Morning.
It is a commonplace observation
that remarkable events
often have ordinary beginnings.
Never was this more true
than of my talks with Dean Spanley,
which form the spine of our narrative.
- Morning.
- Morning.
Properly speaking,
they began on a Thursday,
the day on which I visit my father,
Mr Horatio Fisk.
This habit - one might even say ritual -
commenced after the death of my younger
brother Harrington in the Boer War
and the subsequent demise
of my dear mama,
occasioned by her grief
at this unsupportable loss.
I'm coming, I'm coming.
Morning, Mrs Brimley.
- How are you today?
- As you see me.
Could complain,
but what'd be the use of that?
Yes, indeed.
And himself?
Oh, he's working himself up
into a head of steam.
You know how he gets.
Sent back the paper, he did,
to have it properly ironed.
I'm just finishing the obituaries,
so you can take it in to him.
I thought he didn't read the obituaries.
No more he does, but he wants them
ironed just the same.
Says he doesn't read them
because he's afraid he'll come across
his own name one day. I ask you!
Do you believe in the transmigration
of souls, Mrs Brimley?
I don't believe in letting foreigners in,
if that's what you mean.
No, um... reincarnation,
not immigration.
Um, the belief that the immortal soul
has many earthly homes.
Well, I haven't given it much thought,
I haven't.
After Albert died
I went to one of them mediums,
but she couldn't get hold of him.
I wasn't surprised, mind you.
He never said much when he were alive.
I couldn't imagine him piping up
once he were dead.
Mind you don't crease that, now.
He won't know what day it is,
not having seen the paper.
- Oh, young Fisk. It must be Thursday.
- It is indeed.
Very handy, a Thursday. Keeps
Wednesday and Friday from colliding.
You're here, then.
You should have
the garden seen to, Father.
- That was your mother's job.
- Nevertheless...
Nevertheless. What does
that expression mean, I ask you?
Nevertheless.
Might as well be clearing your throat,
for all the sense it makes.
Well, it's a fine day, Father.
Have you anything particular in mind?
I can see how fine the day is.
As for particular in mind, everything
is particular when you get down to it.
What I meant was, do you have any plans?
Are there any concerts or exhibitions,
diversions you wish to attend?
There's nothing about the war.
We're not presently at war,
as far as I know.
Diversions, you say.
That's all that's left, you know,
before stepping
out of the anteroom of eternity.
There is a display of aboriginal weapons
from our wars of imperial conquest...
Such was the common procedure
of my relationship with my father.
I, carrying out my filial duty,
would arrive with the best of intentions.
He, indulging his practised
yet primitive paternal instincts,
would play a strange game of control.
As Thursday upon Thursday arrived,
I'd become more and more determined
to see this game dismantled.
A collection of Georgian shoe buckles.
Over 2,000 items.
That was an era when a gentleman could
spend a fortune ornamenting his feet.
Did we win the Boer War?
I believe we lost more slowly
than the other side.
Garden never recovered from it.
You know, there is a lecture
by one Swami Nala Prash
on the transmigration of souls.
Poppycock!
Think if we had souls they wouldn't
get in touch? Of course they would.
Think your mother wouldn't be on to me
about that garden? Of course she would.
Still, it seems the most likely
of the lot, wouldn't you say?
It's being held at the home
of the Nawab of Ranjiput.
- Isn't that the cricketing Indian chappie?
- Yes, I believe so.
Oh, well. Let's take a look.
Heard tell he's turned the ballroom
into a cricket pitch.
Mad as badgers, these nawabs.
Oh, by the way,
I've invested in a chair vehicle.
Makes walking unnecessary.
You'll enjoy it.
Mrs Brimley! My chair!
- Watch your step, young Fisk.
- Thank you, Father.
- How is it going?
- Very smoothly so far.
So it should. Latest model.
Guaranteed to last longer than the user.
- Not that that means very much.
- Nonsense, Father.
Damned machines!
Be the death of all of us, they will.
Progress, Father,
occasions certain inconveniences.
- Galsworthy, old son. How are you?
- Very well, sir.
Hey-ho! Well done, chair.
Give you a hand with the buggy?
- Grab hold.
- That's kind of you.
- Buggy, indeed!
- My pleasure, sir.
Clyde-built by the feel of it.
Always a pleasure.
Thank you. Thank you.
Damn foolish game, cricket,
if you ask me. Too many rules.
- Howzat!
- Not out, I say.
- Not exactly a full house, is it?
- This is where you need to go.
Want to be where we can see
the yellow of his eyes.
I declare, that's Spanley,
dean of St Justus.
Not that I ever go there,
so he may have been kicked out by now.
- Father, keep your voice down.
- What?
Shh.
Dean Spanley, did you say?
Not me. Chap with the dog collar.
What's a dean doing
at a sermon on reincarnation?
- Exactly my thought.
- I think it shows open-mindedness.
Impending apostasy, more like.
Seen the error of his Christian ways.
- The name's Wrather, with a W.
- Fisk.
- What brings you here, Mr Fisk?
- Ask young Fisk. His idea.
The lesser of several evils.
Well, there you are.
I thought I got a thin edge onto my pad,
but when the umpire raises his finger,
you have to walk.
That's life... and cricket.
