Oxford University

by Ed Nelson

  It was much better when Brigitte Bardot kissed me on the lips. It was just a kiss in passing but oh my. Talk about bragging rights.

  There were pictures taken and a very short speech of thanks made by the President. The medal of the Legion of Honor Chevalier class was pinned to my uniform and it was done. There were several other presentations made for fire and police rescues and even for military action in Algiers. Each was more heroic sounding than mine.

  I did learn that the man trying to deface the Mona Lisa had recently been released from a mental institution which appeared to be a big mistake. He wouldn’t see the outside for a long time if ever. As far as helping rescue Miss Bardot, not enough good could be said. The French took their art and women seriously.

  From there I flew us back to London. I was getting to be an old hand at flying the London Paris route. Also, I really was comfortable flying the Cessna. It was really nice when looking down at that cold water in the channel to know I had two engines. There was never a hiccup but still.

  A limo took us from the airport to the Palace. There a similar ceremony was held with me receiving the Order of the British Empire from the Queen. She did not kiss me.

  I had worn my RAF dress uniform as ordered and it now had three medals that clanked when I walked. More like a clink but they did jingle. I also had five sets of ribbons for each of the orders to be sewn on my working uniforms.

  My Tuesday night introduction to the RAF continued at Lieutenant Smyth’s. He was getting around a lot better and soon would be going back on active duty. He told me this would be our last session as I had the basic knowledge one would expect of a flight officer. I now knew enough to be dangerous!

  I saw Iris Butler one morning. She told me that my Spanish problem was over. Maria had managed to get herself sent down. Girls were known to drink too much at the school. Girls didn’t drink too much and vomit all over the headmistress. I expressed disbelief that the prim and proper Duchess would do such a thing.

  Well, she did, and it was to a plan according to Iris. Maria wanted to go home to her boyfriend so bad she deliberately drank too much at a house party and then stuck her fingers down her throat and projectile vomited all over the headmistress.

  I had to admire the audacity of the plan but not the execution.

  Things settled down for the next several weeks. I had time on my hands in the evening as my daytime studying kept me ahead of the game. I took advantage of the time by exploring The Meadows.

  Mr. Hamilton joined me. He had been hired to run the estate just prior to our buying it. A lot of it was a mystery to him also.

  The first thing we did was explore the coach house. There were several old horsedrawn vehicles there. The most interesting were an open landau like they used on tours in New York City and what I thought of as a Princess carriage. It was a fullscale replica of the Queen’s state coach. What was interesting was that the landau and the state coach had a little plaque, ‘Body by Fisher.’

  Both coaches were in good enough condition that they would be worth saving. I wondered who I could talk to at the Palace. They had to have someone knowledgeable about such things. I would ask Mr. Norman the next time I talked to him.

  The house wasn’t old enough that it would have a priest hole, and it was too far inland for a smuggler’s hidden room but I had hope of an interesting find. There was an interesting find and it was in a place I would have never thought of. The books by the yard that had been in the library were now in the coach house waiting to be disposed of.

  I idly picked one up, Memories of an Essex Minister and it opened to a page with an envelope. What stood out immediately was the octagon-shaped stamp. I had never seen one like that before.

  I showed it to Mr. Hamilton who turned pale and his hands shook as he took the envelope for a closer look.

  “Sir Richard, this appears to be a British Guiana 1c magenta stamp. Until now it was thought that only one existed in the world. That is in the royal collection.”

  He handed it back to me. I could tell there was a letter inside the envelope but it appeared that the envelope had never been opened. We went to the house and using a knife-sharp letter opener cut it open without coming near the stamp.

  There was a folded letter inside. When I opened it a stamp fell out, the same stamp, never used. It looked like the day it had come from the post office. The stamp had fallen to the table so I left it until I could get gloves. There was no way I was going to touch it. If it was authentic there was no way to value it.

  The letter was from a British Embassy employee to his nephew who was a stamp collector. The letter was dated 1856. How it had arrived at its current location would probably never be known.

  After gathering the envelope, stamp, letter in a folder using white cotton gloves loaned to me by Mr. Hamilton I put them in the small safe in the estate office. It would take a safecracker to break it open. They could just walk away with the safe and cut it open at their leisure.

  I called Mum and Dad in the US since it was still day time there. They thought it was amazing and the recommendation was to ask the Queen through Mr. Norman to have the two stamps authenticated.

  That made sense to me. The next morning after having woken up twice during the night and checking that the safe was still there I called Mr. Norman. He was glad to hear from me as I was on his list to call about a flight to Oslo if I could cut classes the next day, which was Wednesday.

  As I had been acclimated to the Oxford culture by my friends I immediately jumped at a chance to cut school. That seemed to be the pastime of most students at Oxford.

  When that was arranged I told him I had two questions for him. One who would I talk to about having a State Coach refurbished and two who would I see about getting stamps authenticated.

  He told me there was a man at the Palace in charge of the Queens Coach so he probably would know who to contact. As far as the stamps if they were rare the Head of the Philatelic collection at the British Museum would be the person as they were in charge of the Royal collection.

