Oxford University

by Ed Nelson

  There were large oil paintings hanging on the walls above the bookshelves. I didn’t recognize any of them. They must be famous old librarians. How does one get to be a famous librarian? I bet they were the ones who could afford to have their picture painted, using late fines I figured, though you couldn’t check books out so it must be something else.

  That thought made me laugh out loud. It was brief but now I can add being shushed at a world-famous library on my list of things that made me a bad boy. I had to let Sharon Wallace know. I’m sure she would let all the tabloids know.

  I was hunting for a report by a geologist by the name of Robert Rich Sharp who in 1915 found uranium deposits in the Belgian Congo, they had proved to be the richest ever found. I had the bright idea from a side comment made by one of the Don’s that there might be others like it in the world. I wanted to know what geological features defined this motherlode and see what might match it in the known world.

  I say the known world, it might lay on the ground under the Antarctica icecap and we would never know. Right now the United States had a lock on the minerals from this mine but it would have to play out someday. I’m certain that other people are working harder at this than I am, but that was the glory of an Oxford education. As they said you could follow your nose. It wasn’t a regimented regime like most schools.

  I would have to limit these side diversions from my studies but they were fun.

  Chapter 32

  When I got home from school the following Monday there was a phone message from France. It was Brigitte Bardot’s publicity agent. I returned the call very curious about it. In a very professional manner, he explained that they wanted to use the boat incident for publicity.

  Unlike others who wanted to use me in their efforts, he understood exactly where I would be coming from. After a brief discussion I gave him Sharon Wallace’s number, he could call her and work out the details. My fee would be considered payment in kind. In other words, I would get free publicity from the event.

  The best part is that I would get to meet Brigitte Bardot. Heck if he had asked I probably would have paid them.

  I called Mr. Norman and told him about my publicity opportunity. My question was did he want the Queens Messenger Plane in the pictures or should I take one of the others.

  “Take the Greyhound Rick.”

  That is how the plane got its name from that day forward. I even had it painted in small letters on the door with Sir Richard Jackson pilot.

  Anyway, Mr. Norman thought it would look good for the Messenger Service to be recognized in that manner.

  We got a call from Mum in the evening. She let me know that Jane Wyman had a little girl, Emily by name, all in good health. She also gave me the baby’s length and weight. That went in one ear and out the other. It must be a woman thing, like fishermen on how much did it weigh or what size. The only difference was the fisherman could throw it back.

  I was smart enough not to share that opinion. She did tell me my gift to them was a diaper service for one year. Who knew that there was such a thing? I thanked her for taking care of that. I really liked Dick and Jane and wished them the best. They certainly looked out for me when I first moved to California.

  I was waylaid coming out of my garage on my way to class the next morning. Iris Butler was waiting for me. She had a message from the Duchess. Apparently, the Duchesses family had investigated my background and due to my title and wealth had decided I would be a good match for her.

  She wanted no part of it. There was a young man back in Spain who she had set her cap for. I was to be careful around her as her Duenna was not above leaving her alone, and then claiming something happened and we had to marry.

  Gulp.

  I thanked Iris for the message and went to class. I know darn well the Don delivered a lecture but when I left the room I had no idea what was said. I spent the whole time imagine me trying to run from the Duenna but I couldn’t run faster than her. She was holding her long skirts up and gaining on me.

  Would I have to drop out of school and move?

  After school I had a phone call from Sharon, she had talked to Bardot’s people and all had agreed that it would be positive publicity for both of us so there would be a photo-shoot on Saturday at Orly airport near Paris. I was to fly in bringing changes of clothes varying from formal to informal. Sharon suggested I take my steamer trunk along.

  The steamer trunk was a large metal trunk leftover from the heyday of steamships. It contained a selection of costumes I had worn in my movies and the props. There were western, robin-hood and frontiersman along with associated props.

  I also planned to take Oxford informal shirts, Oxford sport coat, a suit, morning clothes, and my RAF uniforms, both daily and mess dress. It’s a shame I didn’t have my Boy Scout uniform or civil war uniform or I would have taken those.

  I had no idea what they wanted to see me in, so I intended to bring a little of everything. Ostensibly Miss Bardot was thanking me for my part in her rescue. The reality was a publicity shoot. A plain thank you would be half an hour maybe. This was planned for the better part of the day.

  They wanted to do it at the airport so they could show the airplane.

  It took me an entire evening with Mr. Hamilton’s help packing everything.

  On Thursday night I met the guys at the Dog and Crown. None of them had read the small article in the Times about a sailboat tipping over and the crew and passengers needing rescue. When I asked if they knew anything about it, they knew nothing about it.

  When asked why I brought that up, I told them I just thought it would be scary as all get out and was interested in the story. Tom changed the subject and fell right into my trap.

  “Rick you have promised us an overnight trip to Paris, when can we go?”

  “How about this Saturday I have some stuff to deliver.”

  The gang, Steve, Bill, and Tom were all for it. We agreed to meet at the airport at 7:00 Saturday morning.

