The dessert was a sublime souffé with a perfectly crusted top. The diners were still admiring their individual dishes when the servers came around with small jugs and mini-ature glass funnels which they placed into the top of the souffé and then poured in a mixture of Chartreuse and molten dark chocolate. It was a dish for which it was impos-sible not to close one’s eyes after the frst mouthful. When the eyes reopened a small glass of a port-like wine had appeared as if by magic in front of them. Myles Holohan took a cautious sip while the other diners waited for his reaction.
‘Banyuls: brilliant, quite brilliant choice.’ Mr Holohan raised his glass in a toast. ‘Gentlemen, this is the science of gastronomy raised to the level of an art form.’
The other diners raised and sampled the almost inky red L’Etoile Banyuls in their glasses. The lingering complex favours of the souffé exploded into exotic fruit when this much-neglected red dessert wine reached their taste buds.
After the last morsels of the chocolate and Chartreuse souffé passed his lips, Augus-tus turned to Mr Rhymer, trying to engage the remarkably taciturn medium in conver-sation. He had barely spoken a word after introducing his oyster dish, though Augustus understood that attending a dinner after the death of one’s host had placed Mr Rhymer in a diffcult position.
‘A fne spirit, this green Chartreuse; don’t you think, Mr Rhymer?’ ‘Indeed, but I must say that there are far stronger and more erudite spirits within this
very room.’
Augustus found himself looking to the sideboard to see what other liqueur bottles had been laid out before Mr Rhymer clarifed his meaning.
‘Spirits that have never graced the inside of a bottle, Dr Bloom.’ The strange compelling intensity of Mr Rhymer’s voice had drawn to a close all other
conversation around the table, a fact that did not escape the medium’s attention. So rais-ing his voice, Mr Rhymer addressed the whole table.
‘Gentlemen, this room, this occasion and the tragic recent death of Professor Planta-genet have created a spiritual vortex the like of which I have never encountered. Forgive my lack of polite conversation, but I have been deafened by certain spirit voices that are clamouring to be heard. I understand that the professor died suddenly. Although his heart was known to be weak, he passed on without his dearest friends being able to say a fnal farewell and with one unanswered question. I am sure that there are people in this room that would like to have a fnal word with Arthur, because he is here in this very room waiting for us to contact him.’
‘Like a séance? Excellent idea,’ said Hamish without a moment’s thought. ‘I see that one of our number, the chaplain, is temporarily missing,’ continued Mr
Rhymer in a voice that was becoming increasingly hypnotic. ‘This is an auspicious mo-ment because nine is a far more spiritual number and I sensed a certain negativity to my profession from the chaplain over dinner. Shall we begin?’
Before anyone could offer a sensible objection, the table was cleared of all the plates except the chaplain’s souffé, which Mr Rhymer asked to be left as an offering at the centre of the table with a glass of the Banyuls. Mr Rhymer rose to bring over the sil-ver candlesticks that had been standing on the sideboard. All the serving scouts had the good sense to leave the room unbidden before the doors were frmly closed. The diners were then asked to join hands.
‘Repeat these words after me,’ instructed their medium. ‘Our dear departed Arthur Plantagenet, we offer you these gifts. Commune with us, Arthur, and show us a sign of your presence.’
There followed a nervous silence, broken only when Mr Rhymer began chanting again.
‘Commune with us Arthur and show us a sign.’ These words were repeated slowly over and over again until all the diners had joined in. Then came the knock.
‘Is that you, Arthur Plantagenet?’ chanted Mr Rhymer. Two rather muffed knocks came from the centre of the table. Then Mr Rhymer convulsed and fell forward onto the table. The circle of hands held frm while the diners watched and waited. Then Mr Rhymer sat up as if pulled by strings, a different looking man than the one that had slumped forward a few seconds earlier.
‘Gentlemen, I told you it would work.’
These words emerged from the medium’s mouth, but with every nuance and vowel it was Arthur Plantagenet.
‘Augustus, dear chap, don’t look so stunned. Fine job on dinner though, I would have certainly fancied tasting those martini oysters. Looked much better than that oyster and Laphroaig creation we came up with last year.’