  He did ask me what the stamps were. Apparently, he like Mr. Hamilton was a stamp collector from his reaction.

  There was a very weak, “Oh my,” at the other end of the line.

  He asked me if I could bring them with me tomorrow when I picked up the package for Oslo. Of course, I could.

  I arrived at Heathrow around ten o’clock the next morning. I was met by Mr. Norman who had a limo waiting on the tarmac in the visiting aircraft area. After shutting and tying down the aircraft we went to the British Museum.

  Two gentlemen were waiting to examine the stamps, a Mr. Haes and a Mr. Van Noorden. We all donned white cotton gloves and I opened the folder. Magnifying glasses, rulers and a solution for watermark testing were employed. They had the one known stamp there as a comparison.

  After half an hour of looking at the stamps, then referring to a list of Embassy employees of that time they concluded the stamps were real. We agreed that it would be safest if I left them in their care. I was given a receipt. Photographs had been taken and copies would be provided to me as soon as they were developed.

  I couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to the nephew who the stamps were sent. It is wonderful being in one of the largest museums and book collections in the world. A simple search from the name and address led us to the young man, Samuel Thomas. He had lived a good life as a baker.

  His obituary noted that he had been an avid stamp collector from childhood and that his collection was donated to the British Library at the time of his death. Further research on the donated items showed that he had many from British Guiana.

  The museum people thought this gave an ironclad provenance for the two stamps. Mr. Haes wondered what I was going to do with the stamps if they hadn’t been set aside they would have ended up in this collection. I took that as a very broad hint.

  Continuing on the family there was only one child from his marriage. The family moved to America and opened a bakery in Ne
w York City. The poor unfortunate son was killed in World War I ending the family line.

  I was returned to the airport and flew on to Oslo. I overnighted there as I didn’t want to fly after dark over the North Sea. There are rocks in those clouds.

  Back home I called Mum and Dad and told them about the stamps and the fact they were potentially worth millions. Dad asked me if I really wanted the cash. I dithered for a moment and realized I probably could never spend what I already had much less what was coming in.

  When I relayed that he suggested I donate them to the British Museum on behalf of Jackson Enterprises. My company would be having a hefty tax bill and this could go a long way to offset it. That sounded good to me. I had pictured buying a stamp album and putting a hinge on the back of the mint stamp. This sounded much saner.

  I called Mr. Norman on Thursday morning and told him of my decision. He thought that was wonderful. I thought that would be a good deed that would go unnoticed.

  It was not to be, in the Sunday edition of the Times there appeared an article and pictures of the rare find. They used the picture of me receiving the Legion of Honor from President De Gaulle. Knowing I would be chastised for not letting her know in advance I called my publicity agent and told her the latest.

  She laughed at me.

  “When are you going to run for public office, Rick?”

  “Now that is downright nasty take it back!”

  “Okay, seriously though you have all this wonderful publicity going to waste.”

  “What about, ‘Over the Ohio’, is it close to release yet?”

  “Right now it looks like July as a summer release.”

  “My school term ends the last of June so I will be back in the States, maybe you could arrange a tour for me. You know I own most of that movie.”

  “Yes I do, Sam Monroe reminds me every time I see him. He has forgiven you but he will never forget.

  Chapter 34

  Dad let me know that construction had been completed on my garage workshop at Jackson House. I really wanted a chance to see it and tinker around but wouldn’t get home for some weeks. Even then I didn’t think I would have much time.

  Mr. Hamilton and I did go through the rest of those books that had been destined for the tip. Over a thousand more and we found nothing except some pressed flowers. Why or who had pressed them was long forgotten.

  Lynn’s Stamp news wrote me a letter asking for an article on the finding of the stamps. I asked Mr. Hamilton if he would enjoy doing that as he was the stamp collector. He took on the job with great enthusiasm. He even knew all the technical terms to use in describing the find and its authentication. By this time I had decided with my parent’s input to donate them to the Royal Collection at the British Museum.

  In the notes that would appear on its display, I made certain that Mr. Hamilton’s name appeared as being present during the find. He chortled at that saying it would give him bragging rights and a few pints at his stamp club. Here I thought stamp collectors were a dry bunch.

  The school term continued on. During April I only made two more flights for the Messenger service. I think the novelty of it had worn off and now Mr. Norman was considering the expense of each trip.

  I did have a call from the London Cessna representative. They had an immediate offer for a Cessna 310. Would I be interested in selling one of mine? Since the third plane had never been out of the hanger since it was delivered it was an easy decision.

  The price offered effectively offset the low purchase price of the other two planes. In effect, I had been given two aircraft for free. Well until you counted in the ground maintenance cost. Don’t ever let anyone tell you it is cheap to own an aircraft. Whatever the purchase price is double that for the upkeep. I suspect the new jet aircraft would be even higher.

