“You look magnificent.”
“What do they cost?”
“About £100, I think.”
“No, no. How much would I have to give…?”
“I have no idea. You would have to discuss that with the Vice-Chancellor after the Garden Party.”
Harvey took a long look at himself in the mirror, and then returned to the dressing room while Stephen thanked the assistant, asked him to wrap up the gown and cap and send them to the Clarendon building to be left with the porter in the name of Sir John Betjeman. He paid cash. The assistant looked even more bewildered.
“Yes, sir.”
He was not sure what to do, except continue praying for Mr. Venables’s arrival. His prayers were answered some ten minutes later, but by then Stephen and Harvey were well on their way to Trinity College and the Garden Party.
“Mr. Venables, I’ve just been asked to send the full D. Litt. dress to Sir John Betjeman at the Clarendon Building.”
“Strange. We kitted him out for this morning’s ceremony weeks ago. I wonder why he wants a second outfit.”
“He paid cash.”
“Well, send it around to the Clarendon, but be sure it’s in his name.”
When Stephen and Harvey arrived at Trinity College shortly after 3:30, the elegant green lawns, the croquet hoops having been removed, were already crowded with over a thousand people. The members of the university wore an odd hybrid dress: best lounge suits or silk dresses topped with gowns, hoods and caps. Cups of tea and crates of strawberries and cucumber sandwiches were disappearing rapidly.
“What a swell party this is,” said Harvey unintentionally mimicking Frank Sinatra. “You certainly do things in style here, Professor.”
“Yes, the Garden Party is always rather fun. It’s the main social event of the university year, which as I explained, is just ending. Half the senior members here will be snatching an afternoon off from reading examination scripts. Exams for the final-year undergraduates have only just ended.”
Stephen observed the Vice-Chancellor, the Registrar and the Secretary of the University Chest carefully, and steered Harvey well away from them, introducing him to as many of the older members of the university as possible, hoping they would not find the encounter too memorable. They spent just over three-quarters of an hour moving from person to person, Stephen feeling rather like an aide-de-camp to an incompetent dignitary whose mouth must be kept shut for fear of a diplomatic incident. Despite Stephen’s anxious approach, Harvey was clearly having the time of his life.
“Robin, Robin, can you hear me?”
“Yes, James.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m in the Eastgate Restaurant: come and join me here and bring Jean-Pierre.”
“Fine. We’ll be there in five minutes. No, make it ten. With my disguise, I’d better go slowly.”
Robin paid his bill. The children had finished their reward, so he took them out of the Eastgate to a waiting car and instructed the driver, who had been hired especially for the day, to return them to Newbury. They had played their part and now could only get in the way.
“Aren’t you coming home with us, Dad?” demanded Jamie.
“No, I’ll be back later tonight. Tell your mother to expect me about seven.”
Robin returned to the Eastgate to find Jean-Pierre and James hobbling toward him.
“Why the change of plan?” asked Jean-Pierre. “It’s taken me over an hour to get dressed and ready.”
“Never mind. You’re still in the right gear. We had a stroke of luck. I chatted up Harvey in the street and the cocky bastard invited me to tea with him at the Randolph Hotel. I said that would be impossible, but asked him to join me at the Clarendon. Stephen suggested that you two should be invited along as well.”
“Clever,” said James. “No need for the deception at the Garden Party.”
“Let’s hope it’s not too clever,” said Jean-Pierre.
“Well, at least we can do the whole damn charade behind closed doors,” said Robin, “which ought to make it easier. I never did like the idea of walking through the streets with him.”
“With Harvey Metcalfe nothing is ever going to be easy,” said Jean-Pierre.
“I’ll get myself into the Clarendon Building by 4:15,” continued Robin. “You will appear a few minutes after 4:20, Jean-Pierre, and then you, James, about 4:25 P.M. But keep exactly to the same routine, act as if the meeting had taken place, as originally planned, at the Garden Party and we had all walked over to the Clarendon together.”
