Last Bus to Woodstock by Colin Dexter Page B

hour to spare. He poured himself a gin and vermouth and sat back in a faded armchair. He thought he liked Felix Tompsett – the old sod! Certainly he ate too much, and drank too much and, if many-tongued rumour could be believed (why not?), he had done a lot of other things too much. But he was a good ‘college man’; it was on his advice that the college had bought up a lot of property in the early sixties and his understanding of interest rates and investment loans was legendary. Odd really, thought Bernard. He finished his gin and shrugged into his gown. Preprandial sherry would be flowing in the Senior Common Room, and the two friends made their way thither.
    ‘Well, Bernard! How are you, old boy?’ Felix’s smile beamed a genuine welcome to his old colleague. ‘Can’t grumble,’ replied Bernard lamely.
    ‘And how’s that lovely wife of yours?’
    Bernard grabbed a sherry. ‘Oh fine, fine.’
    ‘Lovely woman.’ Felix mused on. He had obviously begun to celebrate his own commemoration with premeditated gusto, but Bernard couldn’t match his bonhomie. He thought of Margaret as the conversation burbled around him . . . He tuned in again just in time to laugh convincingly at Felix’s discovery of a recent inscription on the wall of the gents in the Minster bar.
    ‘Bloody good, what?’ gaffawed Felix.
    The party moved next door and sat down to the evening’s feast. Bernard always felt that they had far too much to eat, and tonight they had far, far too much to eat. As he struggled his way through the grapefruit cocktail, the turtle soup, the smoked salmon, the tournedos Rossini, the gateau, the cheese and the fruit, he thought of the millions in the world who had not eaten adequately for weeks or even months, and saw in his mind the harrowing pictures of the famine victims of Asia and Africa . . .
    ‘You’re quiet tonight,’ said the chaplain, passing Bernard the claret.
    ‘Sorry,’ said Bernard. ‘It must be all this food and drink.’
    ‘You must learn to take the gifts the good Lord showers upon us, my boy. You know, as I get older I must confess to the greater appreciation of two things in life – natural beauty and the delights of the belly.’
    He leaned back and poured half a glass of vintage claret towards his vast stomach. Bernard knew that some men were naturally fat – all to do with the metabolic rate, or something. But there were no fat men in Belsen . . .
    But whatever other confessions the good chaplain may have been about to divulge were cut short by the toast to Her Majesty and the clearing of the Principal’s throat as he rose to his feet to begin his encomium of Felix Tompsett. They had all heard it all before. A few necessary alterations in the hackneyed, hallowed phrases – but basically the same old stuff. Felix would be leaving holes in so many aspects of college life; it would be difficult to fill the holes . . . Bernard thought of Margaret. Why not leave the bloody holes unfilled . . . One of the foremost scholars of his generation . . . Bernard looked at his watch. 9.15 p.m. He couldn’t go yet. Anecdotes and laughter . . . Bernard felt pretty sure they would all be reminded of that incident when a disgruntled undergraduate had pissed all over Felix’s carpet two years ago . . . Back to the academic stuff. Top-of-the-head. Phoney . . . His work on the Elizabethan lyric poets . . . why, the old bastard had spent most of his time doing first-hand research on the historic inns of Oxfordshire. Or with the women . . . For the first time Bernard wondered if Felix had made any overtures to Margaret. He’d better not . . .
    Felix spoke well. Slightly drunk, amiable, civilized . . . quite moving really. Come on! 9.45 p.m. The presentation was made and the company broke up by 10.00 p.m. Bernard rushed out of college and ran through the Broad to St Giles’, where he found a taxi immediately. But even before the taxi stopped, he saw some movement outside the darkened house. His