  Friday night using the Bentley, I hauled all my clothes in garment bags and the steamer trunk and loaded the airplane.

  The guys were all on time Saturday morning. I had got there a little early and performed the walk around and had the plane fueled.

  The flight was easy. None of the guys had flown in a light plane before so they were following all the sights down below. Navigation was easy to get out of England all I had to do was follow the Thames. Once over the channel, I had to look at the compass.

  Other than all the rubbernecking going on it was an uneventful flight. At Orly when I identified the flight as Queens Messenger 001 the tower gave me instructions to follow after landing. I was to taxi to a hanger on the edge of the field.

  The doors of the hanger were open and I taxied right up and into it. There was a crowd of people waiting. I had idled the engines way down so the prop wash didn’t blow the people or all their equipment away.

  Of course by this time the guys wanted to know what was going on. Tom started sputtering as he looked out the window.

  “That’s Brigitte Bardot.”

  “Oh good, we are in the right spot.”

  I had been hunting for the right phrase to use for days and that is the best I could come up with.

  I shut down the engines and we piled out. Miss Bardot’s publicity agent introduced me to Miss Bardot. She came up and hugged me and laid a kiss on me that curled my toes.

  “Thank you, we could have died out there.”

  “You’re welcome, glad I could be of service.”

  I was speaking like an idiot!

  After that things settled down. I had a chance to explain to the guys what was going on. They were as tongue-tied as I was when introduced to them. We must have come off like a right bunch of prats.

  When asked if I had brought changes of clothes as requested I asked for the plane to be unloaded. A clothes bar on wheels was brought over and my wardrobe hung up. They had survived the trip, thanks to Mr. Hamilton’s packing.

 
; When I opened the steamer trunk and the costumes brought I thought the photographer was going to have a cow. He had been in rapture about having a Queens Messenger plane as a backdrop. Now he was in heaven. Maybe I over packed.

  They had set up a refreshment table with a continental breakfast and plenty of coffee so while things were being set up Miss Bardot and I exchanged stories. I must say she looked fantastic considering she had a child this past January. She was ten years older than me in age and about a hundred years more world-weary.

  Despite that, we had a pleasant conversation. She was even sexier in person than on the screen.

  The guys had been set up with a table and chairs to view the proceedings. It turned out to be like any other day on the set. Makeup and costume, then posing for the cameras, change redo make up and repeat.

  I had the college look, casual and formal, business attire, military work and formal, then Cowboy and Robin Hood. The only time it was really interesting was when they wanted me in the frontiersman outfit with my long rifle and tomahawk.

  I had been going along with the makeup people all day. For this layout I had them do me dark and evil as in my Lewis Wetzel Deathwind character from ‘Over the Ohio’.

  That got their attention on the set. I had to explain this was a look from my upcoming movie. Miss Bardot loved it. From the way she clung to me in the photographs, I think she really loved the look.

  It took us up to dinner time to finish the shoot. Lunch had been catered but we were getting hungry again.

  Brigitte invited us to dinner at one of her favorite restaurants, Le-Train-Bleu. We accepted immediately. Fortunately, the guys had traveled in their Oxford sport coats with the Oxford University emblem on them so we would be admitted.

  The Le-Train-Bleu was built onto a train station in 1901. It overlooked the tracks. Inside it was the grandest building as far as decoration went that I had ever been in. It was ornate beyond belief. The food was wonderful. I now knew what escargot tasted like and I loved them. The other guys not so much.

  It was a pleasant meal with quiet conversation. No one approached Miss Bardot until we left, and then there was a line of people waiting. She graciously signed autographs for a few minutes and we moved on.

  The Bardot party dropped us off at our hotel, The Clement. It was a small place but the travel agent in Oxford assured me it was excellent. The only problem was they had put us on the top floor in the garret. The walls sloped and I couldn’t stand up straight in half the room. It’s okay for one night but I won’t be back.

  The next morning we meet for breakfast. I learned that the French really do make the best croissants in the world and that expresso will really wake you up. I had to stop at the British Embassy and pick up a package to return to London. Since this was paying for the fuel for the trip I was fine with it.

  Since I was going to the Embassy as a Messenger I wore my daily RAF uniform. I had permission to wear my Greyhound pin on my right breast, not to confuse it with an award.

  The guys all looked good in their Oxford sport coats. We had a ball going to the top of the Eiffel Tower, and then we took a bus tour of the city going through the Arc de Triomphe and then up to Montmartre to see the painting district. We even got to walk down Rue Morgue.

  Along the way, we stopped at the British Embassy and picked up my package. It turned out to be a sealed envelope which fit nicely in my satchel.

  The highlight of the day was an almost quick trip through the Louvre. I say almost because there was an event. We were in the line approaching the Mona Lisa. This was such a popular attraction you could only stand and look at it for a minute or less.

  We were to be the next up when this man came charging through the line with something in his hand. He had just passed me when he raised his arm to throw the object at the painting.

  I was in a position to grab his arm and in doing so overbalance him. He fell backward’s and his container of what proved later to be battery acid spilled all over me. It didn’t hit me in the face thank goodness. It soaked my pants and shirt. From the way, the fabric reacted I knew I had a problem.

