12 Meditations on Transcendental Gastronomy; theoretical, historical and topical work, dedic-ated to the gastronomes of Paris by a professor, a member of several literary and scholarly soci-
Chapter 40
Mary Frances woke early, as was her custom. After reading for a while, she wrote a long letter to an old friend in London whom she hadn’t seen for years and took a fancy to visit before heading back to America. She may never get the chance again. It was not quite seven o’clock in the morning by the time she had exhausted the recreational possibilities of her small room, so she decided to explore the college again. Augustus had conducted a brief tour yesterday but she wanted time to relish it on her own. Mary Frances had, in her later years, grown very fond of quiet moments. She would go to the Met in New York just before closing and fnd an empty gallery to sit quietly in a vacant attendant’s chair. Her advancing years allowed her to take such liberties, and taking liberties was one of the few perks of age she did enjoy. She would remain in the settling silence until fnally ushered out, allowing her to amble through deserted galleries as if they were her own.
The college at this hour had that same serene feel as an empty art gallery. The grassy quadrangles were free of the celebrating fnalists soaked in four and champagne that she had seen the day before. The croquet hoops sat empty and unused. Dark shadows and honey-coloured glints highlighted the curves and crevices of the stone walls. Dew re-mained on the feshy leaves of red geraniums in the still-shadowed window boxes. As she traversed a passageway between Old Quad and Chapel Quad the unwelcome sound of voices intruded into her meditative wander. In a few more steps the source was apparent. The leather chairs sitting incongruously on the grass were flled with young men drinking tea with plates stacked high with toast. Others were sitting on the backs of the chairs and others still were standing in groups. They were surrounded by bookcases and a standard lamp stood at a precarious angle, its lead plugged into the grass. She wandered over for a better look, trying to second-guess the nature of this strange gathering. She still seemed invisible to the strange and insular group of young men who inhabited this college. The snippets of conversation she could grasp seemed bizarrely normal, ranging from a ball-by-ball discussion of last weekend’s cricket match, to plans for a punting trip later that day. When she drew near, Mary Frances saw a young lady in a pink nightdress lying in a bed, handcuffed and chained to the ancient but solid square lead drainpipes. All sense of charm evaporated immediately to be replaced by outrage. Then the young lady screamed at the assembled crowd in a most un-ladylike manner.
‘Okay, you bastards, you’ve had your fun. Now get me out of here.’ Kingsley-Hamp-ton tried another futile attempt to dislodge the chain from the drainpipe. ‘You do realise who my father is, don’t you? I’ll have you all arrested for this. Especially you, Jenkins, I’ll get you deported to the colonies.’
‘Will you really? For what crime?’ called Gareth Jenkins over his shoulder. ‘For the worst crime of all, being a fat Welsh git!’ ‘You know what, Roger,’ said Jenkins to the man in the chair opposite. ‘It’s a damn
shame there weren’t any daffodils still around this time of year.’ With that, he kicked off his shoe and pulled off one of his socks. Walking by Mary Frances he gave her a polite nod of acknowledgement and went over to the bed.
‘Now you should watch your language, Kingsley-Whatsit, there’s a real lady present,’ and he stuffed the dirty sock into Kingsley-Hampton’s mouth.
‘Could I offer you a cup of tea?’ Jenkins turned to Mary Frances with a huge smile and a wink.
‘Oh… why not?’ replied Mary Frances.
‘Come on lads, where’s your manners? Offer the lady a seat.’ *
The phone rang on Inspector Granger’s desk.
‘Granger,’ he barked into the phone.
‘I’ve got the inspector of anatomy on the line, sir,’ said the girl at the switchboard. ‘From the Home Offce in London.’
‘Excellent. Put him through… ’
*
An hour later, Mary Frances and Augustus were sitting in the small café in the covered market where he and Arthur used to meet and put the world to rights. Martha fnally ran out of fat surfaces to wipe with her damp grey cloth and so came over to take their or-der.
‘Yes, love?’
