*
It was two o’clock in the morning when Arthur awoke, gulping air as if emerging from a deep dive. Once he had flled his lungs with as much life-restoring oxygen as they could plausibly hold, he managed to rise from his bed and make his way to the window. His heart was leaping in his chest, beating out an erratic syncopated rhythm. He looked out to the quad, drinking in each familiar detail. A sudden peace and clarity of purpose came over Arthur, along with a premonition that he wouldn’t see the dawn of this day and the thought that the memory of this view may have to serve him for a very long time. Then from deep within his abdomen came an odiferous, beery belch. The thought that he might leave this world with his body dominated by the uninspiring scent of hops flled him with a sudden terror.
He had spent the last few weeks in a discreet but determined campaign to soak his body in the best combination of favours and spices. Salt is the other important compon-ent in preserving meat and so Arthur had committed himself to a diet that combined all three of these elements. To maximise his salt intake he had been consuming prodigious quantities of Fortnum and Mason’s anchovy relish on hot buttered toast. Following his doctor’s advice he had been dining on the fnest and rarest food he could lay his hands on all term. This just left the herbal infusion as the last component of his plan. He had settled on a combination of chartreuse and sloe gin, the former for the secretive combin-ation of one hundred and ffty herbs and the latter for taste.
Unfortunately, his night of excess with pints of bitter had put this great plan in signi-fcant peril. Convinced that dawn would rise on his inanimate corpse and wishing to pass on with some dignity, Arthur slowly pulled his gown over his striped pyjamas. He had no time to lose. To ensure that at the moment of his death he had the optimal combin-ation of alcohol and favours, there was only one reasonable plan of action. He decided at that moment to contract at least a week’s worth of preparation into one last frenzy. He collected a few essential items into his shopping bag: his favourite silver goblet, a bottle of green chartreuse, a bottle of sloe gin and a corkscrew. These items were essential to Arthur’s plans as the hour of his death approached.
He started by downing a whole jug of water in one continuous gulp. With all the other requirements he could muster from his room, he headed towards the college wine cellars by way of the toilets. Stage one was to get rid of as much of the common attributes of an evening’s consumption of beer. When he reached the cellars he headed for the small chamber directly beneath the chapel. After a few spoonfuls of anchovy relish his thirst was beginning to return. He set out the bottles of chartreuse, sloe gin and the fne wines he had collected over the last few weeks as part of his grand plan; the best offerings of Château Lafte, Latour and Petrus.
If he had been mistaken in his premonition, the assembled volume of alcoholic bever-ages in front of him would surely mean that this prophecy would be fulflled. In a strict cycle he drank, with indecent haste for such fne drinks, a goblet of each. Each glug was punctuated with the occasional spoonful of anchovy relish to maintain his thirst. Stead-ily he moved ever closer to the next realm of existence. It was almost half-past six in the morning by the time the silver goblet slipped from his fngers. Arthur’s eyes closed but the beatifc smile remained on his lips. Never has a man faced his fnal demise with such equanimity.
*
Augustus woke early on the back of the promise he had made in the pub the previous night to coach the novice VIII that contained his own student, Patrick Eccles, at the po-sition of stroke. By quarter to seven he was in the lodge, with seven of the crew mem-bers, in the bitter cold of a dark and freezing November morning. One of their number was dispatched to pull the cox and the last rower from their beds. The cox fnally ap-peared in an understandably dishevelled state along with the young man who rowed at number six position, Oscar Wainwright. While none of the crew looked athletic or in-deed even sober from the night before, they were at least keen. The one exception was young Mr Wainwright who trailed at the back of the pack as they ran down St Aldgate’s towards Folly Bridge. Augustus was slowly freewheeling down the hill behind them as Wainwright stopped to lean against a wall. He appeared to be examining his shoes in some detail but then vomited over them. Pulling up just behind him, Augustus silently watched as he wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve. It was then Wainwright no-ticed Augustus watching him.
‘Oh God, I’m sorry Dr Bloom. I’m not sure I’ll make it as far as the river, let alone be able to row.’
