“Indeed, Master.” And why you’ve summoned me here. But that can wait. “There seems to be no record of the Feast’s origin, or why it is necessary to continue it to this day. A Founder’s Feast…but there is no name of the Founder.
“A mystery. Your college is nothing like the All Souls of Oxford, or indeed any other Cambridge College where the history of the founder and the role of the college can be traced back to religious reasons.”
Searles merely smiled. Phil continued.
“And the Founder’s Feast…the choice of meat for the main dish…well, taking into account the college’s medieval origins, that’s understandable. But why is the carcass of the consumed boar ceremoniously marched through the grounds of the college? Why are the remains buried in the centre of Old Court?”
“Tradition, Mr Lotson. Purely and simply a matter of tradition. As the boars are no longer available in the woods that grew on the site of the college, an organic smallholding in Thetford provides our meat yearly. Boar flesh is no longer the delicacy it once was, but this supplier has succeeded in raising animals that come extremely close to the original beasts that were once prevalent in primeval European forests. Its taste is quite distinct from most people’s experience of wild boar flesh.”
Phil asked for the address and website of the smallholder and made a mental note to ask some questions. Perhaps see some footage of these unique creatures growing up, see what resemblance they had to this thing that Rob claimed was in his van this morning. Jim said it was all ash and charred bone - until it blew away…
The Master handed over a business card with the details of the smallholding. “Are you quite all right, Mr Lotson? You seem a little pale.”
“Yes…fine. Ate too much for breakfast, that’s all. Please, continue.”
“Very well. It seems an eccentric tradition, bestowing upon a dead, half-eaten animal a funeral with honours that only a human being would enjoy. But participating in this ceremony is a…singular experience. A sense of purpose overcomes you. When you help carry the beast to its final resting place you feel that you are honouring it, thanking it for its sacrifice. It dies so that its flesh may give you life. It’s the way the original enactors of the ritual must have felt.
“No other academic institution in the world venerates such a tradition. We believe it adds a unique charm to All Souls, distinguishes us from the other Cambridge Colleges. As such, a ritual that we feel duty and honour bound to respect, and continue.”
Phil stroked his beard. “Charm” was not the word he would have used for such a bizarre ceremony. Respect and continue?
“And so, it keeps the past alive?”
Searles nodded. “Most definitely. You need to understand the origins of the foundation and the boar’s association with the annual Feast to appreciate the ritual.
“The college has a wild boar’s head as its crest, as does Queen’s - but that particular college, one of our illustrious neighbours, earned it through its association with Richard III, one of its major benefactors. We have it for far older reasons.” The Master was watching him intently now. There was no trace of the fear and anxiety that plagued him earlier. It had drained from him, as easily as Phil drained his Scotch.
The Master poured him another without asking.
“All Souls stands on old ground, Mr Lotson. Very old ground. It was a college of learning even before the refugees from ‘the Other Place’ set up home here.
“No trace of the original building has survived. Very little is known of the college’s purpose, the scholars who studied there. Or even what those studies consisted of. It is understood that the site of the college was situated in a small oak wood, the remnants of which survive to this day. Some of the older records referred to the existence of an institution known as Drunemeton.”
“Or Nemeton,” Phil was conscious that he said the word too quickly, too eagerly. “Nemeton being the Latin term for sacred grove.”
“Yes,” the Master sighed scornfully. “Druidism. Of course, the Celtic priesthood died out long before religious colleges were introduced, but because ours was built on a site that had some connection to a druidic centre of learning, All Souls has long suffered an association with a barbaric priesthood. Ridiculous, really. Whatever was studied in the college before All Souls was founded was most certainly not druidic lore.”
“You must admit, though, the evidence of a direct link is there.” Phil told himself to calm down. He was starting to babble, over-excited. “Your own, living tradition of the Feast.”
“In what way, Mr Lotson?” Searles smiled condescendingly.
