fountain pen that Arthur always used, the words capturing the movement and life Arthur still had when he wrote them. Augustus couldn’t see how reading it could change things for the better and assumed, rather pres-ciently, that right now it was more likely to change things for the worse. He placed it behind his brass desk lamp, leant forward onto his folded arms and closed his eyes be-fore tears could appear.
Chapter 17
It was a sad and beleaguered collection of Oxford dons that congregated the following morning around the long mahogany boardroom table in the frst foor of Cragsworth, Cawl and Barringer, solicitors at law. Mr Barringer himself was presiding.
‘Gentlemen, thank you for attending at such short notice. It was a particular request of the late Professor Arthur Plantagenet in his last will and testament that this will be read within a day of his death so that all the arrangements within it can be carried out while… ’ His voice trailed off for a second before continuing, ‘… he was still fresh.’
Mr Barringer regained his composure, fnding reassurance in the legal formalities. ‘As you may or may not know, your good friend Arthur Plantagenet has no living close relat-ives and so he has named you fve as the executors of his will and trustees of his estate. This legally binds you to an obligation. Think carefully before you accept this role… very carefully.’ He looked at each of them in turn. Assuming they knew at least broadly the terms of the will, and that at least one of them if not all would refuse the onus about to be placed upon them.
‘You are all willing to do this?’ he asked incredulously. They all nodded.
‘Reverend?’ He looked one last time at Charles Pinker, hoping he at least would ex-empt himself from these bizarre proceedings – to no avail. Barringer had no choice but to continue.
‘Do you, Dr Augustus Bloom, Dr Theodore Flanagan, Professor George Le Strang, Dr Hamish McIntyre and the Reverend Charles Pinker all agree to act as joint executors of Arthur Plantagenet’s last will and testament and trustees of his estate?’
To a man they all agreed again.
‘So that brings me to the conditions of the will itself.’ A bead of sweat started to appear on Barringer’s expansive forehead as he read on.
‘ I leave the totality of my estate for the purpose of enhancing the science of gast-ronomy. The sum of £250,000 is to be donated to the university for the creation of the post of Professor of Gastronomy and a further £50,000 is to be donated to St Jerome’s College as an endowment to support the election of the Professor of Gastronomy as a fellow of St Jerome’s. In the event that the university is not in a position to create this post, the funds are to be invested at the discretion of the executors until such a time as the university agrees to this eminently sensible pro-
position .
A few eyebrows lifted at this news, impressed that Arthur had such funds at his dis-posal. Human nature being as it is, several indecent expectations of a personal windfall were also born in that announcement.
I wish my funeral to be a quiet affair with only fellow members of the shadow fac-ulty of gastronomic science in attendance. Subject to the provisions below I should like my remains to be cremated …
Profound relief came over the assembled dons at the mention of cremation. This seemed at a stroke to rule out the more unusual intentions Arthur had previously ex-pressed for his corporeal remains.
… with the ashes to be divided into three parts. The frst part is to be dug into the roots of one of the magnifcent Cypress trees in the island cemetery of St Michael in Venice, the second portion is to be scattered across the arena of the Coliseum in Rome. The remainder is to be placed …
At this point Mr Barringer paused and swallowed hard before overcoming his per-sonal distaste for this particular will.
… within a truffed turkey which is to be dropped off a punt on the river Cherwell to the music of Rossini’s Stabat Mater played on my beloved HMV Model 101 gramophone. After which I donate this gramophone and my collection of 78s to my good friend, Augustus Bloom .
To the solicitor’s utter dismay, the audience seemed to approve wholeheartedly of these bizarre arrangements. Though a cultured and learned man, Mr Barringer was clearly unaware of the gastronomic importance of the truffed turkey, and the role this most fragrant of birds played in both Professor Plantagenet’s and Gioacchino Rossini’s life. After a heartfelt sigh he continued.
As a public event I would greatly appreciate a memorial service to be held in the college chapel. The sum of £5,000 is to be donated for the purchase of food and champagne with any excess donated to the shadow faculty of gastronomic scien-ce. I wish foie gras to be served with sliced fgs and quince jelly. The champagne should be Dom Perignon 1962. I should also request that Charles Pinker play the Maestoso from Camille Saint-Saëns’ Symphony No. 3 in C minor, Op. 78 . Barringer cleared his throat for a second time. Taking advantage of the grunts of ap-
proval at the arrangements for the funeral, he tried to deliver the next words with as much professional detachment as he could muster.
The most important provision of my will, is that I wish to donate part of my body to gastronomic science .
There were a few groans from the assembled dons, and Mr Barringer paused to peer over his reading glasses to gauge the reaction. The Reverend Pinker’s mood had changed from pride to dread, Hamish McIntyre was most defnitely chuckling to him-self, and the others merely sat in stunned silence.
To that end I have decided to donate my left leg to the shadow faculty of gastro-nomic science to prepare in a manner that will best answer the question of the gustatory virtues of human fesh. While I will leave the exact details of prepara-tion to my friends and colleagues, I would suggest some form of dry curing in the spirit of Iberico or Parma ham .
