BY STEPHEN PAX LEONARD
Reggie stabbed at the bell. “Mrs Daddywood!”
“Morning, Mr Reggie. There is a letter here for you, pet. I’ll be there in one sec.”
“Oh rather, let’s be having it,” said Reggie as he concealed the Hendrick’s and cucumber behind the Edwardian ‘plum pudding’ mahogany centre table. Reggie was still a tad squiffy after last night’s escapade at the Ath., but nonetheless still had his head in a book. He reached for the silver letter opener knife.
“Oh, what fun. Old Alfie has invited me to Encaenia!”
“Ensignia, what is that then, luv? Sumthing to do with Navy?” asked Mrs Daddywood as she dusted the demilune table.
“It is a jolly good knees-up held at The College of All Souls of the Faithful Departed (that is All Soggers to you and I, Mrs Daddywood) where they hand out honorary doctorates to the devilish lucky few. You know, just as the lollipop ladies get the OBEs, the Mozarts of this world have honorary doctorates conferred on them from the University of Oxford. The ceremony has not changed a jot since 1669. Sub-fusc and a clear head shall be required, Mrs Daddywood.”
A few days of anticipation elapsed, which Reggie spent stretched out on the sofa, slumbering in the sunshine whilst reading Kafka’s The Trial.
Beyond the “Emperor Heads” and kitted out in their finery, Alfie and Reggie took up their pews amongst the bubbling colloquy in the Sheldonian. The theatre was a pleasant sea of scarlet and crisp consonants. Outside, the Bedels and Proctors armed with maces and staves processed around the Rad Cam in funereal fashion. Inside, the honorands double-checked nervously the top buttons of their shirts and triple-checked the zips on their trousers.
Gaudeamus Igitur.
“Oh, bravo, we are off,” chuckled Reggie into Alfie’s ear. “Can’t beat a spot of the vernacular, can you?” laughed Reggie as he prodded his old school chum. “It’s Latin!” said Alfie as he raised an eyebrow and rolled his eyes in disbelief. Soon realising that the Latin puns about the achievements of some famous cellist or other would be lost on him, Reggie’s mind turned instead to the forthcoming luncheon at the Cod’. What might be on the menu, he wondered? Orkney scallops with celeriac Wellington? Or would it be steak au poivre with black truffle shavings? All washed down with a glass or two of Puligny-Montrachet? A tad bored after hearing qui honorabuntur for the umpteenth time, Reggie yawned luxuriously and started to survey the baroque auditorium in search of a right looker. The cellist aside, it was a lost cause. His gaze settled instead on a grumpy woman sat on the front row with a turned-down mouth. She had a face like a smacked bottom, and wore a solemn personality made for a Requiem Mass. Reggie poked Alfie, who was clearly engrossed in the oratio. He had read Greats at Brasenose after all.
“Don’t you recognise that miserable looking dear sat next to the famous cellist?” whispered Reggie in Alfie’s ear.
“By Jove, it is that bloody Merkel woman…” responded Alfie. “What on earth is she doing here?” Alfie and Reggie shared a glance of shock and horror. Incredulous, Alfie rifled through the programme: “Angela Merkel to be awarded a Doctorate in Law in recognition of her leadership and contribution to international relations.” “What an absolute scandal! What next? Are the Norwegians going to confer a posthumous Nobel Peace Prize on Idi Amin?” grumbled Alfie.
It felt like a bad joke, but nobody was laughing. Not least the German people, whose entire country was at sixes and sevens thanks to Merkel’s preposterous policies. She stood accused of swamping that nation comprising the finest bratwurst-loving automobile engineers with millions of faux-engineers set on creating a parallel society. Otto and Matilde wanted Mutti to face charges of treason, and here she was being awarded with yet another dubious gong. And so the ceremony continued:
Proxima nostra honorata est Angela Merkel, olim Cancellaria Germaniae, quae magnum contributionem ad res internationales contulit.
With an air of exhaustion, Merkel shook hands with the Chancellor. Suddenly, the guests looked as lugubrious as she did and offered a half-hearted applause. A bit more doffing and pageantry, and soon the guests and honorands processed out of the Sheldonian and made for the Codrington Library, where the dons used to play cricket before things got a trifle more serious.
The Cod’ was just as Reggie remembered: that fine coffered ceiling, the polished black marble floor and the vaulted cellars. There was only one difference since his last visit. The benefactor’s portrait had been removed. He had fallen foul of the perverse zeitgeist. All these curious self-defeating behaviours had been normalised, and even the glorious anachronism that is All Souls had to play along.
Reggie perused the luncheon menu with sheer delight. “Oh, how splendid. They have opted for the Chalk-stream trout, pancetta & spring vegetable fricassée.”
“Terrific,” said Alfie under his breath, searching instead frantically for the seating plan. “Oh, there is the damn thing.” His eyes scanned the Smythson iconic Nile Blue featherweight paper in the manner of an undergraduate trying to find his Final Honour Schools results in the Gazette.
“Good heavens, they have sat you next to that bloody Merkel woman!” gasped Alfie.
“Meine Güte, well, I never!” bleated Reggie. “It must be one of the Warden’s jokes!”
Then, the gong was struck and the guests were escorted to their seats. Grace was read by one of the Examination Fellows:
Réquiem ætérnam dona eis, Dómine:
Et lux perpétua lúceat eis.
Requiéscant in pace. Amen.
Reggie and Merkel exchanged a few pleasantries. Reggie did his level best to raise the sombre gloom parked next to him, but soon realised it was a lost cause. Kafka flashed through his mind.
“What do you say, Ms. Merkel? Should Germans be proud of those who are not proud to be German?”
“Herr Reggie, Germans can be proud to be a diverse and inclusive nation.” Reggie stifled an enormous yawn and, despite not having finished the first course, broke etiquette and swivelled to his right, where sat the delightful cellist. Blonde locks practically bounced off her naked shoulders.
“I say, it is awfully good to meet you. My name is Reggie.”
Stephen Pax Leonard is a writer, linguist, traveller. His book Noble Sentiments for an Exile and Other Writings has been published and is now available here.