“Burial of the boar…it shows a remarkable similarity to one of the fertility rituals practised by the Celts. Mixing the flesh of the boar with seed corn and then burying it in the fields to promote fertility.
“The boar was certainly a sacred animal to them,” Phil continued. “It was treated with reverence, awe, because of supposed magical properties.”
“A beast that linked this world to the Otherworld. I know my mythology, Mr Lotson. But I’m afraid I’m going to have to disappoint you if that is the approach you wish to use for the inclusion of All Souls in your book.” Searles shook his head.
“Really, Mr Lotson, you should know better. The tradition was there before All Souls was founded because wild boars were scarce at this time. The development of a riverside port into a thriving medieval city meant the woodland in which the boar thrived was no longer available. And on the day the foundation stone of All Souls was finally laid - the twenty-first of December, 1299 - a single boar was seen running through the woods. The first seen for decades. It was hunted, killed and eaten at the feast to mark the founding, and its remains buried in a patch of ground that was to become what we know today as Old Court.”
“But some were uneasy with this. A pagan act committed on the day a Christian college was founded, dedicated to God.”
“Indeed. The new college’s reputation suffered. All Souls had difficulty attracting new scholars. Those who did put the superstition behind them naturally enough found nothing untoward in the college, and pursued their studies with religious devotion. But they were few and far between. Which explains why we remain one of the smallest colleges in Cambridge. Of course, the Tripos diversified: there were more subjects to study. The college grew, but never thrived.” There was sadness in his voice.
It wasn’t surprising. Phil knew that there was suspicion from the other colleges, who could never accept that a college performing a pagan ceremony was granted statutes to establish it as an official and legally recognised centre of Christian teaching. But most of the suspicion, which turned into outright hostility, came from the townsfolk.
“The ‘Black School.’” Searles was reading his mind. “A label invented by superstitious townsfolk that stuck for centuries. Stories of devil worship, necromancy, all sorts of superstitious claptrap; that was what All Souls was known for in spite of its eminent academic reputation. Throughout its history, there has always been a section of the community that wished to see All Souls burn.” He sighed. “1381 - the Peasants” Revolt - if it hadn’t been for the quick actions of the militia, it would not have been just the University records in Great St. Mary’s Church that burned. Then 1799…the “Divine Judgement’, as the Master of Christ’s college called it.”
Phil nodded slowly. 1799. The year All Souls was almost destroyed completely, without human hands.
There was anger in Searles’ voice as he continued. “It is incredible, some would say scientifically impossible, that a stone of that size didn’t create a larger explosion. This, for many, is proof that it was a warning: a judgement from God rather than a desire for total oblivion.
“The meteorite hit the library in Cloister Court. Many were killed in the terrible conflagration that ensued, including the Master, Charles Harvey. A tragedy: in both human terms as well as financial and material. It took many years for All Souls to recover, to rebuild. But the college endured. It could never shake off i
ts tragedy, but all involved were certain that it would never happen again. Meteorites, like lightning, rarely strike in the same place twice. However…”
“One man, seriously disturbed. Taking the place of a…heavenly missile. Thank God he was stopped before he caused any damage.”
The Master rubbed his eyes wearily.
“It wasn’t God we owed our thanks to. It was the quick thinking of our head porter that prevented his son causing a disaster.”
“But God was the reason this young man gave for his attempt to destroy All Souls. He saw himself as the second Divine Judgement, a human incarnation and punishment for the past “sins” of this institution. And the supposed continuance of them.” Phil saw that Searles” eyes were red and swollen when he replied.
“Jason Franklin is an extremely unbalanced individual. His father will vouch for that. If you can get him to talk about it.”
Phil’s eyes gleamed. This was it. A direct link with the head porter, John Franklin. Now he was getting somewhere. He noticed the annoyance in Searles’ eyes.
“Please do not think for one moment that John Franklin will ever discuss this matter with you, an outsider. He feels very bitter and angry about that night, even blames himself for it.”
Ah. Better tread carefully here.