‘Two full breakfasts, with tea please, and could you bring the tea straight away?’ ‘Two breakfast and tea,’ she shouted across the café then wiped the already clean
table with the dirty cloth. Mary Frances recoiled slightly, her American sense of hygiene deeply troubled by the smears left on the table. She picked out a paper napkin from the chrome dispenser and dried the table in front of her.
‘So what do you think?’
‘Of this place?’ Mary Frances panicked in trying to hide her inner cultural crisis. When Augustus had suggested the café in the covered market for breakfast she had pic-tured a gleaming white and chrome diner. Instead there were yellow net curtains, curling linoleum, ashtrays flled with cigarette butts and Martha’s bacteria-laden cloth.
‘Well I meant Oxford, really.’
‘Oh Augustus, Oxford is simply divine. Bizarre, dysfunctional, but divine.’ ‘We English prefer the term eccentric.’
‘Well this morning was certainly an eye opener. Does your English eccentricity cover chaining apparently unwilling transvestites to their beds in the middle of the… what do you call them… quadrants?’
‘Quadrangles. And as for our friend in the pink nightdress, that was just a bit of harm-less fun.’
‘Dare I ask what he had done to deserve such a fate, Augustus?’ ‘Oh, we’ve had a few problems with that particular young man, but I’m not sure quite
how he upset the boat club so much.’
‘Mind you, they were perfect gentlemen to me.’ Mary Frances caught Augustus’ eye for a moment before continuing. ‘Has it ever occurred to anyone that excluding women may be bad for the mental health of the students?’
‘Bad for them? Why on earth would it be bad for them?’ ‘Tea,’ Martha said as she banged a large blue and white striped teapot and two cups
on the table.
‘Oh Augustus, you defnitely need a woman to sort you out.’ ‘Are you offering your services?’
‘Me?’ Mary Frances laughed. ‘Heaven forbid, no. But I might just give you a good shove in the right direction.’
‘I need a good shove?’
‘Oh, defnitely. Now I’ll pour the tea and you’ll tell me all about this gastronomic dining society.’
‘Goodness, where should I start?’
‘At the beginning will do nicely. There you go.’ Mary Frances handed over a cup of tea and sat back in anticipation.
‘Well, it all started a few years back with a truffed turkey George Le Strang had sent over from Paris. You’ll meet him at dinner. Can be a bit standoffsh, but a good chap when you get to know him. Well, your good friend Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savar-in’s name came up in the course of this dinner.’
‘I would expect no less in such academic company.’ ‘Indeed, and as many of us were well-versed in his writings and similarly gastronom-
ically inclined, we all agreed with him that gastronomy should be granted proper aca-demic status. So there and then we decided to found a shadow faculty of gastronomic science which would remain in existence until we could convince the university to set up a proper faculty.’ 13
‘What a marvellous idea. I’m sure Jean Anthelme would have been delighted. So who’s in this secret gastronomic faculty of yours?’
‘Well there are only fve of us left now but we started with nine.’ My goodness. How on earth did you lose so many?’ ‘Three have died and one had to leave after breaking one of the rules.’ ‘Three dead? Well you know Brillat-Savarin died only two months after La Physiolo-
gie du Goût was published. You don’t think there might be a curse on the poor man that has affected your dining club too?’
‘Not at all. I don’t believe in
that sort of superstition. Do you?’ Though boldly spoken, Augustus felt a strange prickle down his neck as he uttered these words.
‘Oh no, just teasing.’ Mary Frances smiled and squeezed his hand across the table. ‘So why not get a few new members? Couldn’t I join rather than just be your guest?’
‘Well unfortunately we set it up with a rather tightly worded constitution. So all mem-bers must be members of the college and we’ve no mechanism for electing new mem-bers or it seems changing the rules.’
‘Why that’s plain silly.’
‘Perhaps a little short-sighted, but there was a lot of absinthe involved in the inaug-uration.’
