A Remembrance of Death

Oxford was a city of lost souls and forsaken beliefs as the Great War endured into its fourth year. The spectres of the fallen were everywhere; in the college bars, cycling down the Banbury Road, and punting on the Isis. They blended into the grey stone buildings and their deafening silence rang out. In deference to the dead, the university authorities cancelled the inter-collegiate rowing regatta, the Head of the River, for the first time since it started just over a hundred years ago.
Basil Drewe arrived into this dark milieu for the start of the Michaelmas term. He took a horse-drawn cab from the railway station to Keble College, wondering what he should say on his arrival. He was not precisely certain of the etiquette; it was something he would have discussed with his eldest brother, but Adrian had died near Ypres in July of that year. As the cab made its way through the streets of Oxford, with its ancient colleges, churches, and endless bicycles, Basil wondered whether he should have delayed coming up for a year and stayed with his parents. However, their grief was all-consuming and nothing he could say or do could relieve it.
Keble was built in polychrome brick with only two quads – Liddon and Pusey – and was considered a new college, as it was only fifty years old. Over that half-century, ivy had grown up to hide some of the Victorian gothic brickwork. The college was a stone’s throw from the faculty of law, and it had concerned him that he might struggle to walk to tutorials if he were too far away. It was also next to the Ashmolean Museum where he could indulge his love of ancient history. His left leg had been broken in a fall a few years before, and he had metal plates and bolts holding the bones together. The choice of Keble was against the wishes of his father, who favoured Christ Church, with its long tradition of moulding the prime ministers of the United Kingdom. It was the first time he could remember arguing with his father on any matter and he had been surprised when his father conceded the point.
When the cab pulled up at the lodge, Basil got out and paid the driver the precise fare plus a five per cent tip. His valise was placed in front of the porter’s lodge and inside he was asked his name.
“Basil Drewe.”
The porter looked down his list. “Mr Basil Charles Drewe,” came back the confirmation, as if Basil’s omission of his middle name was a singular deficiency. “Pusey, second floor,” the porter added brusquely, “and your luggage arrived this morning.” The porter looked up from his list and saw Basil leaning on a walking stick. “You could be moved?” Basil paused and looked at the grey-whiskered porter with a scar under his left eye and immediately decided that this was a man who would not appreciate the slightest amount of inconvenience.
“No, the second floor will be fine,” said Basil and he followed the underporter, who picked up his valise. On entering Pusey, the underporter called out his scout’s name, Scoley, and a thin, wiry man with buckled front teeth and short black hair hurried down the stone stairs at the end of the corridor.
“One of your gentlemen,” said the underporter. “Mr. Drewe.”
“Your luggage is in your room, sir,” said Scoley, as he took the valise and climbed back up the stone stairs. “You’ll need to be a bit careful in winter, sir. These steps get icy and can be hellish.”
“Thank you,” said Basil, wondering whether he would regret not taking the offer of ground-floor rooms.
“Here you are, sir, the second door on the left. The bathrooms are at the bottom of the corridor. Meals are taken in the hall and are served from seven in the morning, twelve-thirty, and seven-thirty in the evening. Gowns are to be worn except on formal nights and drinks can be taken half an hour before dinner.” Basil saw his surname on a plaque on the door as he entered the small living room. Scoley handed over an envelope. “Most things that you need to know, sir, are in here. If there is anything else just knock on my door.”
Basil looked around the room. It was spartan with a desk and chair by the window and on the adjacent wall was a fireplace with a small sofa and two matching wingback chairs placed around it. The fireplace seemed to Basil to be so small that he wondered whether he would even be able to brown toast. An empty bookcase stood near the desk, which was so tiny that it would hold only half of the books that he had shipped from home. Opposite the fireplace was a door to his bedroom, which was even smaller than the living room and equally as bare.
“The linen is changed on Tuesdays and the cleaner comes Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays,” continued Scoley. “Once you have some prints up and fill the bookcase, it will feel more like home, sir.” Basil forced a smile, as his idea of home and Scoley’s seemed to be different.
From down the corridor, a student was shouting Scoley’s name as if his life depended on it.
“That’s Mr Templeton, sir, a third year. Most demanding, unfortunately.”
Scoley handed over the room keys to Basil. “Just one last thing, sir. Your neighbour arrived this morning from India, a Mr Laxman Choudhury, who is studying for a doctorate in philosophy. I assume you will not have a problem living next to an Indian gentleman?”
“No, not at all,” replied Basil and, as Scoley left his room, he wondered why it would be an issue.
Basil looked out of his window towards the college entrance. He could just make out to his left the library and beyond that was Liddon Quad and the chapel. He thought, I’m an Oxford undergraduate, and suppressed a smile. He relished that feeling of accomplishment and success. That morning, when he had left his home at Wadhurst Hall, he had promised his father that he would come back with a first in jurisprudence and, as he watched groups of students scurrying around the quad, he wondered whether that little show of arrogance and bravado would come back to haunt him – but a gentleman’s word is his bond.