Well, then,
time to bring on Swami Prash.
Of what he will tell you
I have no particular opinion,
but I've always held him in high regard
as a cricketer.
Bowled decent left-arm leg breaks
before he went holy.
Haven't seen him play since, but I've no doubt
he's still the sportsman he was. Hm.
I confess, the appearance of Swami Prash
came as something of a surprise,
even a disappointment.
For although I had no clear expectation
of what a holy man would look like,
I had imagined one with such a title
and discussing such a subject
to have been dressed more...
traditionally.
The question of
the transmigration of the soul,
perhaps more familiarly known to you
as reincarnation,
has been the structural underpinning
of Indian philosophical
and religious thought for millennia.
Only recently...
What ensued proved to be
as unilluminating a 50 minutes
as I can remember spending outside
the confines of parliamentary debate.
...esoteric wisdom
come to the attention...
Indeed, the most significant fact
I gleaned from the experience
was that with my eyes closed,
the lecturer could have been a Welshman.
A little, if only a little, closer.
I should be pleased now
to answer any questions you may have.
- Where am I?
- Be quiet.
You are, my dear sir,
in the anteroom of eternity
with the rest of us sojourning souls.
- What?
- Yes, madam?
I was, er... we were, that is,
wondering if...
- Did he say the anteroom of eternity?
- Shh.
- What?
- Shh.
- If they...
- Pets, really. The souls of pets.
That is a most interesting question
and I thank you for asking it.
It is generally supposed
that the animal soul
must be of a different
and, by inference,
inferior nature to the human soul.
The soul is that part of the Godhead,
of All That Is...
What you said before, sir,
about the anteroom of eternity...
Would you be kind enough to allow
the swami to finish his thought, sir?
- Well, well.
- Shh.
- What?
- Shh.
However, although all animals have
their specific awareness of the Godhead,
the dog is, by virtue of his singular
relationship with all mankind, unique.
What about cats?
The dog amplifies...
the cat diminishes...
man's estimation of himself.
Poppycock!
So I shall wish you gentlemen good day.
I can be found here most mornings
and of the occasional evening.
What exactly is a conveyancer?
Well, nothing, exactly.
More a service of facilitation.
Assisting a thing
to be moved between parties.
So you're a middleman.
Well, sometimes in the middle
and sometimes at either end.
- Been a great pleasure, sir.
- You're easily pleased, is all I can say.
Mrs Travers, did I ever tell you that
I collect birds? I'm a real cornucopian.
What's that?
Only thing that made sense
in the whole damn farrago
was what the chap said about dogs
thinking you are better than you are.
Canine flattery is a survival mechanism,
according to Darwin.
The chap never had a dog,
is all I can say.
I thought he had a beagle.
I had a dog once. Wag.
One of the seven great dogs.
At any one time, you know,
there are only seven. Did you know that?
I can't say I did.
Neither did that swami. Made me think
he didn't know much about dogs.
Let's go to my club, have a stiff one.
I thought you didn't go there any more.
That was in the past.
This is the present, young Fisk.
There's no time like the present,
as that swami called it.
- What was it? The Eternal Now?
- I don't know, sir. I wasn't listening.
- How are you, Marriot?
- I'm well, sir. And yourself?
Oh, one step nearer the grave.
How's that boy of yours?
Tommy, isn't it?
Yes, sir. Tommy, sir.
He... he's dead, sir.
The war, sir. The Boer War.
Oh, the Boers.
Lost one myself in that nonsense.
Haven't seen you for a while, sir.
Hasn't changed much.
Clubs aren't supposed to change, surely.
Part of their charm.
There's that chap again.
Is he following us?
Where are you going?
- Fisk.
- What?
Horatio Fisk.
This is young Fisk. Surprised
we were to see you at the nawab's.
Oh, yes, yes.
So, what did you make
of all that mumble-jumble?
The beliefs of others
are always of interest.
Really? Tell me this, then.
Why don't they get in touch?
Souls, I mean.
Never a word from beyond the grave.
You'd think one of them
would have given a shout.
Well, I imagine if the swami is correct
they're all too busy
being whoever they've become.
And what about him pinching my line?
- What line was that?
- The anteroom of eternity.
Well, I'd rather thought that
common usage.
Not at all.
Out of my own head that came.
Rather like having your pocket picked.
- What's that you're drinking?
- Ah, this is Tokay.
Not an Imperial, I'm afraid,
but... good enough, for all that.
A bit syrupy for my taste.
Well, we'll leave you to it.
You must excuse my father.
He can be... rather impulsive.
Not at all.
Pardon me, Dean, but...
am I to understand you give
some credence to these beliefs?
- Only the closed mind is certain, sir.
- Oh, I agree.
I agree.
- Good day, sir.
- Good day to you, sir.
Rum chap, Spanley.
Do you know him well enough
to form that opinion?
One can tell. Not quite sound.
Dabbling in Eastern religion.
Drinking that Hungarian treacle.
Can I get you gentlemen a drink?
I'd like a brandy and soda, Marriot,
with the emphasis on the brandy.
I'll have the Tokay.
Oh, I'm afraid that won't be possible, sir.
The Tokay's private stock.
The dean keeps a bottle
for his personal use.
Very hard to come by, I believe.