Even under the dim illumination of the streetlights, Augustus could see the sweat al-most freezing on the young man’s forehead.
‘You go back. I was thinking yesterday I’d like to get back in a boat sometime. So now seems like a good time.’
‘Oh thank you so much, Dr Bloom, and tell the guys I’ll be there tomorrow for sure.’ Augustus had rowed in St Jerome’s frst VIII when he had been a student, but that was more than a few years ago. As Augustus picked up the pace on his bicycle to catch
the rest of the crew, he started to have doubts as to whether this was such a good idea. At the boathouse, when he announced that he’d sent Wainwright back to college on
doctor’s orders, there was almost a riot with multiple threats of violence and not an iota of sympathy for their missing crewmate. As the frst of them turned to head back to col-lege, Augustus made his suggestion.
‘I could fll in.’ Seeing only puzzled looks, Augustus pressed on. ‘I did row in the frst VIII as a student so I could row with you today and coach at the same time… ’
There was an uncomfortable moment as the suggestion sank in. It ran against the normal separation of students and fellows, but with Christchurch regatta drawing ever closer, a novice crew couldn’t be choosy. To Augustus’ great relief, Patrick Eccles was the frst to break rank.
‘Great, so let’s get the boat out.’
The racing VIII is a curious craft. Implausibly long but barely two feet wide with a draft of a few inches and no keel. Its hull is so thin that if you stood on it your foot would go straight through. If the crew all got in without the oars in place, the boat’s centre of gravity is so high and the stability so low that the whole lot would be upside down in the river within seconds. It is a challenging craft at any time, especially for a novice crew in a state of disrepair. Augustus wasn’t dressed for the occasion, but the rest of crew were little better. Novice VIII’s are typically drawn from those members of a college that don’t usually partake of any other sport and so naturally have little or no sporting attire in their wardrobes.
Augustus locked his oar into the gate, and, holding each edge of the boat for balance, put his feet into straps before lowering his body onto the sliding seat. Although he was quite trim by the standards of the fellows, he was positively obese compared to the rangy students, most of whom, like Patrick Eccles, were freshmen. He cautiously slid the seat backwards and forwards, delighted that the extra padding that had gathered around his hips in the intervening years didn’t catch the sides of the boat. Seeing the ineptitude of the rest of the crew in simply getting into the boat, Augustus relaxed. However rusty he was, he couldn’t be worse than the rest of them.
The boat eventually teetered out into the stream, slopping from port to starboard with the boat looking as drunk as the crew. Augustus, growing in confdence, decided to put some structure on the morning’s outing. After all, they were not on the river to entertain other crews and scare ducks, but to row. Starting at the bow pair, Augustus had them balancing the boat in pairs while the others had the novel experience of rowing the boat in a balanced state. Just as Augustus was beginning to enjoy the sensation of the boat skating along the surface of the water, the stroke caught a crab with the oar being trapped under water at the end of the stroke. After he had recovered his oar, they slowly took off up the river to the Iffey locks, rowing through the narrow curved part of the river affectionately referred to as the gut as the sun started to rise over the water meadows.
By the end of the outing th
e whole crew, Augustus included, were convinced that the only thing now between them and racing glory was the intervening days. Even the wet and exhausting process of lugging the boat out of the water didn’t noticeably dent their spirits. Augustus hadn’t felt this good for years and happily lagged behind pushing his bike as the animated and babbling group headed back up Dodgson’s Walk in Christch-urch Meadows. Just as they reached the road, Patrick Eccles trotted back towards him.
‘We’re all heading for breakfast in hall, sir, would you like to join us?’ ‘Thanks, I’d be delighted, but I might need a bath frst.’ ‘Not at all, we’ll stink together… Not that I mean you stink, sir, well… ’ Augustus smiled as he gallantly saved his student from himself. ‘Patrick, I’m sure I stink more than the lot of you put together, but I’m starving so
hygiene can wait.’