The solicitor raised his hand without lifting his eyes from the page to quell the rising unrest of his audience.
I also require that the results of this culinary experiment be presented as one of the dishes at a dinner of the shadow faculty of gastronomic science. In the spirit of Eumolpus 7 and as a condition of my legacy to the university, I require that Dr Ridgeway, vice-chancellor of the University of Oxford, be invited to this dinner. Provided the vice-chancellor accepts the establishment of a faculty of gastronom-ic science, full payment of my endowment is to be presented to the university at this dinner .
This last detail was too much for Hamish McIntyre who literally exploded in laughter. Augustus tried to hold back the mental image of Dr Ridgeway being offered all that money and a plate of Arthur’s left leg, before it became too much for him. Ge-orge Le Strang was quick to follow. It took longer for Theodore who was curiously lost in thought about why Arthur had chosen to leave his left rather than his right leg. By the time he resurfaced from this introspective conjecture, the room was so flled with laughter that he too joined in. C
harles fought very hard to maintain some grain of Chris-tian decency, and was indeed succeeding until he caught sight of the astonished face of Mr Barringer, whereupon he too lost all semblance of composure. At this point in the proceedings, Mr Barringer abandoned all attempts to restore order and complete his reading of the will.
He ushered them all from the room and down the stairs. Standing on the pavement of St John’s Street, they had just started to regain some grip on reality when Hamish sug-gested that they head up the street and tell Dr Ridgeway the good news straight away. That set them all off again until there were tears rolling down their cheeks. The frst practical suggestion came, as ever, from Theodore Flanagan, who suggested that they visit a few of Arthur’s favourite haunts before dinner. They set off on a long and circuit-ous journey back to St Jerome’s college, starting frst at the Eagle and Child in St Giles. This was a small but renowned establishment famous in former years for the meetings of the Inklings, the writing circle that numbered J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis amongst its numbers. Tolkien, the Rawlinson and Bosworth Professor of Anglo-Saxon, had be-friended the young Arthur Plantagenet when he had frst been elected as a professor and Arthur was a frequent attendee at Inkling gatherings, strictly in a libatory rather than a literary capacity.
As the dons took their seats in the wood panelled back room, the ground rules were set: a different drink in each pub, no maudlin talk and no mention of the ‘C’ word. Charles Pinker requested a small amendment of the rules after the frst pint, adding the ‘A’ word – anthropophagy, Arthur’s preferred word for the legacy he had foisted on his colleagues, to the proscribed list. After the Eagle and Child, it was a short jaunt to the Lamb and Flag in the footsteps of the Inklings, then a thirst-inducing walk of at least fve minutes to the White Horse on Broad Street, nestled between Trinity College and Black-well’s booksellers. This pub was a favourite haunt of Arthur’s, who was well known for picking up a few books from Blackwell’s and, without a moment’s hesitation, carrying them unpaid out of the door for more detailed inspection in the White Horse. After a pint or two he would head back with the books he was going to buy, leaving the rest scattered around the table for the barman to return to the bookshop later in the day. After an ex-cellent pint of Courage in the White Horse, the shadow faculty of gastronomic science were on the home run with a pint of Brakspear’s old ale in the King’s Arms, a hot port in the Turf Tavern, followed by a bottle of Guinness in the Wheatsheaf, at Theodore’s insistence.
The fnal destination was the Bear in Blue Boar Street, one of the oldest and smallest pubs in Oxford. The walls and ceilings of this inn were, and indeed still are, covered by ties snipped off their former owners in return for a pint of beer, if they were lucky to have a tie not already in the extensive collection. It took them an age to locate the tie Arthur had parted with many years previously. Implausible as it seemed now, think-ing of the recently departed Professor’s substantial weight, Arthur had an unusual time in the war as part of the heroic but largely forgotten Glider Pilot Regiment. As they sat down with the fnal pint of Arthur’s particular favourite bitter, Old Speckled Hen, Augustus raised the toast in the words of Arthur’s old regimental motto: Nihil est Im-possibilis .
This nostalgic circuit of Arthur’s favourite drinking places had taken a considerable amount of time, what with all the drinking, walking, talking and urinating that this amount of beer entails. Time had passed so fast that the dons were stunned to hear Tom Tower strike seven o’clock.
‘Good God, we’ll be late for dinner. Come on, lads.’ Hamish leapt to his feet with an agility that defed expectation after four hours of committed drinking. The others tried to respond with similar determination but with less success. Charles Pinker was by this stage snoring gently in the corner and all attempts to rouse him failed. The sight of an ordained minister of the church unconscious from drink may appear rather shocking to the modern mind, but history favoured the chaplain. In the context of the long tradition of the Bear, which claims heritage back to 1242, this was positively seemly behaviour for a member of the clergy.
The others made their way back to college as fast as their legs and bladders would permit. After heading into the senior common room to collect their voluminous black gowns, they ran up the stairs to the great hall through the gloom of the night in various states of inebriation, only to burst in while one of the scholars was still reading grace. Summoning as much poise as they could manage, they made their way past the as-sembled lines of students to take their places at high table. The Master nodded disap-provingly at each of them as they sat down. The young scholar had the foresight to re-start the long Latin grace from the beginning to restore a sense of order and decorum.