Damned unsociable of him.
Told you the fellow wasn't sound.
In that case I'll have a brandy and soda
as well. In the inverse ratio.
Yes, of course, sir.
If I... may say so, Mr Fisk,
I'm most sorry to hear of your loss.
- What?
- Did you... Your boy, sir. In the war.
Wasn't my loss. He's the one got killed.
Sir.
That was, even for you, Father,
a singularly callous remark.
Nothing of the sort.
Here we sit about to be served
brandy and sodas.
What's our loss
compared to your brother's?
Women with the vote is like a cow
with a gun - contrary to nature.
Walking home, listening to my father
assert a variety of things
in tones of unbrookable authority,
Dean Spanley's words returned to me
with renewed force...
"Only the closed mind is certain. "
An excellent hotpot, Mrs Brimley.
Well, it ought to be,
seeing as how I've made it for you
about five hundred times.
Thank you.
"It may well be supposed
that this turn of events
came as a most disagreeable surprise
to Mr Chuttleworth,
accustomed as he was
to having his every whim catered for. "
I confess I had, until that moment,
always supposed certainty
to be rather a good thing.
Like money in the bank.
But something in the day's events
had occasioned in me a certain disquiet,
a sense that...
There may be more things
in heaven and earth, Horatio,
than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
I'll be off, Mrs Brimley.
He's dozing in the study.
Oh, I'll have to wake him up,
otherwise he won't sleep tonight.
Does he ever mention my brother?
Your father doesn't hold with grieving,
Mr Fisk, as you well know.
No, that's right.
No, you're right.
Thank you, Mrs Brimley.
- And thank you for the hotpot.
- Oh, don't you start, young man.
Hotpot, that's all
he'll let me cook for him.
Creature of habit, your father is. Knows
what he wants without having to think.
The certainty of a closed mind.
Well, I don't know about that.
But you do know where you are with him.
Where you was before. Nowhere.
- Bye-bye. I'll see you next Thursday.
- Like as not.
Creatures of habit. Oh!
I've heard it said
that one encounter is a happenstance,
two a coincidence
and three a significance.
Be that as it may,
that day I found myself, for the third
time, in the presence of Dean Spanley,
a man who, until that day,
I did not know existed.
Is it stuck up there?
It rather appears so.
They never think of that when they go up,
which I consider a serious reflection
on their intelligence.
Probably chased by a dog.
Dean? Dean Spanley?
Hello. I met you earlier at your club.
I was introduced by my father. Mr Fisk.
Oh.
- And you were at the nawab's.
- Ah, yes.
I am most eager to hear your further
views on the subject of reincarnation.
I assure you, sir, I have
no special knowledge on the matter.
Compared to my own,
I'm sure yours are encyclopaedic.
I was wondering if I might invite you
to dinner one evening.
I'm afraid that with my schedule
that would be rather difficult.
I would not presume
upon so short an acquaintance
were it not that I've recently come
into possession of a bottle of Tokay.
An Imperial Tokay.
- An Imperial Tokay?
- Yes.
One must be on one's guard against
the common or garden variety. What year?
- An '89, I believe.
- An '89, you say?
Was... is that a good year?
Oh, yes. How do you come to be
in possession of such a treasure?
You must be very well connected, Mr...
Fisk. Henslowe Fisk.
Well... Well...
Perhaps I might manage... Thursday,
if that would be convenient?
Most convenient.
Shall we say seven o'clock?
- Very well. Until then.
- Good day, sir.
'89. Goodness me.
I wouldn't call it a lie, puss.
More like a truth deferred.
Nothing worse.
It had not occurred to me
when I made my overture to the dean
that procuring his favourite tipple
would prove such a challenge.
Oi! Come back here!
Very hard to find
an Imperial Tokay, sir.
Of course there are what you might call
commercial counterfeits.
But the real thing,
that's another story altogether.
It's made solely
for the Hapsburg monarchy, you see.
Takes a royal decree
to have one uncorked.
You would need to know
somebody with such connections.
I see.
Tell me this. If King Edward himself
were to come you and say:
"Find me one or two bottles of Tokay",
what would you say to him?
Well, I would suggest,
most respectfully,
that he uses his family connections
in order to affect the conveyancing.
So he'd have a lot more chance
of success than I would, sir.
Of course.
The point of the exercise,
drop every ball without a miss.
Care for a small wager?
No, thank you. No, you seem more
than capable of performing such a feat.
So you'd like to acquire
a bottle of an '89 Tokay.
An Imperial.
This an adventure of the romantic sort
that you're embarking on?
Certainly not.
It is said that the fair sex
responds avidly to Tokay.
Loosens the morals
and with it the corsets.
- How high are you willing to go?
- Whatever it costs.
Within reason.
Ah, yes. Well, you see,
there's the rub, within reason.
- '89 Tokay not easy to come by.
- So I understand.
So what's your line, then?
Oh, this and that.
A bit of art publishing.
Any money in it?
A modest remuneration.
But the real reward is in the art itself.
Though I must admit there must be
rather more to be made in conveyancing.
It's not all mine.
I'm just a ground-floor tenant.
How on earth
did you come by all this stuff?
My Auntie Molly was a hoarder.
Caught it from her, I shouldn't wonder.
