The Ancient Historian was more interested in Hugh Chauncey, whom he’d taught, and wasn’t the least surprised he’d been invited again.
‘An academic enthusiast of the best sort,’ he pronounced. No one would dispute the first bit, I thought: Hugh so professorial with his corduroy and his leather-patched elbows. But the second? Hugh had that well-bred way of listening – bending his head to you, neck stretched and reaching down like a horse about to nuzzle – which could make you feel inferior.
‘What’s the worst sort?’ I asked, to provoke.
‘The meretricious variety – bells and whistles instead of substance,’ my colleague bellowed, as if it was self-evident. Was that how he saw me? What did he think of the Dean?
But it was the historians whom the three of us discussed in most detail. I was shocked how little they knew about them; not even whether they were friends. They explained this away: Jim Evans wasn’t around much – it being his second year, he was ‘living out’, far away up the Cowley Road, where it got industrial and ‘possibly cheaper’; and Barnaby Quick, who had chosen to ‘live in’ again for Finals, was, ‘Come to think of it,’ oddly invisible. Still, our assessment of Jim was pretty consistent: he was very able, hard-working, perhaps too self-contained for his own good. Over Barnaby, we differed. The Ancient Historian saw a scholarship boy who’d failed to deliver, rightly forfeiting his bursary; the Mediaevalist and I suspected something was amiss – there was a rootlessness. I was charged with finding out what it was; preferably redeeming him.
Tyler was the one student I didn’t feel able to discuss, much as I’d have liked to. He came in when the Dean and I were out together – there are only so many times you can refuse a pizza – and I had to pretend disinterest. It was unfortunate, really; I’m sure the Dean caught me looking at the rest of the American’s gang, and what Tyler would make of me being there with the Dean I didn’t like to think.
‘Always surrounded by women,’ the Dean observed waspishly, ‘but he’s one of those who never puts a foot wrong. It’s very disappointing.’
I didn’t have to ask what he meant – he was determined to tell me. ‘So much of the Dean’s role is routine. We compare notes, you know: it’s all minor misdemeanours. We long for something egregious to add a bit of spice.’
‘You can’t be serious!’
‘Why ever not? Wait ’til you do your turn: you’ll be itching for someone meaty to take to task. The conceited or self-righteous are much the most satisfying. Look out for the likes of the Winston guy on those American schemes – Fulbright, Marshall and Rhodes: anyone told they’re at the pinnacle is at risk of crashing down.’
I couldn’t think what to say.
Tyler didn’t mention the pizzeria when we overlapped in the Lodge a few days later and nor did I, though I was sure he’d seen me. Instead we talked about hiking gear. He was preparing to kit himself out specially – no lack of funds there, courtesy of Cecil Rhodes and his diamond mines – and wanted advice on what to buy. We began one of those ridiculous conversations that you’re sure the other person can’t be taking seriously, about boots and different types of waterproof. There was zero sign of sanctimony and not a whisper of self-importance; on the contrary, Tyler was delightfully self-deprecating. Eventually I remembered myself, picked up my post and turned to the Head Porter, who would have heard the whole exchange, joking that I was the last person to consult on matters sartorial, was I not? Cue cheerful banter with his staff about my struggles with the hood of my gown, which I had often accused of falling the wrong way. The porters – all men of course – had draped mine many a time. Thankfully Tyler took the hint and disappeared.
l left soon after, wondering how the preppy look would adapt to mud and rain.
As term drew to a close, I decided I’d been paranoid.
It came upon me one afternoon in Eighth Week when I cleared my desk of the term’s dross.
My parents had given it to me for my twenty-first, when I was about to embark on my DPhil. I was fond of it: old but not properly antique, it was of the era before the educated classes – men, mostly of course – expected the size of their desk to reflect the scale of their responsibilities, plus the corners were nicely battered and the leather ink-stained, which gave it character. Mum had thought it an odd choice when I might have had a more feminine present, even a small piece of jewellery, but Dad had understood. Bidding together at the local auctioneers became an important part of the present, a sign of faith in the future.
Pulling out drawers and sorting notes from my colleagues, I revised some hasty judgements. The courtesies of Loxton and his ilk might not have been patronising. Yes, there was misogyny – a thought triggered by sight of a superfluous scrawl from the Ancient Historian, pointing out something I already knew, which went straight in the bin – but there was also respect. As for elitism, the details in the College ‘bible’ – and more importantly the students themselves – showed the place was more meritocratic than I’d feared, though there still weren’t enough from state schools.