*
After breakfast Augustus retired to his rooms and a bath that was urgently needed not for hygiene but to relax his aching muscles, which had started seizing up when he raised himself from the benches in hall after breakfast. He was relaxing in the bath with a cup of Lapsang Souchong tea when the door was rattled on its hinges by an insistent knock that could only be Mr Potts.
‘Potts, is that you?’
‘Sorry to bother you, sir, it’s Professor Plantagenet. ’E’s ’ad one of his turns again.’ Potts shouted through the closed door.
Potts was still waiting at the door when Augustus yanked it open, dressed but still steaming from the bath as he hit the cold air on the staircase.
‘Gerard found ’im down in the cellars sir. ’Ad bit of a session. Testin’ lots of bottles, it seems.’
‘Is he all right?’
‘Well I can’t imagine ’e could be any worse, to tell the truth.’ The pair launched themselves down the stairs of the wine cellars, Augustus barely
needing to be told where he’d fnd Arthur. As they approached the old wooden chair with the crumpled form of Professor Plantagenet, Augustus could tell even in the gloom that this was no simple alcoholic stupor. Arthur’s grey form was surrounded by a grave-yard of bottles. Augustus knelt down and felt for a pulse.
Chapter 11
Augustus slowly walked around the fountain of Triton that stood in the front courtyard of the Radcliffe Infrmary and was glazed with the frst frost of winter. Modelled on Gian Lorenzo Bernini’s statue of Triton that stood in Rome’s Piazza Barberini, Oxford’s ver-sion was at the cold epicentre of the city, and during winter the fountain could be frozen for weeks on end. He paused for refection, thinking of the last time he was in the real Piazza Barberini. It had been a summer evening with Arthur on their tour of the ancient sites of Rome. He remembered a meal they had taken in a small trattoria near the Piazza, a fne Barolo with a simple but sublime pasta puttanesca, but it seemed to be a memory from a different lifetime. Now even fve days seemed a long time ago. It had only been that long since Potts had hammered on his door with the news of Arthur. It was natural enough for Mr Potts to have come to fnd Augustus on that fateful morning. Augustus was, after all, the medical tutor, but it was a long time since he had been at what might be called the ‘coal face’.
Augustus had never quite come to grips with hospitals and the three years he’d spent as a medical student on the wards had not been the high point of his life. His obvious discomfture around sick people had led to the advice of a career in pathology or per-haps radiology from his medical mentors. Though neither involved much contact with sick people, they would still have involved Augustus spending most of his working and hence waking hours in a hospital. When the option of the alternative life in research and working as a college tutor had arisen he had leapt at the chance. As he entered the en-trance of the hospital for the frst time in over ten years, the air trickled up his nostrils and within seconds the unique aroma of the building had brought back a torrent of memories. He paused at the porter’s desk to ask for directions to the offce of Dr Reginald Pierce.
Compared to the more sumptuous accommodations on St John’s Street where Dr Pierce catered for his private clientele, his offce just off St Aloysius’ ward was a small, cramped affair with an oak war-issue desk whose surface was invisible under a shanty town created from high-rise piles of papers and medical charts. Augustus knocked on the door, which in response rattled perilously on its hinges. As his hand reached the knob, the door was suddenly pulled from his grasp and he was standing face to face with the
incongruously dapper Dr Pierce in a green Donegal tweed three-piece suit, polka dot bow tie and stethoscope wrapped over his shoulders like a fox wrap.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Augustus Bloom, we spoke on the phone.’ Augustus’ hand was still suspended in the air at the point at which the door handle had been pulled away and Dr Pierce now grasped it in a vice-like shake.
‘Augustus, of course, delighted, delighted. Just going on rounds, tag along, we can have a chat en route.’
The pair headed down the corridor to the sound of Dr Pierce’s shoes click-clacking on the polished foor. White-coated students appeared from corners and doorways to co-alesce into a line that straggled behind.
‘He’s done remarkably well, all things considered. Have to say I didn’t think he’d make it past the frst couple of days,’ said Dr Pierce.