What do you do with it?
Oh, you never know when someone wants
something you just happen to have.
Such as a bottle of Imperial Tokay.
Really?
Good grief.
It's not an '89, I'm afraid.
Will a '91 do?
It'll have to.
I suppose I could say I was promised
an '89 and the man was mistaken.
What do you think?
- How much is this?
- Five guineas to you.
Five guineas?
That's a bit bloody steep.
These little things were sent to try us,
as the man said of the pygmy judge.
Thursday?
Are there not
six other perfectly adequate days,
each equipped with portions of time
suitable for such activities?
Thursday is the only day
the dean is free.
Poppycock.
Deans have dinner every evening.
He has prior engagements.
Is my Thursday not a prior engagement,
young Fisk?
What is going on?
You're not getting married, I hope.
- No.
- Good.
If I had it to do over again...
Am I to understand from that remark
that you regret marrying Mother?
Fine woman, Alice.
Very good in the garden.
No, it's the children.
Hostages to fortune is what they are.
But there is no point
to regretting things
that have gone to the trouble
of happening.
And that is your reason
for refusing to mourn Harrington?
I warned your brother
that the war would be bad for his health,
but no, he knew better, the young fool.
Anyway, your mother mourned him
enough for both of us.
Perhaps if you'd shared
that burden with her
she might not have found her grief
so insupportable.
I have nothing more to say
on this subject.
Please never mention it to me again.
Close the door on your way out.
- Do you miss your husband, Mrs Brimley?
- Miss him?
Oh, well. He weren't hard to miss,
were Albert.
Kept himself to himself.
Sat in that chair night after night,
never said a word.
Just nodded, sociable-like,
and spat in the fire every now and again.
That were Albert's one bad habit.
I talk to the chair sometimes
and it's just like old times.
Except the chair don't spit.
Thinking about your brother
and your mum, are you?
I just wish Father would...
Well, Mr Fisk was never one
for showing much.
Why, I remember that night
up at the lake
when you and young Harry went out
on that cockleshell of a boat.
Yes. Wasn't one of his finest moments.
I'll let you get on, Mrs Brimley.
- Good night.
- And don't you worry about Thursday.
I'll feed him his hotpot
and he'll be right as rain.
You just enjoy yourself
with your friend.
But as Thursday evening arrived, I found
my enthusiasm for the event waning.
For in truth the whim that prompted me
to extend the invitation
had lost its piquancy
and the sobering cost of Wrather's Tokay
played its part in making the whole
venture seem somewhat dubious.
I'm afraid I was mistaken about the vintage.
The '89 was unavailable.
This is... this is a '91.
I do hope you're not too disappointed.
Not at all.
One would have to have
a jaded palate indeed
if the prospect
of a '91 Kleverheld-Manschliess
were a disappointment.
Properly decanted.
No sign of sediment.
Well done.
Thank you.
To think that such wine was once
only opened by decree of a Hapsburg
and now,
through the vicissitudes of history,
we lesser beings
can command such an audience.
Your very good health.
I must confess my first taste of Tokay
was not an illuminating moment.
Rather, my father's dismissal of it
as being too syrupy
seemed remarkably close to the mark.
However, in the dean...
its champion was to hand.
Oh...
Tokay, of course, is unique among wines
in that the aroma
is of more significance than the flavour.
For us humans, alas, that is the pursuit
of the ineffable by the inadequate.
At such moments, one could wish
to possess the olfactory powers
of the canine.
It's often occurred to me
that to pull a dog away from a lamppost
is akin to seizing a scholar in the
British Museum by the scruff of his neck
and dragging him away from his studies.
Yes.
What are you doing?
One of those damned motor machines.
Dreadful things, don't you think?
It must be clear to anyone of perception
that the invention of the internal -
one might even say infernal -
combustion engine
will prove to be a complete...
catastrophe for the species.
Quite so.
And have you noticed
that motor cars are exactly the right
height for them to take refuge under?
Cats. The way they get under motor cars
and can't be got at.
Unless, of course,
you're a very small dog.
I see what you mean.
The trouble with cats is
they have no idea of the rules.
One chases them,
invariably they hide or run up trees.
Or perform that preposterous inflation
they're so fond of,
raising their hair on end.
Well, I was never fooled by that ruse.
No?
Well, perhaps once or twice
when I was very young,
but once I discovered what devious
and subversive creatures they are...
So you are inclined to agree
with the swami about them.
About cats and how they diminish
man's estimation of himself.
Oh, indeed.
- They have no awe of the masters.
- The masters?
Yes. How one loved
to be in their company.
How one wanted to please them,
if only by obedience.
Let me give you a piece of advice.
When a door is opened, always
take the opportunity to leave the room.
There is nothing more annoying
to the master
than a dog whining and scratching
to get...
- Tokay?
- No. No, thank you.
Two glasses are my limit.
One must know one's limit.
Otherwise there's no knowing
where things will end up.
I had no idea of the true nature
of what had occurred with the dean.
It may have been madness.
But I found it intriguing.
So intriguing
that I finished the rest of the bottle.
"... pulling a scholar out of the British
Museum by the scruff of his neck. "
It was as if his mind had slipped a cog.
- Went barking mad, you mean?
- No, he was completely rational.