With these last words all hope of trickery on the part of Mr Rhymer vanished. He could not possibly have known about the last oyster dish they had served up at the start of the ill-fated dinner of Trinity term last year. Augustus fnally managed to speak.
‘Arthur, I, well… we have something to ask you.’ ‘Ask away, dear boy, I have all the time in the world. I’ll be dead for quite a while
after all.’
‘Well before I ask it, remember that there are guests in the room and not just members of the shadow faculty.’
‘For God’s sake, Bloom I’m dead, not blind and stupid! And I know what you want to ask and the answer is yes.’
Such a perfectly Plantagenet-esque reply confrmed the veracity of this apparition, at least to the four members of the shadow faculty around the table.
‘Yes?’
‘Yes, I did mean what I wrote in my will, and no it doesn’t break any laws, so I think you have to get on with it. If you don’t I’ll never be able to properly join the spirit world. It’s a big thing here this crossing over.’
‘Don’t worry, Arthur. We will do as you ask,’ said an ashen-faced George Le Strang. ‘Oh, y-y-y-yes,’ stuttered Theodore, suddenly reverting to his childhood handicap. ‘Arthur, it’s Hamish and it’s great to hear you again and God we miss you around ‘I knew I could trust you. I see Charles isn’t here; just apologise for my dropping in
on him a while back and tell him he’s not going crazy.’ In the corridor outside, straining to hear through the closed door, the chaplain
slumped to the ground in a combination of relief and shock and leant heavily against the door, which suddenly opened. Augustus and Chad Zimovic both let their grip loosen as they turned involuntarily to the door. The circle and moment was broken and Mr Rhymer let out a strangled cry before collapsing onto the table. Dr Altmann leapt to his feet and rushed around to Mr Rhymer’s chair but by the time he arrived, the medium was already starting to rouse.
A stiff brandy was forced on Mr Rhymer and whispered comments began to be shared amongst the guests. The chaplain took his seat and Augustus pulled the souffé and glass of wine back to their original place in front of Charles. Rather sheepishly, the chaplain stuck his spoon into the souffé only to have the entire thing collapse. Flipping up the crusted lid, the contents seemed to have vanished. Charles caught Gerard’s eye and another stiff brandy was delivered to the table. The almost immediate arrival of the cheese and port was a true blessing. All the diners were far happier talking about cheese than they were trying to acknowledge what they had all just experienced.
Once the port decanter had completed its last circuit, the guests and dons dispersed into the night after the strangest dinner that the shadow faculty had ever hosted. The chaplain crossed the quad to the chapel, carrying with him one of the still-lit candlesticks from the table. When he reached the chapel he continued up the stairs to the organ loft. Placing the candlestick beside him, he settled down on the wooden seat, closed his eyes and lost himself in a trance of pure Bach. The music echoed around the building, the quad and the cellars below, the melodious air rushing through the low C diapason pipe swept over Arthur’s surviving corporeal remains. Despite the fact that all the doors and windows were closed, a gust of wind emerged out of the darkness and blew out the candles. The Reverend Pinker played on in total darkness, more at peace with the world than he had been for a considerable period of time. 9 Death claims us all; it is the natural law, not a punishment. 10 Des
pite its curious name, a dirty martini is merely one made with gin and a teaspoon of brine from a jar of olives.
Chapter 28
Every member of the shadow faculty of gastronomic science was altered in some way by the events at the end of that Hilary term. For Augustus, the impact was certainly the most rapid, the consequences appearing within hours of the séance. In the molluscan version of roulette played by every lover of oysters, there are inevitable losers. The oyster’s diet-ary habit of scooping up detritus from the ocean foor is decidedly less selective than the humans that are fond of eating them. On this turn of the wheel it was Augustus who lost. He was pulled awake in the small hours of that April night by the unavoidable visceral sense of impending gastric emptying. He staggered to the sink in his room with beads of sweat emerging on the back of his neck and waited for the inevitable. It would be a while before Augustus would willingly tuck into an oyster again.