Stephen suggested to Harvey that they should return to the Clarendon Building, as it would be discourteous to be late for the Vice-Chancellor.
“Sure.” Harvey glanced at his watch. “Jesus, it’s 4:30 already.”
They left the Garden Party and walked quickly down toward the Clarendon Building at the bottom of the Broad, Stephen explaining en route that the Clarendon was a sort of Oxford White House where all the officers and officials of the university had their rooms.
The Clarendon is a large, imposing eighteenth-century building which could be mistaken by a visitor for another college. A few steps lead up to an impressive hallway, and on entering you realize you are in a magnificent old building which has been converted for use as offices, with as few changes as possible.
When they arrived the porter greeted them.
“The Vice-Chancellor is expecting us,” said Stephen.
The porter had been somewhat surprised when Robin had arrived fifteen minutes earlier and told him that Mr. Habakkuk had asked him to wait in his room; even though Robin was in full academic dress, the porter kept a beady eye on him, not expecting the Vice-Chancellor or any of his staff to return from the Garden Party for at least another hour. The arrival of Stephen gave him a little more confidence. He well remembered the pound he had received for his guided tour of the building.
The porter ushered Stephen and Harvey through to the Vice-Chancellor’s rooms and left them alone, tucking another pound note into his pocket.
The Vice-Chancellor’s room was in no way pretentious and its beige carpet and pale walls would have given it the look of any middle-ranking civil servant’s office, had it not been for the magnificent picture of a village square in France by Wilson Steer which hung over the marble fireplace.
Robin was staring out of the vast windows overlooking the Bodleian Library.
“Good afternoon, Vice-Chancellor.”
Robin spun around. “Oh, welcome, Professor.”
“You remember Mr. Metcalfe?”
“Yes, indeed. How nice to see you again.” Robin shuddered. All he wanted to do was to go home. They chatted for a few minutes. Another knock and Jean-Pierre entered.
“Good afternoon, Registrar.”
“Good afternoon, Vice-Chancellor, Professor Porter.”
“May I introduce Mr. Harvey Metcalfe.”
“Good afternoon, sir.”
“Registrar, would you like some…”
“Where’s this man Metcalfe?”
The three of them stood, stunned, as a man looking ninety entered the room on sticks. He hobbled over to Robin, winked, bowed and said:
“Good afternoon, Vice-Chancellor,” in a loud, crotchety voice.
“Good afternoon, Horsley.”
James went over to Harvey and prodded him with his sticks as if to make sure he was real.
“I have read about you, young man.”
Harvey had not been called young man for thirty years. The others stared at James in admiration. None of them knew that in his last year at university James had played L’Avare to great acclaim. His Secretary of the Chest was simply a repeat performance, and even Molière would have been pleased with it. James continued:
“You have been most generous to Harvard.”
“That’s very kind of you to mention it, sir,” said Harvey respectfully.
“Don’t call me sir, young man. I like the look of you—call me Horsley.”
“Yes, Horsley, sir,” blurted Harvey.
The others were only just able to keep a straight face.
“Well, Vice-Chancellor,” continued James. “You can’t have dragged me halfway across the city for my health. What’s going on? Where’s my sherry?”
Stephen wondered if James was overdoing it, but looking at Harvey saw that he was evidently captivated by the scene. How could a man so mature in one field be so immature in another, he thought. He was beginning to see how Westminster Bridge had been sold to at least four Americans in the past twenty years.
“Well, we were hoping to interest Mr. Metcalfe in the work of the university and I felt that the Secretary of the University Chest should be present.”
“What’s this chest?” asked Harvey.
“Sort of treasury for the university,” replied James, his voice loud, old and very convincing. “Why don’t you read this?” and he thrust into Harvey’s hand an Oxford University Calendar, which Harvey could have obtained at Blackwell’s bookshop for £2 as indeed James had.
Stephen was not sure what move to make next when happily for him, Harvey took over.