If you can call
remembering you were a dog... rational.
- How much of the Tokay had he had?
- Two glasses. Two.
Sure it wasn't you that was snockered?
So what do you think?
That getting deans tiddly so they can
pretend to remember when they were a dog
is as harmless a way
of spending an evening as any other.
He was not tiddly, as you put it.
He was... well, it was more like
an altered state of mind.
Being tiddly
isn't an altered state of mind?
No, it was the Tokay.
Even when he inhaled it
he was transported to this other place.
And you'd like to get him back
to this other place?
Can you get me another bottle?
Can you?
I don't doubt that for a price
one could come to hand.
Can you get one for next Thursday?
Have another shot.
Your Tokay, Dean.
Ah. What lambency of hue, what colour.
It reminds me of the light
when the master came home. Hup!
- Never to the brim.
- Of course.
- One must leave room for the aroma.
- Yes, yes. The aroma.
Now, you were saying about the master.
Oh, yes. The master.
He would go away for very long times.
Other people were kind,
but it was not the same.
And what did you do?
Why, I'd wait for him
until I knew he was coming home.
- You knew when he was returning?
- Oh, yes.
How, might I ask?
Well, before he was not coming back
and then he was.
That was the difference,
plain and simple.
- I see.
- Yes, seeing is part of it, it's true.
The proximity of the master
does affect the light.
The light grows brighter?
- No, not brighter. Louder.
- The light grows louder?
Well, certainly there was more of it.
I remember waiting one day
when he was due to come back.
And the light that day got brighter
and brighter until one was quite dazzled.
I only know
when he did finally come back
I was so excited
I had several brandies to calm myself.
Dean, dogs do not drink brandy.
No more they do.
I would achieve the same effect
by running round in tight little circles.
Drives the blood to the head
in a most exhilarating fashion.
And then I'd sit down,
have a good scratch.
Were you much bothered by fleas?
When I say bothered, I don't mean...
There's nothing wrong with a few fleas.
They help get one's grooming going.
Ah, yes.
Indeed, I doubt if one can be a dog
and not have fleas.
So these evenings have become
a regular feature, then?
Yes. The dean has a wealth of knowledge
which I find quite fascinating.
Oh.
- Lawrence! Come here!
- No!
Lawrence Swan, come back here!
- But only on a Thursday.
- Come back here at once! Lawrence!
- That man tripped me up!
- Don't be ridiculous.
- He's given to imaginings.
- Uh-huh.
Pick yourself up. I told you before
about running away from me.
If I call to you, you come back...
What on earth possessed you
to do such a thing?
No business running off like that
when he was being summoned.
You talk as if
you were never yourself a child.
Indeed I was,
and damned glad when it was over.
Too much is made of childhood,
to my mind.
Golden days of fun and innocence?
Poppycock.
The most miserable I've been
was as a child.
Is that why you tripped up him up?
To teach him childhood isn't a happy time?
Do not presume to judge me, young Fisk.
I should first have to understand you,
Father. And that, I confess, I do not.
Perhaps you would have to become
a father first.
Your example disinclines me to that
particular comprehension, I'm afraid.
Push on!
Push on!
You don't think
the dean is having you on?
What do you mean, having me on?
That he's spotted you
for the gullible sort
and a good source
for his favourite drink?
Why would he assume
that pretending to have been a dog
would not attract disbelief and ridicule
rather than invitations to dinner?
He saw you at the nawab's
listening to the swami
about reincarnation and dogs
and all that nonsense
and he decided that you believed
in all that stuff.
I can't accept that.
It would be
most unlike someone of his gravitas.
Gravitas?
Telling you about running round
in circles to create the effect of whisky?
Brandy, actually.
And fleas are a good source of grooming?
You could call that gravitas.
He doesn't know when he's saying
these things and when he isn't.
I'd have to be there
to see it for myself to believe it.
- Your Moroccan is here.
- Excuse me. A delivery.
- Go easy on him, my darling.
- Be careful, he's a monkey.
Abdul, how are you?
And how much do I owe our man?
- You owe him nothing.
- You tell him he owes me a gin.
- With pleasure, Mr Wrather.
- Good day.
Very nice article, this.
Fell off the back of an elephant.
Not interested, are you?
- Don't have an elephant.
- Just say the word and I'll get you one.
- Look, about this Tokay...
- Yeah, right. Tokay.
How about if I do round one up,
you let me sit in on the next sance?
It's not a sance.
It's more like the parting of the veil
between one life and another.
All right. The parting of the veil.
But I want to be there.
All right.
But you must promise,
truly and genuinely promise me,
that you will let me
do the questioning.
- Cross my heart and hope to die.
- Swear on something you hold sacred.
- 50 guineas.
- What do you mean?
I give you 50 guineas to hold and if I don't
meet your standard of decorum, I forfeit it.
Am I to understand
that there is nothing you hold sacred?
I feel quite religious about 50 guineas,
I assure you.
I can only imagine
that I was not in my right mind
to have spoken to you in such a fashion
and it grieves me to think that I may have
offended you by my lack of respect.
I am stricken to think I have given you cause
to think me ungrateful.
Don't grovel, laddie. You remind me
of Wag when he'd been naughty.
What a whining and squirming
he went in for!