‘So your faculty will just fade away to nothing. Then where will gastronomy be?’ ‘Well this dinner tonight might change all that. You see our constitution says we will
disband once the university founds a faculty of gastronomic science. Do you remember that I wrote to you about Arthur who died last term of a heart complaint? Well he’s left an endowment for a professorship in gastronomy. The vice-chancellor will be there to-night to receive this legacy, so you might be witness to a momentous night in the history of gastronomy. Not that we exactly see eye to eye with the vice-chancellor after a certain Japanese diplomat died last year at one of our dinners.’
Mary Frances, looked understandably alarmed, but the question she was dying to ask hung silently on her lips.
‘Fugu. He insisted on preparing it himself. Terrible shock to us all,’ Augustus ex-plained.
‘Should I update my will before dinner?’
‘Oh, I think you should be safe enough tonight. Nothing poisonous on the menu this time. Talking of which, I’ll need to abandon you for a good bit of the day.’ Augustus glanced at his watch. ‘I’m really sorry but I’ve a few details to sort out today in rela-tion to tonight’s dinner. Is there anything you’d particularly like to see around Oxford? I could point you in the right direction at least.’
‘I hear the Ashmolean Gallery is a nice place to wander around, so that will keep me entertained for a good while and I’ve been told by the hosts of this morning’s tea party that I must see the shrunken heads in the Pitt Rivers Museum. That should fll the day nicely. What time do you need me back?’
‘I’ll collect you from your room at say, six thirty this evening?’ And with that, two plates of England’s fnest breakfast spread arrived on the table
along with a bottle of HP sauce. Mary Frances looked at the plate with a certain suspi-cion.
‘It is important, Mary Frances, in appreciating the fner points of gastronomy not to forget the simpler pleasures of eggs, meat, offal and grease,’ said Augustus, deftly stack-ing a small column of egg white, bacon and black pudding onto his fork.
*
Charles Pinker and Hamish McIntyre were waiting in the senior common room for Augustus. The stark reality of what they were about to do in the name of gastronomy and under the legal obligation of their former colleague was now unavoidable. Until this mo-ment, the whole affair had seemed reassuringly abstract. They now faced the decidedly concrete issue of bringing Arthur’s fnal contribution to gastronomy from the organ pipe to the kitchens for its fnal preparation.
‘Charles, it’s gone twelve o’clock. Looks as if we are doing this by ourselves,’ said Hamish pacing the foor.
‘Where on earth has Augustus got to?’ asked Charles. ‘It’s not like him to be late. Do you think anything has happened to him?’
‘Chickened out, most likely. Come on, let’s get it over and done with,’ said Hamish rising to his feet and stuffng a roll of muslin that had been left on the sideboard into his pocket.
The pair made their way across to the chapel. Charles Pinker was by far the calmer of the two. The remarkable conversation with God of a few weeks past was still etched in his mind and was the source of his current serenity. For Hamish, this had all been rather a lark until today. Once inside the chapel, Hamish made a rapid search for unwanted guests while Charles wandered up to the altar. When this meeting had been arranged, Hamish had been allocated the task of watch duty and Augustus was supposed to be get-ting Arthur’s leg. No specifc part in this enterprise had been given to the chaplain but he had expressed a wish to be present and so he was.
Once Hamish had satisfed himself that they were alone he started up the stairs to the organ loft. He paused by the organ to catch his breath before proceeding through the concealed door. When he reached the small room above the organ itself he went down on his knees to peer into the pipe and locate the rope, from which Arthur’s leg was suspended – no easy task in the pale light fltering through the louvred opening above. When he did fnally manage to pull the leg out of the organ pipe, the dim light that had proved such a hindrance became a blessing. The leg looked far less disturbing than he had remembered from his last visit when he had thought to bring a torch. Hamish lifted the leg to his nose for a fnal sniff of reassurance that the curing process had completed its magical transformation.
‘Not bad,’ muttered Hamish making his way down the stairs and folding the leg in muslin as he went, leaving the spirit of Arthur Plantagenet who had been watching from above, apoplectic in outrage at this meagre description of his great sacrifce to gastro-nomy.