What mattered most, I thought, chucking rubbish at the wastepaper basket, was that I hadn’t got in on false pretences. The undergraduates liked being taught by me; I’d had my first referral from another college for tutoring – a tick there; there’d even been an anonymous note on a lectern on Valentine’s Day, offering to buy me a drink, which I’d read aloud at the seminar to cause maximum laughter and maximum embarrassment – that merited a gold star. Plus I’d unearthed interesting material for my article on Ivy Williams, courtesy of some chance pointers from Jenny, and for my second set of lectures on women and social reform; research was going well – another tick.
Pictures flitted into my head and disappeared as fast as the paperwork. An image of Andy, kicking aside the abandoned post in his digs, came and went: loudly I tore in half a wodge of correspondence similarly overtaken by events – not needed!
Next in line were communications from the Dean. These sent me spinning back to an evening we’d spent at the Turf Tavern. Making our way back through the narrow alleyways, he’d lurched into me by mistake – at least so I’d thought at the time – and turned a steadying grab into a bit of a grope. Now I thought differently: as if one night entitled him to anything else! Besides, he had more of an eye for the students. Fun, but a bit of an ass and certainly predatory. Not bin-worthy yet, but dangerously near.
I leafed through the last of the cyclostyled sheets, assessing my role in the College. High Table was no longer an oral examination, nor the SCR an inspection, and I felt less like an interloper from the provinces. I’d convinced the College doctor that talks about contraception should be given to all the Freshers, not just the girls. Better still, I’d ventured a comment at Governing Body that wasn’t rebuffed, though someone said that in this case I might not know the history. Any difficulties were rarely about being a woman; some were about being an outsider; most were to do with being new. I was holding my own.
Finally, all was done. I pulled a couple of cushions from the low chairs, lobbed them onto the window seat and sat watching the comings and goings with my legwarmers on and a rug tucked around me.
The best thing of all was the attendance at my lectures. High from the start, when Barnaby counted over fifty, it had peaked at nearly seventy; even Tyler had come along, despite it not being his subject, which was rather remarkable. And the Faculty had picked up that there was standing room only and rounds of applause: I’d been ribbed about commanding a bigger theatre next term. This was what the Warden wanted to hear.
It was seven o’clock. Figures began to drift past the lit windows below, ready for Hall, and there the American was, prompt as ever. I watched him come down the glow of the staircase diagonally across the quad, his long scholar’s gown billowing, waving to someone I couldn’t see, and tried to remember when I’d registered that those were his rooms.
Lifting my own robe off the hook, I set off down the stairs, cloaked in black, taking them at an even jog but slowing pa
rtway to adjust my hood. And it occurred to me then that Tyler, by contrast, had just done it in runs of two, which was important, if I could only remember why. When I tried it myself, my own gown breathed in and out with that same little pause after every other step, just like his.
Saturday
Suddenly the Reading Party was upon us.
My suitcase lay open by the chest of drawers, pressing for a decision about what clothes to take; even on routine days I’d get stuck, torn between not caring and admiration for people like Jenny, who knew instinctively what to wear. Nearer, the open door into my study allowed a glimpse of desk, where my papers waited to be tucked into my briefcase – a battered thing, with weathered leather and blackened buckles, to which I’d stayed loyal ever since my uncle passed it on. This, too, demanded attention. Eventually I got up and padded about in my dressing gown.
Loxton had advised walking boots or footwear with a good grip; he’d been particularly robust about it with the women. I’d collected my well-worn pair at Christmas, which meant suffering a large boot bag in my narrow cupboard for weeks. Now I wondered whether they’d get sufficient use to justify the trouble; wondered too how many of the students would have an equivalent – Eddie or Priyam, for instance, who were both from London, or Lyndsey, from that huge secondary school up north, who looked as if she was as hard up as I had been.
And would everybody want to walk? Loxton’s photograph of Godfrey and his crew in hiking clothes, ready for a tramp, wouldn’t have amused everyone. What if students didn’t like the idea of scrambling on the coastline or failed to keep up? Pastoral care might mean sticking up for them.
Jim would be fine: wiry enough to be a walker, with the gait of a boy toughened in urban backstreets. Barnaby and Martin, too – they looked as if they liked the outdoor life. But Hugh, or Rupert? And what about the girls? Gloria wouldn’t want to be dragooned and Chloe would also be spirited: they might put up a fight, like my suffragettes. Mei, surely, would not. Speculating inconclusively about who might need support, I wasted half my head start.
As for what to work on, Loxton had made clear that he and I could do as we wished: no need to confront texts like the students, so long as we set an example of quiet application. I’d decided to take the draft of my article and the cards for my lectures in Trinity term. If things went well, I’d knock my paper into shape and embellish my speaking notes. Now it occurred to me that it might be awkward to work while surrounded by students. Would Loxton know if I was unproductive? Would the Warden get to hear? What cover might I need?