  That made me wonder about the Boeing 707 Mum and Dad had on order. It hadn’t been talked about in a while. On our next call, I found out why. They had gotten into the Boeing build queue. Their place in line had just come up when an Arab Prince offered to buy it.

  They sold it to him and now at the back of the line and wouldn’t expect one until this time next year.

  As Dad put it, “We’ve lived without one this long and can do without some more. As a matter of fact, if we can give up our place in line two more times we will get the aircraft for less than half price.”

  I could see buying and selling aircraft could be an interesting but risky business. During my last call, I learned that my sister Mary now had her own clothing line and it was doing exceptionally well. The world had better watch out! Dad sent me a Feed the Puppies T-shirt but I didn’t have the nerve to wear it. Maybe I could find some young lady that would be interested.

  Right now there were no girls in my life and that wasn’t right. I understood hormones and all that but really I just wanted some female companionship, maybe some cuddling and a few kisses, and maybe..., well you get it.

  The guys and I did a London outing one weekend. We stayed at my suite in the Plaza and went to several pubs that were known in Oxford circles as being filled with willing girls.

  The end result was a huge taxi bill and hangovers for the other guys. All I had was the taxi bill. I think I got the better of the deal.

  The results of my mock exams came back. I had the equivalent of all A’s and one B. The B was in Calculus and I was prouder of that than any of the others. The grades did validate my study methods and time spent. Now all I had to do was continue the process and keep revising on the previous work until the end of term exams.

  I was taking a light load as it was my first term. The more I thought about it I would continue the practice. It wasn’t as though I had to hurry through school to earn a living.

  I went to Tom’s home one weekend. He’s from Liverpool. He lived in what I considered a normal house, three beds, and a bath. His parents reminded me of Ozzie and Harriet Nelson, both in the way they looked and how they acted. They were just plain nice. They made me feel at home immediately. I wish there were more people like them. Actually, I hope Ozzie and Harriet were as nice in real life.

  Tom had to drag me to see his favorite band, The Beatles. They were okay. Tom knew John well enough that they joined us at a break. They asked Tom if he would be interested in investing in their band.

  They had a chance to play in Germany but needed seed money to get started. Tom told them he didn’t have the cash but then looked at me. No dummy’s they asked if I had a couple of thousand quid to spare.

  I hate being put on the spot like that but gave in. We wrote up a contract on a table napkin where I was a five percent owner of the Beatles and would receive my money back from the first income and then five percent of future net profit. I had my cheque-book with me and wrote it out on the spot. I just knew I would live to regret this and never see a dime or a farthing back.

  They knew of my songs and while they were too polite to say so weren’t impressed with my singing. I agreed with them so that didn’t hurt anything. The drummer didn’t seem to fit in with the group and I wondered if he would last.

  That was the highlight or lowlight of my trip to Liverpool. The only neat thing on the trip was watching the great ocean liners leave their docks with all the horns blaring. You could already see that air travel was doing away with this type of crossing. Just like the railroads a golden age was dying.

  However, across the Mersey was a new golden age starting. A container port was going into place. On Saturday I ferried Tom over for a tour on what was going on. They were reluctant at the gate to the terminal to let me in, but a call to the office brought two people down. One I assumed was the Directing Manager and the other Popeye.

  With a shout, I ran up and picked up Popeye in a hug. He beat on me telling me to put him down, ya big galoot. I remembered my manners and introduced Tom and told them we had stopped by for a tour.

  We got the gold plated tour of the facility. Whilst we were walking around Popeye also updated me on other terminals around
the world. He told me our Australians projects were going much better than we thought. I took this to include the Chinese project. Some things were better not discussed in public.

  Popeye did hit me with some news, our shipping line The Scottish Line had bought out another line and we now had sixteen ships in the fleet and it was growing. While we were talking back and forth Tom was paying close attention.

  I asked Popeye if Aunt Sybil was along but she was on her way to The Meadows to see her Mum. I would just miss her all the way around. He told me about our family and its happenings, did I know Mary now had a clothing line. I did.

  Tom finally couldn’t hold it in anymore. Rick, how does this all include you?

  Popeye replied for me, “Just like Rick not to tell you, he owns all of this and the shipping line and the factories that build the containers you see.”

  Tom had a gobsmacked look.

  “I knew you had money but you must be rich!”

  I had to jump in before Popeye could answer that, “You might say comfortable.”

  Unfortunately, the Managing Director had heard all of this and put in his two shillings worth.

  “He is working on being the richest person in the world.”

  I gave him a nasty look but it was too late.

  “Tom. I have a lot of money but these projects cost a lot of money so it isn’t like I can throw it around.”

  Not that I was going to throw it around no matter, I had watched my Uncle Wally ruin himself with a slightly better than an average salary. I could put Tommy Manville to shame if I tried. No way was that going to happen.

  “Well, it does mean you have the next shout at the Dog and Crown.”

  “That I can do.”

  “And what is this about a sister and a clothing line? Is she a model and can I meet her.”

  “She is a model and she is five years old and no you can’t meet her.”

  “Crikey that is some family you come from.”