*
Augustus had, in fact, arrived back at St Jerome’s in good time to assist in the removal of Arthur’s leg but got no further than the lodge. A policeman was standing just outside the gates when he arrived, a man Augustus recognised from his last visit to the police station. Unfortunately the recognition was mutual.
‘Dr Bloom, just the man. I’ve been waiting for you,’ said the young policeman. ‘Really? Well what is it this time?’ Augustus said, his heart registering a greater sense
of fear than his voice.
‘The inspector needs you down at the station.’
‘Again? I thought we sorted all this out. Can’t this wait until tomorrow?’ ‘I’m sorry, sir, if you’d like to come with me?’ The policeman placed his hand under
Augustus’ upper arm as a signal it was time to leave. ‘Oy, hands off,’ cried Potts, appearing from inside the porter’s lodge. ‘Sorry Dr
Bloom. I told him he couldn’t come into college without a warrant but he insisted on waiting for you outside.’
‘It’s okay, Potts,’ said Augustus smiling at his would-be saviour. ‘Offcer, the thing is I have an important dinner tonight and a guest who has come all the way from America. So just let the inspector know that I’ll be down at the station frst thing tomorrow morn-ing.’
‘Dr Bloom, if you won’t come voluntarily I’ve been instructed to arrest you,’ said the policeman, eking out another inch of height from an already substantial frame and placing his free hand on the leather pouch containing his handcuffs.
‘On what charge?’ said Augustus defantly.
‘Breaches of the 1832 Anatomy Act with respect to the illegal handling of dead bod-ies, sir. Now, do you want to do this here or at the station?’
‘Perhaps we should head down then,’ said an ashen-faced Augustus. ‘Will this take long?’
‘That all depends, sir.’
‘On what?’
‘On the inspector.’
13 For a more complete description of the founding and early history of the shadow faculty of gastronomic science, please see the appendix.
Chapter 41
It was well past fve o’clock in the evening and the Master was fretting about two things. Firstly, ffteen down. Irreversible botanical fow, fve letters. Something H something E. He hadn’t failed to complete a Times crossword by dinner time for over twenty years so this last unsolved clue was extremely galling. Secondly, Dr Ridgeway the vice-chancellor was due that evening for dinner. This required him to make a speech and be civil to the vice-chancellor. Making speeches was something the Master could do effortlessly and with a little preparation. Being civil to Dr Ridgeway was something that no amount of preparation would make any easier, so the knock on the door did nothing to improve his mood
.
‘Enter,’ he shouted.
‘Sorry to disturb you, Master.’ Hamish’s head appeared around the door. ‘We’re just setting up the cocktails out in the garden here and, er… ’
‘And?’
‘Well, I’d appreciate your opinion on the taste.’ The rest of Hamish emerged from behind the door carrying a Victorian etched-glass tumbler glinting green and gold as it passed through a shaft of light from the window.
‘What is it?’
‘A departure from our usual martini variants. I’m trying to capture the essence of a summer evening with this new twist on the mojito.’ Hamish placed the glass in the Master’s outstretched hand and continued talking.
‘I’m still tweaking the balance of favours, but I got this fantastic old white rum from Bewick’s in London and I hope you don’t mind but I’ve used one of the ’59 Bollingers. A bit extravagant for a cocktail, but it is a tribute to Arthur after all. I’ve had the herbs grown for the occasion by that chap Benson in the Botanical Gardens, Arthur’s old friend.’
As he spoke, the Master had lifted the glass to admire the kaleidoscopic effect of the crushed ice, herbs and golden liquid. Then he raised the glass to his nose and inhaled as wave after wave of different aromas hit his olfactory organs, and fnally he took a sip.
‘As well as the white rum and the normal mint I’ve added lemon thyme and basil, lime juice, sugar, Angostura bitters, and topped with the champagne.’ Hamish com-pleted his description while the Master’s eyes were still closed and waited for the ver-dict.
‘Exquisite Hamish. You are completely wasted in academia.’ ‘Any suggestions? Are the basil and thyme too dominant?’ ‘No, I think it’s perfect.’
The Reluctant Cannibals Page 31