Augustus was last to reach the raised platform on which high table sat and so had to take the only available seat left, beside the Master.
‘Glad you could make it, Augustus.’
‘Sorry, Master, we had to attend Arthur’s solicitor. A few details and arrangements to be sorted out.’
The mention of Arthur had the desired calming effect on the Master. It is hard to bear a grudge within the shadow of the death of a good friend.
‘Tragic loss. I know you were good friends. Very sad altogether,’ offered the Master in consolation.
‘He knew it was coming, though perhaps not quite yet.’ ‘ For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven. A time
to be born, and a time to die – as the good book says. Mind you I certainly never knew Arthur was so well versed in the Bible until that dinner the other night. He ran rings around the poor chaplain. Where is Charles, anyway? He missed evensong completely.’
‘Oh, he’s a little… overwrought by the whole thing.’ ‘Understandable. Anyway, talking of overwrought, I had the vice-chancellor on the
phone straight after Arthur was found dead.’
‘How did he know?’ asked Augustus in some shock. ‘No idea, but he was convinced we’d poisoned him too. He seemed to fnd it hard to
understand why someone seems to die at every one of your dinners.’ ‘Good God, that’s a bit rich, isn’t it? Anyway Arthur died after dinner rather than
during it and he was hardly in the full of his health.’ ‘More or less what I told him,’ replied the Master, ‘but no doubt he’ll keep going on
about it for a while. Thoroughly unreasonable chap, the vice-chancellor.’ Augustus was sensibly abstemious during dinner, but further down the table his fel-
low faculty members were being less cautious. By the time they retired to the senior common room, Hamish was in roaring form. There was a point on Hamish’s drinking curve when he would inevitably start singing. He passed that point just before dessert and had now reached his second level: singing and playing the piano. The entire canon of Flanders and Swann was in Hamish’s repertoire, along with several profoundly less reputable compositions. He was just launching into the “Hippopotamus Song” when Ge-orge Le Strang interrupted.
‘You play and I’ll sing.’
‘Go, go George. I’m with you,’ said a delighted Hamish. ‘ Boue, boue, boue glorieuse, Il n’y a rien comme elle pour refroidir le sang 8 … ’ Ge-
orge delivered the entire rendition of the aforementioned tune in French. As the applause settled down, Hamish stood to announce the next song.
He started thumping the top of the piano in a primal rhythm. ‘This is a little song called the “The Reluctant Cannibal” from Flanders and Swann’s
second album. In memory of our dear departed friend, Arthur.’ Hamish then launched into the song, taking both vocal parts himself, delivering a remarkable impersonation of the original performers.
Seated one day at the tom-tom ,
I heard a welcome shout from the kitchen:
‘ COME AND GEEEEEEEEEEET IT! ’
Roast leg of insurance salesman!
‘ I don’t want any part of it! ’
What? Why not?
I don’t eat people .
Hey?
/>
I won’t eat people .
Huh?
I don’t eat people .
I must be going deaf!
Eating people is wrong .
The dazed chaplain then walked into the senior common room. He had been woken up a few minutes earlier by the barman at the Bear and sent on his way as it was now well past closing time. Charles Pinker stood in stunned silence looking on a room full of Oxford dons all singing about cannibalism. He slumped into a chair, consoling himself with the thought that even the worst nightmare doesn’t last all night, and he would soon wake up in his bed and the world would have been restored to normality.
*
Down in the cellars of St Jerome’s, a bottle of ’52 Château Margaux slipped from the racks and disappeared into the dark solitude. It was as quiet as a graveyard down there, but if you had listened hard you would have heard the faint sound of laughter and someone humming snippets from Flanders and Swann’s songs. 7 A character in the Satyricon , an ancient Roman work by Petronius, whose will required his leg-atees to eat him on his death if they wished to share in his inheritance. 8 Better recognised in English as ‘Mud, mud, glorious mud. There’s nothing quite like it for cool-ing the blood.’ Flanders and Swann’s masterpiece clearly rhymes better in English but is enjoy-able in every language and was even recorded in Russian.
Chapter 18
The following morning, Charles Pinker did indeed wake up in his own bed with abso-lutely no recollection of how he got there, but otherwise none the worse for wear. On opening his eyes, he became aware of some faint, grotesque memories of singing and an image of a punt foating in his mind. As with most dreams, the more he wanted to remem-ber the more these images slipped away. He went over to the window, which was nestled in the roof of Old Quad, and threw it open, pulling cold clean air from the bluest of skies into his lungs. At the moment of maximum inspiration he paused in wonder at the beauty of the world, and then he remembered. Arthur was dead. Slowly the air – warm, damp and now merely secondhand – escaped from the chaplain. Despite Arthur’s garrulous ec-centricity, Charles felt a huge emptiness now he was gone.
The Reluctant Cannibals Page 14