Yes. Wag, eh?
One of the seven great dogs.
At any one time, you know,
there are only seven.
- What kind of dog was he?
- A Welsh spaniel, in his prime.
What happened to him?
He went away one day
and never came back.
- Had he ever done that before?
- Never.
I blame the bad company he fell in with.
This dog that used to come around.
Ugly brute, a mongrel.
Big scrawny thing, it was.
Wag chased him off at first
but he came back
and Wag took off with him
just before I had to return to school.
I wanted to stay at home till Wag came back,
but they wouldn't allow it.
I told them if I wasn't there,
then Wag might not know where to come to.
Must have been very difficult for you.
It wasn't difficult.
It was unbearable.
I had heard this story before.
But now it was as if
I was hearing it for the first time.
As dubious as any connection
might have seemed,
my father's revelation
inspired greater significance
to my next encounter with the dean.
Who's this likely-looking lad?
That's my brother Harrington.
He was killed fighting the Boers.
Broke my mother's heart.
And your father, how did he take it?
"If something goes to the trouble
of happening,
it may be considered inevitable"
was his comment, I believe.
That's your stiff upper English for you.
There's a few shillings left in this.
The cobwebs are worth a guinea.
No, please. Not the last inch.
The dean is most particular about that.
Fussy old hound.
What kind of dog did he say he was?
He didn't. I must insist
you don't ask him such a question.
I'd have thought
that's the first question you would ask.
Please just give me your word.
As you like, but there's no doubt I'll know
as soon as he gets started.
Henslowe.
- Good evening, Dean. How are you?
- Very well.
I fancy I would have been
a pointer, an Afghan...
- This is my friend Mr Wrather.
- Oh.
Mr Wrather is the agent
by which we manage to procure the Tokay.
- Mm.
- Good evening... Dean.
Yes.
Tonight's vintage is... a special one.
Kleinfeld-Hasslerbeck '82.
One of the great years.
Indeed, I've not had the good fortune
to taste that particular vintage before.
Well, every dog has his day,
as they say.
Well, what a privilege.
Dean.
Of course
the Empire must be maintained,
but history shows us only too clearly
the dangers of overreach.
I myself considered the Indian Mutiny,
so-called,
a warning that perhaps
our presence on the subcontinent
was not the universal benevolence
that we believed.
- A glass of Tokay, Dean?
- That would be most agreeable.
So, Dean, do you think it's true that
you can't teach an old dog new tricks?
- What Mr Wrather means is...
- Will we ever give India back to the Indians?
Not in my lifetime, I would venture.
We've become too dependent on it.
And I don't just mean economically,
although we derive inordinate treasure
from its exploitation.
No, we have become habituated
to the role of master...
and dog...
servant.
How elegant.
- My, my, my, my, my, my.
- Is it all you'd hoped for, Dean?
Oh.
Beyond hope, beyond imagining.
The actuality exceeds anticipation.
I am in your debt, sir.
And yours, Mr Wrather.
You were saying about...
our relationship with the Indians,
between the master and the servant?
Not just servant, but loving servant.
It's most important to the English race
that we are loved by those that we rule.
With a dog-like devotion, would you say?
What is it that's so important
about the master?
Yes, the Master.
The thing is, whenever he returned
from wherever he'd been,
no matter how long I'd been waiting,
the actuality
always exceeded the anticipation.
Causing you to run about in circles.
But, you know, for all his great wisdom,
there were certain things
the Master never understood.
- Such as?
- The moon... and ticks.
The Master always wanted to remove mine,
but my own motto was: Live and let live.
I hate ticks.
And the moon?
Yes, the moon.
The Master wasn't nearly
suspicious enough of the moon.
I never trusted it.
Never the same two nights in a row.
Couldn't hear it. Couldn't smell it.
Well, you can take your own line
on that, and others do.
I had a friend who never worried
about the moon, but then...
he didn't have a house to guard.
The moon had a way of looking at a house
that implied it wasn't guarded properly.
Well, my house was guarded properly,
thank you very much, and I told it so,
every time it came around,
in no uncertain terms!
- Were you very big?
- Oh, yes.
How big?
When I barked... I was enormous.
So... why do you think
it wasn't frightened?
Well, frightened things
smell frightened.
I've smelled many frightened things.
Cats, elderly ladies, children, rabbits.
They all smell of being frightened.
It's a wonderful smell.
You mean... old ladies smell the same
as rabbits when they're frightened?
No, their fear smells the same.
Otherwise there's no confusing them.
Yes, this, erm... this business of smell
is very interesting, isn't it?
Interesting.
If there's one thing
I could find fault with the Master,
it would be on that issue.
I have known occasions when I was studying
a message left for me by a friend
and he would drag me away by the collar
in the middle of the most fascinating passage.
Rather like dragging a scholar
away from a text at the British Museum.
That is a rather untoward analogy.
No, most apposite.
I believe I have thought
exactly the same thing.
What sort of a dog were you, anyway?
I beg your pardon?
I mean in your day.
You know, before you took...
holy orders.
I recall no such activity, sir.
Quite a session. Damn good value.
Listen, I've been thinking.
This is getting out of hand.
The man is clearly
suffering from delusions.
And as for the Tokay...
I sincerely hope
I never develop a taste for it.