“How long has John Franklin been head porter at All Souls?”
Searles stroked his chin thoughtfully. “It feels like he has been here forever. It is hard to imagine All Souls without John Franklin. My understanding is that he took the role of duty porter in 1985 soon after he was discharged from the Army. He took to the job straight away, and became head porter in 1990 when the previous holder of that title, Dennis Vaughan, died in his sleep at the age of eighty six.”
“Franklin has a military background, then?” That was news to Phil.
“Yes, 3rd Parachute Regiment. An…honourable discharge after the Falklands campaign.” Searles’ eyes glanced downwards. Phil picked up on the lie straight away and made a note to pursuer that further. Franklin left under a cloud. Curious…
“And he came here? Why’s that?”
“He’d been a student of All Souls in the 1960s. A degree in economics and politics, and then Sandhurst for officer training. He always said he’d return. All Souls was in his blood, he once said…”
“His son, Jason Franklin, must be in his early twenties now. What can you tell me about him?”
Searles took a deep breath. “Very little, Mr Lotson. Suffice to say that he was the physical result of a whirlwind romance with a barmaid from the Radegund Arms that ended badly. The child was taken into foster care at the age of six due to domestic problems, amid signs of increasing mental instability. His mother wanted nothing to do with him. It seems that walking through the college, when his father allowed Jason to shadow him and learn his duties, had an adverse affect on him. He read too much, soaked up too many lies. He claimed to see and hear things. Voices, whispers, faces crawling out of the wall…as I said, it was the first signs of his paranoid schizophrenia, and it exacerbated the domestic strife at home.”
Domestic problems? That was news as well. The mother never came forward after Jason Franklin’s committal last year.
Domestic strife…wonder if that means Franklin beat his son, taking out his anger at the embarrassing behaviour with physical violence? He looks the sort of man who would turn to that as the first resort.
And an ex-Para, a Falklands veteran…a dishonourable discharge? Phil opened his mouth to speak but the Master raised a hand.
“Please, no more on this subject. Franklin has confided in me alone about his son, but he doesn’t wish others to know. I’m sure you will respect his right to privacy when you write this section of your book.” Searles regarded Phil steadily. “I really hope you will resist the temptation to sensationalise this sad affair. The damage attempted on All Souls was the result of a mentally disturbed young man acting out his tortured fantasies. A tragic affair, one we are all deeply affected by. The media treated everyone concerned abominably. I trust you will have more discretion and respect.”
A reasonable request, spoken by a man saddened and distressed. He looked tired, as if the effort of retelling the All Souls story had drained him. Searles raised his glass to the window, examining the whiskey. The red sun dying through the windows turned it a brilliant colour, gold and scarlet. He drained it, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It felt like an age before he opened them.
“Perhaps I can give you a tour, Mr Lotson.”
The air was colder than it had been when they stepped out of the porch way. The day was dying and the temperature dropping further as a result. Rob’s dog had his nose pressed against the windscreen of the Transit, whining. Phil patted the dented bonnet of the van as he passed.
They walked along the gravelled driveway towards Cloister Court, the only sound in the silent clearing the crunching underfoot of frosted gravel chips and snowflakes.
Phil looked at the frozen oak trees, finding it hard to believe that just a few hundred yards beyond them there was a bustling road, thick with cyclists and cars. Life. It felt that the wall of trees had not just blocked them from view but had swallowed all sound as well. An ancient barrier: cutting the members and visitors of All Souls off from the twenty first century.
“How old are those trees exactly? When we drove through them earlier it seemed they were positively ancient.”
“Those oaks? Older than the college,” the Master replied, buttoning his overcoat. “The trees in the centre of the copse were fully mature even before All Souls was founded.”
Phil pondered this. “They present difficulties for vehicular access, don’t they?”
