Dean Spanley Page #6

Walter Arthur Graham. Wag Spanley.

Before my time,

but my father knew him at Oxford.

But tell me, why are you so intent

on plying him with Tokay?

Well, it has to do with...

one of the major tenets of your religion.

Bat and pad together

when playing forward?

- Reincarnation, actually.

- Don't go in for it myself.

I mean, I'm not going to do

much better next time round, am I?

This innings will do me nicely.

Reincarnation is all right for the masses.

Gives them something to look forward to.

About the Tokay, look in the cellar.

Galsworthy will show you.

There's all sorts down there.

Wouldn't be surprised

if you found the odd case of Tokay.

Don't like it myself.

Last time I drank it,

I dreamt I was a monkey.

Thought the funny bugger might have

a dozen hanging around.

Should be more than enough there to get

the old boy back to when he was a pup.

My father used to have a dog

when he was a child. Name of Wag.

You know, I've been thinking.

Lady I know, in the thespian way,

thought we might give her

a bottle of the Imperial.

Lovely girl.

Lot of fun when she's tight.

I think for that to be significant,

you'd have to suppose two things,

neither of which are improbable.

One, that the dean's mum and dad knew that

he'd previously been your father's pooch,

and two, to commemorate the event,

decided to incorporate his doggy name

into his Christian name.

It may look like a boat but it doesn't float,

as my Aunt Molly used to say.

And why would I want

to have dinner with a dean,

let alone one

who believes in reincarnation?

Because you're always complaining that

I neglect you on my evenings with Spanley.

I thought you'd like to come with us.

Wrather will be there. You remember him.

The conveyancer... from the lecture.

Can't say as I do.

It must be here, this gathering.

Certainly not at that rickety place of yours.

- Can Mrs Brimley cook for four?

- She can make more of her hotpot.

Father, we are having

a Shevenitz-Donetschau '79.

And I do not think the hotpot,

sustaining though it may be,

is quite the precursor for a '79 Tokay.

Damn fuss over fermented grapes.

What is this all to do with?

The dean, the Tokay, this dinner?

If I were to tell you, Father,

you would not believe me.

In that case, don't tell me.

I don't believe in enough things already.

Well, it won't be the hotpot,

that's all I can say. Ha!

I'm not serving hotpot to a dean.

I could do the navarin.

With the sorrel and cucumber soup

to start.

Or maybe leek and potato. What your

father calls the Vicious Swiss soup.

Either would be most welcome.

Mrs Brimley, do you remember

my father's dog, Wag?

And for dessert... profiteroles.

I think it was a spaniel.

My choux pastry is too good to be eaten,

if I say so myself.

Wag? No, not really.

I remember it run off, though.

What a to-do that was.

Like a death in the family.

Upset him ever so.

Why didn't he get another,

I asked him once. Know what he said?

That Wag was one of

the seven great dogs?

- Oh. I see he talked to you about it.

- Mm-hm.

Maybe profiteroles would be too heavy

after the lamb.

Raspberry and gooseberry fool.

Whatever you decide, Mrs Brimley,

I'm sure will be splendid.

- A '79?

- Yes, indeed.

Really, my dear Henslowe,

you are a man of remarkable resource.

Oh, it's not I

who provided this trove, sir.

My father, whom I believe

you have met before.

Yes, I believe I do recall.

I was rather hoping that he might join us

for our next evening together.

I see.

- And your friend.

- Wrather. Mr Wrather.

Wrather, yes.

I have the strangest feeling, you know,

after our last encounter,

that I know Mr Wrather.

Perhaps from a previous life.

- I was not always a dean, you know.

- No?

No. I was in accountancy at one time.

A dismal business,

at least in the regions where I toiled.

And you feel like

you met Mr Wrather then?

Yes, it's possible.

Or perhaps it's his being a colonial.

One often feels one has met them before.

So... can I hope for your company

this Thursday?

I do feel only your palate

can fully appreciate a '79.

A '79. What splendours.

A bottle of the '79.

Three bottles.

Best to let sleeping dogs lie,

- if you know what I mean.

- Yes, I know what you mean.

What if he recognises your father,

licks his hands?

That could be damned embarrassing.

Pygmy judge, old man. Pygmy judge.

So there we were, on our holidays

in this cottage on the shore of Windermere.

Wonderful spot to get some reading done

and I was availing myself

of the tranquillity to do just that.

This fellow here, young Fisk,

and his brother

were out on the lake in a rowboat.

Storm came up.

One minute it's all

"I wandered lonely as a cloud",

the next it's blowing hell's bells

and howling like a banshee.

Mrs Fisk, she comes in,

wringing her hands.

"Our boys," she cries at me,

"They're out on the lake. "

You have no idea how taxing it is

to be dragged out of a book

in which you are thoroughly engaged.

"You must do something, Horatio,"

she said to me.

"Our boys are in great danger.

Do something," she implored me.

So I got up, laying aside Balzac

with the greatest reluctance,

and went to the window,

opened the shutters.

Whitecaps as far as the eye could see.

I stared out into the maelstrom

and I raised my hands and called out

in my most stentorian tone:

"Give up your dead!"

Which was a great comfort,

as you can imagine, to my mother.

When one is helpless,

I see no point in pretending otherwise.

How terrible that must have been

for your mother. And you too, sir.

When something has gone

to the trouble of happening,

it is best to consider it inevitable,

in my opinion.

Learned that lesson the hard way, I did.

Well, let us, erm...

Let us drink to the inevitable...

before it happens.

Not a bad drop.

I'm beginning to get a hang of this stuff.

Too much like toilet water for my taste.

Clear away the rest, Mrs Brimley.

She makes a very good hotpot,

I should tell you.

Well, let's take this

in the drawing room.

If you wouldn't mind, sir, I should prefer

to remain here to enjoy my Tokay.

Oh? And why is that?

I cannot really say. I...

Sometimes you get comfortable where

you are. You don't want to disturb yourself.

Poppycock. Port should be taken

in the drawing room.

Let the ladies get on

with whatever it is they get on with.

I'm no lady.

It's rather like being bathed when one has just

gotten comfortable in one's smell.

- What is the fellow on about?

- Shh.

There was a patch of ground behind

the shed where the earth was always moist

and I loved to roll there

to get that particular aura around me.

It brought out the natural secretions

so one could feel there was a glow

around oneself, like a halo.

And it was then, when one felt so complete,

that the Master would call me.

Who, in God's name, called you what?

The Master. He called me Wag.

For reasons I never understood. Wag.

But that was

the greatness of the Master,

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