It's hard to find
and devilishly expensive.
Ten guineas to hear a dean say
he believed he was once a dog!
I must be mad.
- Good as gold.
- Shh.
I don't want your money.
This has gone too far.
- But you can't stop now, young Fisk.
- Well, I see no point in continuing.
The man believes what he believes.
That's that.
You're not one of these blokes
who gives up before he can lose, are you?
Are you?
What if I was to procure
a bottle of the elixir for free?
For free?
This bloke owes me. He owes me more
than one favour too, I'll tell you that.
And if anyone's got a bottle or two,
His Nawabship will.
Tokay, you say? An Imperial?
- We're finding it hard to come by.
- I should jolly well think so.
Rather extravagant
being so keen on it, I'd say.
- You must be quite the connoisseur.
- It's not for him.
It's for Dean Spanley.
For Spanley?
Old Wag Spanley likes Tokay?
Very partial to a drop,
the dean.
Excuse me. Did you just
call Dean Spanley Wag?
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,
that he could make that one sound
convey so many meanings.
There was a "Wag" which meant a walk.
There was a "Wag" which meant
"Go away from the table"
and there was a "Wag" which meant
"You are to be bathed. "
And of all the "Wags"
that "Wag" was the most terrible.
Why was that?
Because, for all his great wisdom,
he never understood how embarrassing
it is to meet another dog
when one isn't wearing one's own smell.
But more importantly,
they did not know who you were,
so you had to go through all that business
of circling and sniffing and growling.
I was always being embarrassed in that way
with a particular friend of mine.
So what did you do?
Did you have to fight him?
Oh, we fought a few times,
just to get acquainted. That I enjoyed.
My favourite grip was the ear.
You always hear how going for the throat
is the best approach,
but in my experience it's almost impossible
to get a throat grip,
so I would always go for the ear.
But it does give the opportunity
for excellent complaint.
My friend had a very good complaint,
which I memorised and I would use
if I had to take a beating from the Master.
- He beat you?
- Only...
On certain occasions it was called for,
certainly.
Then I would use this splendid complaint
which I'd learned from my friend.
So what was his name,
this friend of yours?
His name? I don't think I knew
the name his master called him.
Indeed, I'm not entirely sure
he had a master,
but his complaint was most satisfying.
"Oh, rescue me. I'm a poor, unfortunate
creature, far from home and without a friend. "
"Help me, help me. "
"I have fallen into terrible straits
and am about to be murdered. "
Which, of course, was not the case.
This dog, the one without a master,
what sort of dog was he?
Oh, the best of fellows. Adventurous
and carefree, fearless and bold.
But you said he was whining
and snivelling about being murdered.
Oh, that was just his complaint.
How did you meet him,
this friend?
He would leave messages
on the cart that brought the milk.
And I would reply.
And then one day, he came to our door.
Well, I told him to go away
or I would chase him
and I barked my most enormous bark
and made myself very huge.
But he wasn't afraid and said so.
You weren't... how will I put it...
a female by any chance, were you?
- Of course he wasn't.
- Not at all.
We were just good friends.
He'd led a very interesting life
and knew many more things than I did,
which he told me about
in considerable detail.
- How did he tell you?
- In the messages that he left me.
And I would leave word of my doings,
which, I confess, were not comparable to his,
because all I'd ever done was
go for evening walks with the Master.
And while they were enjoyable outings,
they were but moon-cast shadows
compared to his adventures.
Did you ever go
on an adventure with him?
Indeed.
The greatest of my life.
I remember the Master had to go away
and I couldn't go with him.
And I was going to follow him,
but then my friend came
and he proposed we have an adventure.
Since the Master was leaving,
I said yes.
And off we went.
What a day that was to be a dog and
to be with one who knew how to be a dog.
For I confess, happy though I was
to belong to the Master,
until that day I had barely glimpsed
the glories of dogdom.
He introduced me
to the joys of chasing animals.
A matter in which
I was largely unversed,
having previously only had the opportunity
to chase a couple of cats.
Cats are of no use for chasing
for, not knowing the rules,
they invariably climb up trees,
a habit I find contemptible.
Horses, on the other hand,
understand the rules perfectly
and enter the business in good spirit.
But of all the creatures
that a dog can chase,
none exceed sheep for sheer pleasure.
Their fear drifts in clouds behind them
and you breathe it in as you run along,
so you become quite intoxicated by it.
It's as if one is not so much running
but flying on it.
Or perhaps swimming
might be more a exact description.
Were it not for their master appearing,
we might have chased them all day.
Be gone!
My friend didn't care,
but I thought we might be seized
and prevented from further adventures,
so I persuaded him to leave.
So we went into the woods.
And there we had the good fortune
to come across... a rabbit.
It's not commonly known
that rabbit scent,
particularly when it's frightened -
and this one was very frightened indeed -
does not lie along the ground,
but rises in heaps
so you have to jump to inhale it.
When we'd had our fill of its fear,
we turned to catching it,
and in this endeavour my friend showed
what a splendid fellow he was,
for he drove
straight through the thicket,
paying no heed
to its many inconveniences,
and sent the rabbit scuttling
to where I was stationed.
...how much more satisfying
a recently alive rabbit tastes.