For the others, the effect was profound but somewhat slower. Each of them withdrew into their personal, familiar routines assisted by the onset of the Easter vacation. The most notable outward change was that visits to the chapel became a far commoner occurrence for the faculty members, often at the most peculiar times. This change in behaviour was not due to an increased intensity of religious feeling brought on by the séance, but rather a greater respect for Arthur’s mortal remains. Arthur had clearly set his sights on com-pleting the great gastronomic experiment, so they each took it upon themselves to keep a close check on Arthur’s leg for fear of putrefaction. If the curing process failed, the ex-periment would fail. The reader may consider this an entirely honourable escape for the faculty. Indeed at one time, before the séance, this would have been true. Charles Pinker for one would have leapt at this chance to avoid the moral turpitude of coerced cannibal-ism. The séance had changed everything. Failure of poor Arthur’s great experiment might prevent him from crossing over properly and leave him in spiritual limbo in perpetuity. Worse still was the prospect of further ghostly manifestations of Arthur’s trapped spirit. A thwarted ghost, particularly one as irascible as Arthur Plantagenet, roaming the quads and staircases of the college, was not a prospect that any member of the shadow faculty of gastronomic science relished.
As well as taking care of the physical state of Arthur’s leg, each member of the faculty would take time to commune with their departed friend. These conversations in the quiet of the secret room above the organ served a valuable therapeutic role for all of them. The one exception was Augustus, who spoke to Arthur from the comfort of his own rooms as Arthur’s ashes remained on his mantelpiece. The truth is that the fellows rather enjoyed these conversations. For the frst time each could tell Arthur what they really thought
without fear of interruption or correction.
With a sudden run of a few clear days in the week before the start of the new term, Augustus decided it was time for the shadow faculty to reconvene. There were other obligations laid upon them by Arthur’s will, which might prove easier to swallow. So for the frst time since the séance, the fve surviving members of the declining dining society met together in Augustus’ rooms. Although the memory of Arthur Plantagenet and recent events had rarely left any of the members’ minds in the last few weeks, his name had never left their lips. When two or more of them met, the conversation was jolly but inconsequential with everyone hoping that noone would raise the topic just yet. Events as unusual as those of the previous term must be decanted with care into one’s memory, letting the distressing sediment settle far from the conscious mind and leaving a reassuringly clear supernatant on top. After such an intense experience, an unexpected discussion could wreak as much havoc to the natural process of re-equilibration of the human mind as shaking a bottle of fne wine while it is being decanted. But it was now time for the faculty to face their responsibilities and memories.
Augustus had arranged for Gerard to bring tea and sandwiches to ease the awkward-ness of the task in hand. The table was already laid out with a spread of Earl Grey tea, cucumber sandwiches and cakes. It was not the exotic or ground-breaking spread they usually aspired to, but met the needs of the occasion perfectly. So well in fact that half an hour later, Augustus felt guilty about raising his spoon to force the conversation to the intended topic. By the third clink on his now empty teacup, the room fell silent.
‘Gentlemen. If I can have your attention, it seems that we still have some unfnished business to attend to.’
To a man, not one of them received Augustus’ gaze, preferring to examine remnants of their sandwiches, empty teacups or the cake crumbs on the carpet between their feet. ‘First of all we have to fulfl one of Arthur’s last wishes to have a portion of his ashes deposited in the Cherwell within a truffed turkey. I thought a picnic outing on a punt
might ft the bill.’
‘Oh, yes, defnitely,’ chimed up Charles Pinker, delighted that Augustus had started with one of Arthur’s simpler legacies.
‘Thank you, Charles. I assume you would think up a suitable form of service for the occasion?’
‘Oh, indeed. Not a normal sort of event of course but I could get a few suitable words together, I’m sure.’
‘George,’ continued Augustus, ‘I was hoping you could provide the truffed turkey?’ ‘Oh, yes, of course, Augustus. I’d be delighted,’ replied George. ‘And Theodore, could I ask you to arrange the punt?’ ‘Certainly, Augustus. What day are we thinking of?’ ‘I thought Saturday lunchtime would be good if the weather holds.’ I could arrange the drinks if you like,’ volunteered Hamish who had grown increas-
ingly nervous as the tasks had been allocated. In his mind, the images of ramming Ar-thur’s ashes up the rear end of a turkey were proving deeply unsettling.