‘I didn’t think he’d made it at all at the start, but he’s a strong character.’ ‘Strong? I think stubborn is closer to the truth and he’s a bloody fool to boot. As soon
as he could talk he was refusing the treatment that saved his life and complaining about the food.’
Augustus smiled in sudden realisation that his friend was most certainly on the road to recovery. Pierce struck on down the corridor towards the bed of his most ungrateful patient. On entering the ward, the straggling parade led by Dr Pierce was joined by the ward sister. Pierce took his place at the foot of the bed and busied himself with the ob-servation charts of his patient’s blood pressure and fuid balance. The ward sister tutted volubly as she bustled aside the one eager medical student who was standing in her ap-pointed position. The rest of the students jostled for position, most trying to be as far away as possible without looking as if they were trying to dodge questions, which of course all but the swottiest were. On this occasion the unusual element of this ritual dance was the patient who was certainly feistier than normal.
‘So Professor, how are you feeling this morning?’ said Dr Pierce, once he had satis-fed himself that all was in order with the charts.
‘Hungry and thirsty, as you bloody well know, Pierce.’ In the interests of their future careers the students all fought to suppress any reaction
to Arthur Plantagenet’s comments.
‘Well, clearly our patient is improving. Now anyone like to offer a suggestion as to why this gentleman who was admitted with complete heart block and cardiac failure is on a fuid restriction and low salt diet?’ Dr Pierce looked around amongst the gaggle of students for a willing volunteer or, better still, an unwilling victim. Just as he was about to take aim on the particularly bored-looking medical student trying to hide his six-foot frame behind the short but wide ward sister, Arthur took charge of proceedings.
‘Augustus! Good God, man, have you changed sides and started roving the wards again?’ Before Augustus could speak, Arthur was starting to move his legs around to get out of bed, but Dr Pierce was quick to intervene.
‘Now Arthur, that’s fne just as you are. Let’s loosen that top and listen to this heart of yours.’ Dr Pierce had Arthur’s pyjama top opened in a second. With a frm hand on his shoulder and the cold metal bell of the stethoscope on his chest, Arthur was pinned back to the bed. When he tried to speak he was sharply shushed by his physician. As no-one had done that to Arthur for at least forty years, he was stunned into silence. The stethoscope was lifted only to be replaced by Dr Pierce’s broad spread-out hand over the left side of Arthur’s ribcage. A deferential silence fell on the proceedings until the verdict was passed.
‘Seems to be
back in sinus rhythm, a little blowing mitral regurgitation but the apex is still displaced due to his dilated cardiomyopathy and heart failure.’ Dr Pierce’s house offce nodded sagely at these words. The nodding motion spread through the assembled gaggle of medical students like a congregation rising to stand in church.
‘Is that good?’ asked Arthur.
‘Well it’s better than it was. Sister, did you get an ECG done today?’ The heart recording was delivered up for inspection. Dr Pierce ran his fnger between
the various small squiggles on different parts of the page. ‘Still in heart block but only frst degree.’
‘Nothing but the best for me, Pierce,’ said Arthur proudly. ‘Yes, well you came in almost dead in third-degree heart block, which isn’t so im-
pressive.’ Dr Pierce turned to Augustus.
‘Well done for getting him here so quickly Augustus. You almost certainly saved his life. Having done it once, you might be able to do it again. Do you think you can talk our dear professor into taking my advice?’
Augustus found himself smiling and shaking his head at the same time. ‘Arthur isn’t one to take advice, he prefers giving it. You may have noticed that.’ ‘Well, it all hinges on him losing weight. That will reduce the strain on his heart
enormously. But he also needs a pacemaker as the next turn like this could be his last. Of course he has refused so I’ll leave you the job of talking some sense into him. Come to my offce later and let me know how you got on.’
With that, Dr Pierce turned on his heels and led his entourage off down the ward to the next patient, who he hoped would be closer to the grateful reticent type he preferred. Augustus looked at his friend and lifted his eyebrows to silently ask the question that had been asked of him.
‘Well, what do you expect Augustus? All you medical types are the same, you don’t know when to stop meddling.’
The Reluctant Cannibals Page 8