I'm afraid the masters fail
to appreciate fur, guts and bones
for the delicacies that they are.
Then it was time to quench our thirst.
And then, as in all things
that befell us on that glorious day,
we came across some water
that had gathered in a hollow.
Then, after we drank our fill,
we rolled in it
to give ourselves a good glow
and then we went into the woods
to rest in the shade.
- Perhaps we should take our...
- Father.
Be quiet and sit down, please.
You went into the woods and...
And we slept.
That most sublime of states,
when a dream dreams you
rather than the other way round.
And when we awoke, the moon was rising.
It was just on the other side of the woods,
so we set about surprising it.
And we came very close to catching it,
for it was slow to get up.
But just when we were almost on it,
my friend couldn't control himself
any longer and let out a cry.
And had we been there
but a moment sooner,
we surely would have seized it
and torn it apart like the rabbit.
How it would have tasted, I cannot tell.
So we told it what a great
cowardly, unsmelling thing it was
and if we ever caught up with it,
it would surely regret it.
Then we turned around and went home.
So you knew the way home?
Oh, yes. Turn towards home and go there.
But you had been out all day, running free.
How far from home were you?
Yes, we'd gone many overs, that is true.
How many, I couldn't tell.
Overs?
Overs. Many overs. Over woods and
fields, streams and hills. Many overs.
And you just... turned towards home?
- How else would one do it?
- Then why...
And I knew that I should be beaten
and I remembered my friend's complaint
that I would use
and how delicious it would feel
when the beating had stopped
and the insults had finished.
Yes, the glow of having paid the price
for wrongdoing.
And were you punished?
No, not on that occasion.
Why was that? Do you know?
Because a very remarkable thing
happened on the way back...
which I cannot fully explain.
One moment we were running along
side by side, heading for home, and the next...
we were not.
I cannot say what happened.
Perhaps it was a dream
and I wakened from it.
Was there any pain?
Pain? No, I cannot say there was.
All I can remember
is how clear the night was,
with the moon-cast shadows
and the earth rising underneath me,
and home in my heart
and the Master waiting.
But no, no pain.
I am most glad to hear it.
If you will excuse me.
Did I say something to upset you, sir?
No, no, no, not at all.
I am put in memory of my son Harrington.
That is all.
Erm...
Harrington was, erm...
killed in the Boer War...
returning from a patrol.
That's all we know.
The, erm... body was never recovered.
Are you all right, Mr Fisk?
He was shot.
Yes.
Oh. There, there.
Better late than never, Mr Fisk.
Come with me.
In you go, Mr Fisk.
Sit yourself down.
He does mither on, that dean of yours.
I do hope whatever I said
did not upset him.
Excuse me. I was talking
to Mrs Brimley about the old days.
Thank you, Dean, for coming.
It was a memorable evening.
No, thank you, sir.
I fear the Tokay
rendered me somewhat unsociable.
It has a tendency
to make me withdraw into myself.
Not at all. You were all
that could be hoped for in a guest.
You know your way home from here?
Just turn towards it
is the best way, I'm told.
I'm going in the dean's direction.
I'll see that he gets there this time.
- Good of you to come, Mr Wrather.
- Wouldn't have missed it for the world.
- Good night, sir.
- Good night.
You know, Mr Wrather,
I have the most persistent notion
that we have met before.
One often feels that about colonials,
Dean.
Yes, I have heard that said.
Nevertheless...
You're not in the market for a new rug,
are you? I've this good friend in Marrakesh.
Marrakesh?
Colourful, exciting place,
if you know the right people.
- I know the right people.
- Something of an adventure, I imagine.
He can put away the Tokay,
I'll say that for the dean.
I thought for a moment
we might have had to open the third bottle.
Oh, two was ample, I think.
He goes on a bit
when he's in his cups, though.
Thank you, Father.
One moment you are running along,
the next you are no more.
Well...
- I will see you next Thursday.
- Or any day that suits.
Mustn't get too set in our ways.
Good night, Henslowe.
Good night, Father.
God knows
what they were on about.
Something about rabbits tasting better
with their fur on.
You won't catch me cooking them,
that's all I can tell you.
Then, he comes in here.
First time in God knows how long.
And he stands...
looking at that photograph,
sobbing his heart out.
Morning, Mrs Brimley.
- It's not Thursday, you know.
- No, I know.
- How's Father?
- Well, I don't know, really.
Here, boy!
Wasn't my idea, you know.
The day after that dinner,
he sent me round to see
that friend of yours, the one who was here.
- Mr Wrather?
- Sent me round with a letter, he did.
Next day he shows up with a dog.
- What kind of dog?
- Oh, one of those, erm...
- Oh, like before.
- A spaniel?
Must be one of the seven.
Clever boy!
One's quite enough
in this house, thank you very much.
It's already chewed a cushion.
He's in the garden.
Imagine, Mr Fisk in the garden.
He'll be growing roses next.
Twist!
That was the end of my talks
with Dean Spanley,
although my father
sometimes saw him at the club.
Don't know what they talked about,
if anything.
As for the question of reincarnation,
I resolved to wait and see,
albeit with more anticipation
than hitherto.
And should I find myself
in the form of a dog,
I trust I will be so fortunate
as to belong to a master
as kind as my father.