The Master halted. He turned and stared thoughtfully at the oaks. “Indeed. We tried to tarmac the path to make it easier for cars and commercial vehicles to access, but low lying roots and stumps still provide obstacles. One of our Fellows ruptured her fuel tank as she wandered from the track last week on a stump that we thought had been cut away. It seems that all efforts we make to provide access through the wood are thwarted by the very trees themselves. So, following a revised risk assessment, the College Council determined that all vehicular access is to be made via Trinity Street.
“Of course, with the present road works and the restricted access times, it makes life awkward for those with cars. And vans.” Searles looked back to the parked Transit. He paid close attention to the dented bonnet.
“Tell me, Mr Lotson. How long have you known those delivery men from Granta?”
The question took Phil by surprise. “Rob and Andy? Since they started their history degrees at Anglia Ruskin in the 1990s.”
“They’re graduates?” The Master frowned.
“Rob is…just. Andy was forced to abandon his degree in the first year. A real shame. He was one of the best students I’ve come across, would’ve had a fine academic career if he hadn’t been forced out.”
“Forced out.” Searles looked thoughtful. “Yes, I recall Franklin telling me about this…individual. Fifteen years ago. And now he’s back. Why?”
Phil thought carefully before answering.
“Spending Christmas with Rob, I believe. They were good friends many years ago, I believe they got in touch with each other on Facebook…” he rambled on, wondering why he was lying on Andy’s behalf.
“I see,” Searles nodded before walking ahead. They continued along the gravelled driveway through Cloister Court.
The Master knew he was lying - if anything, David Searles would have a better understanding for Andy Hughes’ presence in Cambridge than Phil. But he didn’t press the issue. Perhaps that’s another test, Phil thought as they approached Old Court. They turned into a gateway on the left hand side of the Court, a wide spaced alley that cut a swathe through the frowning structures. The doors were open and the Great Hall of All Souls swallowed them.
Phil’s breath exploded from his lungs. Now he knew what breathtaking really meant.
The cold cl
unch stone exterior gave no clues as to what to expect. He’d seen pictures of the Great Hall before, in the college’s prospectus and various university architecture text books. Impressive even then, but no picture could do full justice to the effect the Hall had on a first time visitor seeing with his own eyes.
The interior was astonishing. Not just because of its cavernous size - one hundred metres long, forty metres wide, thirty metres tall - but because of the richness of decoration. They stood on brightly varnished floorboards which gleamed with reflected electric candlelight. Phil looked up at the chandeliers. Yes, fake candles, but pretty convincing.
In the centre of the Hall were five trestle tables, backed by heavy oak dining chairs. The floor consisted of marble tablets that portrayed the arms of the University, golden lions rearing from a red background quartered by a white cross. To the left was a huge Tudor fireplace underneath marbled mantle tiles. The grate was clean and gleamed blackly. The walls were covered in rich, exotic wallpaper with flowing patterns of red, cream and gold to give the impression of medieval tapestries. Arched, transom windows with tracery that wouldn’t be out of place in the finest Gothic cathedrals reluctantly allowed the dying sunlight to seep through the blue and red stained glass.
At the far end of the Hall was a screen, carved in oak in a Neoclassical style: wooden columns with gilt flourishes supporting an impressive, yet oppressive triangular portico. In the centre was a gilded carving of a boar’s head, the eyes blazing scarlet.
My God! Rubies for eyes! Phil’s jaw dropped lower. The precious stones glared down at the two men, a guardian angered by this unwarranted intrusion into its domain.
The screen surmounted a raised plinth which stretched from one end of the Hall to the other, providing a dais for the long table below. This was High Table, where the Master and Senior Fellows would sit, facing the five lower tables as they consumed their meals in superior isolation. Academic equivalent of being above the salt, and just as medieval, he thought.
The tables were already set and laid with silver cutlery that gleamed in the electric light and nestled on red leather placemats. Normally for Formal Hall, Phil thought, the weekly occasion when all members of the college, Fellows and undergraduates, would sit and dine together. All Souls was one of the few colleges to make this compulsory.
The Caretakers (2011) Page 11