“Gentlemen, I would like to say how proud I am to be here today. This has been a wonderful year for me. I was present when an American won Wimbledon, I finally obtained a Van Gogh. My life was saved by a wonderful, wonderful surgeon in Monte Carlo and now here I am in Oxford surrounded by all this history. Gentlemen, it would give me a great deal of pleasure to be associated with this famous university.”
James took the lead again:
“What have you in mind?” he shouted at Harvey, adjusting his hearing aid.
“Well, sir, I achieved my life’s ambition when I received the King George and Elizabeth trophy from your Queen, but the prize money, well, I would like to use that to make a benefaction to your university.”
“But that’s over £80,000,” gasped Stephen.
“£81,240 to be exact, sir. But why don’t I call it $250,000.”
Stephen, Robin and Jean-Pierre were speechless. James alone was left to command the day. This was the opportunity he had needed to show why his great-grandfather had been one of Wellington’s most respected generals.
“We accept. But it would have to be anonymous,” said James. “I think I can safely say in the circumstances that the Vice-Chancellor would inform Mr. Harold Macmillan and Hebdomadal Council, but we would not want a fuss made of it. Of course, Vice-Chancellor, I would ask you to consider an honorary degree.”
Robin was so conscious of James’s obvious control of the entire situation that he could only add:
“How would you recommend we go about it, Horsley?”
“Cash check, so nobody can trace the money back to Mr. Metcalfe. We can’t have those bloody men from Cambridge chasing him for the rest of his life. Same way as we did for Sir David—no fuss.”
“I agree,” said Jean-Pierre, not having the vaguest idea what James was talking about. Neither, for that matter, had Harvey.
James nodded to Stephen, who left the Vice-Chancellor’s office and made his way to the porter’s room to inquire if a parcel had been left for Sir John Betjeman.
“Yes, sir. I don’t know why they left it here. I’m not expecting Sir John.”
“Don’t worry,” said Stephen. “He’s asked me to pick it up for him.”
Stephen returned to find James holding forth to Harvey on the importance of keeping his donation as a bond between himself and the university.
Stephen undid the box and took out the magnificent gown of a Doctor of Letters. Harvey turned red with embarrassment and pride as Robin placed it on his shoulders, chanting some Latin, which was nothing more than his old school motto. The ceremony was completed in a few moments.
“Many congratulations,” bellowed James. “A pity we could not have organized this to be part of today’s ceremony, but for such a munificent gesture as yours we could hardly wait another year.”
Brilliant, thought Stephen. Laurence Olivier could not have done better.
“That’s fine by me,” said Harvey, as he sat down and made out a check to cash. “You have my word that this matter will never be mentioned to anyone.”
None of them believed that.
They stood in silence as Harvey rose and passed the check to James.
“No, sir.” James transfixed him with a glare.
The others looked dumbfounded.
“The Vice-Chancellor.”
“Of course,” said Harvey. “Excuse me, sir.”
“Thank you,” said Robin, his hand trembling as he received the check. “A most gracious gift, and you may be sure we shall put it to good use.”
There was a loud knock on the door. They all looked around terrified except for James, who was now ready for anything. It was Harvey’s chauffeur. James had always hated the pretentious white uniform with the white hat.
“Ah, the efficient Mr. Mellor,” said Harvey. “Gentlemen, I guarantee he’s been watching every move we’ve made today.”
The four froze, but the chauffeur had clearly made no sinister deductions from his observations.
“Your car is ready, sir. You wanted to be back at Claridge’s by 7 P.M. to be in good time for your dinner appointment.”
“Young man,” bellowed James.
“Yes, sir,” whimpered the chauffeur.
“Do you realize you are in the presence of the Vice-Chancellor of this university?”
“No, sir. I’m very sorry, sir.”
“Take your hat off immediately.”
“Yes, sir.”
The chauffeur removed his hat and retreated to the car, swearing under his breath.