  The museum guards wrestled the guy to the floor and kept him there until the Gendarmes showed up. In the meantime, I had removed my shirt and undershirt. I have no modesty when I’m being eaten by acid.

  One of the guards led me to a toilet where he liberally soaked me in water. It was quick enough that I didn’t receive any acid burns.

  The Gendarmes interviewed me. My passport didn’t get soaked as it was in the small satchel I carried. Denny called it a man bag when he first saw it, but it was convenient for trips like this. Of course, the reporters showed up and got pictures of me without a shirt.

  After that, we returned to the hotel where we had left our luggage in the luggage room while we were on our tour. There I put on a new shirt. The old one was yellowed and had holes eaten in it. I was very lucky not to be burned by the acid.

  The flight home was uneventful. The guys were bubbling over about the outing. They wanted to know when we could do it again. I told them I was up for it but couldn’t promise Brigitte Bardot.

  That was okay, they wanted Rome next and Sophia Loren.

  I was very tired by the time we got home. Grand Mum wanted to know how the trip and photoshoot went. I told her fine and I would give her the details in the morning.

  At breakfast Grand Mum had the Times folded opened to a page with my shirtless picture.

  “Your trip was fine? You are just as bad as your Mum.”

  There was an accompanying article. I was described as a hero of France saving the great artwork of The Mona Lisa and Brigitte Bardot. I’m not certain which one they thought was the great artwork.

  I told her how events had unfolded. She sniffed and said that is like the French, they make a big deal out of the littlest things. I don’t think Grand Mum is a fan of the French.

  At school, a couple of the Dons who I didn’t even think were aware I was in their class recognized me and my recent heroics. That was embarrassing.

  I just thought that was embarrassing. I received a call from Mr. Norman after school.

  “Rick saving the Mona Lisa means a great deal to the French, I received a phone call. They are awarding you the Legion of Honor in the rank of Chevalier. Since you were in uniform it is an Award for Service. It is to be presented on behalf of France next Saturday by President Charles de Gaulle.”

  “Wow!”

  I come up with the most brilliant words at times like this.

  “It brings up another situation. The Minister of Defense does not like its officers to receive foreign awards without the British equivalent. So you will be receiving the MBE or Order of the British Empire. This is considered a knighthood in its own right.”

  “Double wow.”

  Well, what could I really say? So now I was Sir Richard Jackson, KG, MBE, LOH. Some things in this world just don’t make sense but why try to fight it. I hadn’t put my KG ribbon on my uniform as it would look very lonely. Now I had three of them. Soon I could look like an American Boy Scout.

  Chapter 33

  Of course, the guys all picked up on the fact all of my awards were knighthoods so that made me:

  Sir, Sir, Sir Richard the stuttering knight,

  He flew his airplane to a great height,

  He got so high he had a great fright,

  Sir, Sir, Sir Richard the stuttering knight.

  It only took them three pints apiece on a Thursday night to come up with that doggerel, this from people attending Oxford University.

  Other than the creation of that Masterpiece it was a quiet week at school. More people seemed to recognize me as I went around the campus but no one approached me or was a nuisance.

  I was approached by a group from the Bullingdon dining club and asked to join. I heard enough about it that I wanted no part of it. Its reputation was terrible. It was considered a reflection of the worse in the British ruling class. When I declined the snide comment was made that I p
robably couldn’t afford it.

  Later I found out their club costume cost over three thousand pounds. Yes, I could afford it, but that was just plain stupid.

  I mentioned it to Mum on a phone call. She told me I had made the right call and saved her a trip to twist my ears. Ouch.

  I spent most of my days either in the lecture halls listening and studying or with my tutors. I would attend the lecture and while half-listening read through the lecture notes. I would then make a note of anything I didn’t understand immediately and ask for clarification from my tutor.

  This made my tutoring sessions very efficient as I set the learning pace. At first, the tutors wanted to plod through the materials at their rate. That would have driven me crazy. They all came into line as they realized that as a student I was really learning the material in depth.

  Well, all but calculus, in-depth was not the true description, learning enough to get by the skin of my teeth was more like it. Every time I thought I had a handle on it, a new thought came up and I was back to deer in the headlights. I spent at least twice as much time on it as anything else. Fortunately, Chuck Erich needed the money or he would have run screaming by now.

  My tutoring sessions mostly occurred in my garage loft. It was my own private getaway and study area. It was snug in the damp English winter and convenient to the school. Tom, Steve, and Bill would join me at irregular times. It took some strong words to make them understand that I was here to learn and not play. They came around.

  I would also go to the driving range every other evening after school. I needed to keep loose for the US Open. I was looking forward to it as a real break from the routine of school.

  On the second Saturday after the infamous trip to Paris, I returned to receive my award. I first stopped in London to pick up Mr. Norman who was there to represent the Queens Messengers.

  It was at the Élysée Palace the residence and office of the President of France. Charles de Gaulle made the presentation. He kissed me on both cheeks. Yuck.