‘I’ve been working on a brilliant new summer cocktail. Might be the perfect occasion for its frst run out.’
‘Thank you Hamish, that would be excellent.’ Augustus rose to his feet and picked up the urn on the mantelpiece. ‘That just leaves Arthur. I’ll make sure he gets there on time for once.’
*
As the day of the picnic approached, each took to their appointed tasks with relief, grate-ful that the more time they spent in preparation, the less time there was for refection on the plight that Arthur had bequeathed to them all. Augustus had already taken posses-sion of the wind-up portable HMV gramophone that Arthur had left him, along with an extensive collection of 78s. Augustus had allotted himself the task of locating the best preserved and most appropriate discs of Gioacchino Rossini’s music for the event. He was planning the faculty’s picnic as a re-enactment of a scene in the life of the famous composer. Rossini had once been reduced to tears by the accidental loss of a truffed turkey into the waters of the river Seine during a picnic trip. It was therefore only ft-ting that Arthur should sink beneath the waters of the Cherwell River to the sound of Rossini’s music played on Arthur’s own gramophone. A few test playings suggested that the needles were far from their prime and the only playable Rossini recording in Arthur’s collection was a scratchy version of the William Tell Overture . So Augustus headed off in search of new gramophone needles and the more challenging task of loc-ating a playable version of Rossini’s Stabat Mater on an old 78.
Hamish McIntyre was eminently suited to his task of bringing the libations. He could merely have visited the wine cellars, but Hamish had a different plan – to unveil his Pimmtini. The entombing of a person’s ashes within a truffed turkey and dropping them into a river was a unique event in gastronomic and possibly human history, an event that could only be adequately honoured with the invention of an entirely new drink. The invention of a new drink, like any invention, frst needs some knowledge of the topic lest the inventor creates the unusable or merely reinvents the obvious. This knowledge Hamish could certainly claim from an extensive practical experience on the subject of alcoholic drinks. The second requirement is that inexplicable spark of imagination. This spark had come to Hamish one morning as he lay under the covers contemplati
ng the misery of college rooms in winter. Examining the faint clouds of moisture coalescing in the cold air from his warm breath, a vision of summer warmth in a chilled glass emerged fully formed in his mind. He had closed his eyes to savour the moment when the ima-ginary drink touched his lips. Hamish knew it was a masterpiece just waiting to be de-livered to a suitably appreciative audience.
For George Le Strang, locating one of the principal dramatis personae for the outing, a truffed turkey, was no simple matter. These birds were an erudite culinary creation even at Christmas and at the start of summer almost unheard of as fresh truffes were not in season. Fortunately, black truffes can be preserved with moderate success and Ge-orge pulled out all the stops. Within no time he had succeeded in arranging for the Savoy in London to send up a pre-cooked truffed turkey on the appointed day. Although not expressly requested, he also took it upon himself to bring certain other culinary treats for the picnic.
When the Saturday came, Mr Potts knocked on the door of Augustus’ rooms just after ten o’clock. The fragrantly scented bird had arrived on the early train from London.
‘’Ere you are, sir.’
‘Thank you, Potts. Pop it on the table there.’
Potts cast an eye around the room, which was stacked high with napkins, glasses and cutlery from the senior common room parlour.
‘Anything else you need, sir?’
‘Oh, I think we’re almost there, you couldn’t give me a hand packing this lot into these cases could you?’
‘Certainly, sir.’
After a few minutes, the tableware was neatly packed into two wicker hampers and Potts headed down the stairs with them. As soon as Potts had left, Hamish burst in with a large stainless steel box from which seeped a white fog-like vapour.
‘What in God’s name is that, Hamish?’ asked Augustus. ‘The ingredients for my new creation. It’s going to be great, just you wait.’ ‘What is it?’
‘A surprising and totally new drink. If I say so myself, a brilliant one.’ ‘Doesn’t it just come in a bottle?’
The Reluctant Cannibals Page 22