“Vice-Chancellor, I sure hate to break up our party, but as you’ve heard I do have an appointment…”
“Of course, of course, we understand you’re a busy man. May I once again officially thank you for your most generous donation, which will be used to benefit many deserving people.”
“We all hope you have a safe journey back to the States and will remember us as warmly as we shall remember you,” added Jean-Pierre.
Harvey moved toward the door.
“I will take my leave of you now, sir,” shouted James. “It will take me twenty minutes to get down those damned steps. You are a fine man and you have been most generous.”
“It was nothing,” said Harvey expansively.
True enough, thought James, nothing to you.
Stephen, Robin and Jean-Pierre accompanied Harvey from the Clarendon to the waiting Rolls.
“Professor,” said Harvey, “I didn’t quite understand everything the old guy was saying.” As he spoke he shifted the weight of his heavy robes on his shoulders self-consciously.
“Well, he’s very deaf and very old, but his heart’s in the right place. He wanted you to know that this has to be an anonymous donation as far as the university is concerned, though, of course, the Oxford hierarchy will be informed of the truth. If it were to be made public all sorts of undesirables who have never done anything for education in the past would come trooping along on the day of Encaenia wanting to buy an honorary degree.”
“Of course, of course. I understand. That’s fine by me,” said Harvey. “I want to thank you for a swell day, Rod, and I wish you all the luck for the future. What a shame our friend Wiley Barker wasn’t here to share it all.”
Robin blushed.
Harvey climbed into the Rolls Royce and waved enthusiastically to the three of them as they watched the car start effortlessly on its journey back to London.
Three down and one to go.
“James was brilliant,” said Jean-Pierre. “When he first came in I didn’t know who the hell it was.”
“I agree,” said Robin. “Let’s go and rescue him—he’s truly the hero of the day.”
They all three ran up the steps, forgetting that they looked somewhere between the ages of fifty and sixty, and rushed back into the Vice-Chancellor’s room to congratulate James, who lay silent in the middle of the flo
or. He had passed out.
In Magdalen an hour later, with the help of Robin and two large whiskeys, James was back to his normal health.
“You were fantastic,” said Stephen, “just at the point when I was beginning to lose my nerve.”
“You would have received an Academy Award if we could have put it on screen,” said Robin. “Your father will have to let you go on the stage after that performance.”
James basked in his first moment of glory for three months. He could not wait to tell Anne.
“Anne.” He quickly looked at his watch. “6:30. Oh hell, I must leave at once. I’m meant to be meeting Anne at eight. See you all next Monday in Stephen’s rooms for dinner. By then I’ll try to have my plan ready.”
James rushed out of the room.
“James.”
His face reappeared around the door. They all said in chorus: “Fantastic.”
He grinned, ran down the stairs and leaped into his Alfa Romeo, which he now felt they might allow him to keep, and headed toward London at top speed.
It took him 59 minutes from Oxford to the King’s Road. The new motorway had made a considerable difference since his undergraduate days. Then the journey had taken anything from an hour and a half to two hours through High Wycombe or Henley.
The reason for his haste was that the meeting with Anne was most important and under no circumstances must he be late; tonight he was due to meet her father. All James knew about him was that he was a senior member of the Diplomatic Corps in Washington. Diplomats always expect you to be on time. He was determined to make a good impression on her father, particularly after Anne’s successful weekend at Tathwell Hall. The old man had taken to her at once and never left her side. They had even managed to agree on a wedding date, subject, of course, to the approval of Anne’s parents.
James had a quick cold shower and removed all his makeup, losing some sixty years in the process. He had arranged to meet Anne for a drink at Les Ambassadeurs in Mayfair before dinner, and as he put on his dinner jacket he wondered if he could make it from the King’s Road to Hyde Park Corner in 12 minutes: it would require another Monte Carlo. He leaped into his car, revving it quickly through the gears, shot along to Sloane Square, through Eaton Square, up past St. George’s Hospital, around Hyde Park Corner into Park Lane, and arrived at 7:58 P.M.
Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less Page 21