Eventually I squeezed two books into my briefcase: a hefty biography of a minor eighteenth-century social reformer – useful ‘secondary’ source material, and a slim working-class memoir from the 1900s – a first-hand account published by a new feminist press. At the last minute, I picked up a new box of my favourite pencils: yellow and black, with a pink rubber set in a thin filigree of brass at the end. It had a pleasant rattle, like a box of spillikins, and its pristine state made me feel anything was possible.
What, I wondered, would Tyler take with him?
Under the fan vaulting of the Gatehouse, most of the talk was of what people had packed, particularly footwear and reading matter. And there of course was Tyler, with Priyam and Barnaby examining his pristine boots, which he’d tied together by their laces and was holding aloft like a set of scales, laughing that he should have bought the worn-in variety. Even as I arrived, he raised a foot to compare the treads on those loafers of his and, chuckling, clutched at Priyam to stop himself from tipping over. He was a nice shape, I noted – the limbs in good proportion, like his hands. That was really not helpful.
Behind him Mei ducked, and smiled that slow smile of hers that suggested she was grateful for something. She and Hugh were on their haunches trying to fix the zip on her small suitcase, which had caught on a white bra strap, all hooks. They were discussing packing routines. Hugh suggested people could be separated into two camps: those who filled a case to its limits, on the grounds that you never know what you might need, and those who always left scope to acquire new things on their journey. The size of the receptacle and the requirements of the trip were immaterial, he said – except, of course, if you were a scholar travelling from Hong Kong: that must have been a challenge.
Mei’s face brightened as I joined them. ‘Which sort of packer are you, Dr Addleshaw?’ She looked at me from the flagstones, her head level with my knees. I put my belongings down and crouched at the right height to see the offending zip.
‘Oh, always hopeful. That was my clothes shifting just then: not many; there’s space in there still. Not much, mind – I didn’t dare bring the bigger one, for fear of Dr Loxton’s tape measure! How about you two?’
Hugh indicated a battered rucksack leaning against the limestone wall – long and narrow like its owner, its material faded and water-stained. ‘I’m afraid I’m the opposite: not much spare in there,’ he said. ‘Try it!’
Leaning sideways to reach over, I pushed down on the top. Almost no give: he was right that it was packed tight. Squeezed further, a point appeared under the waxed canvas near the base. ‘Don’t tell me, the bottom is all books?’
‘I’ve been very restrained this time – only three. One I have to read again – that’s the Herodotus, so you should approve; one I’d like to read afresh – that’s the Plato, which gets better every time; and one that will be diverting if I flag – my trusty Loeb sampler, which I ought to know by heart now, but don’t.’
Behind us came the sound of Gloria calling ‘Hola!’ across the quadrangle. I stood up and turned to look. Chloe, standing next to her, started running, leaving Gloria alone and statuesque on the steps of Hall. Soon Chloe was halfway round the quad – Ho Chi Minh Square, as she and other College revolutionaries had dubbed it – and was waving wildly to Eddie on the other side. They lurched in parallel towards us, mirroring each other’s steps – Chloe compact and ordinary despite the dungarees; Eddie rangy, eye-catchingly androgynous in his version. Gloria abandoned her pole position and made her own drama of joining the group. The noise of greetings ballooned briefly.
Loxton walked in from the street, deposited a case that looked as if it had come straight out of a wartime movie – like an oblong box, its sides dimpled from years of use, its surface spattered with the remnants of stickers – and handed me a set of car keys on a fob from a rental company, indicating the second of the Ford Transits lined up outside.
‘Good morning! Everybody here?’
‘Not yet,’ I said. ‘We’re missing three, I think. Morning to you too.’
He disappeared into the Lodge, a remark about deliveries from the kitchen drifting over his shoulder as he went. He was wearing a thick, ribbed jumper, twill trousers and burgundy shoes, similar to the kind Jenny’s father wore – polished, but free of that complicated tooling. Perhaps he’d left formality behind with his jacket and brogues.
As I looked around to check the numbers, Jim too came through the small open doorway in the massive wooden entrance gate, again partially blocking the light. He paused, seeming uncertain whom to join. Of course, he was the only one from his year.
I lifted a hand in greeting. ‘Morning! I was forgetting you lived out. How’s the Cowley Road?’
He started in my direction, but Barnaby was calling out to compare boots, so Jim clomped over to join him instead, shedding some caked mud as he retied his laces. He gave me an apologetic look, shoulders raised, palms out. Not a gesture I’d seen in him before; oddly good-humoured for someone normally so remote.
The counting reminded me of being a prefect, not that I’d lasted for long – far too rebellious in the sixth form. It certainly wasn’t how I wanted to be seen by anyone now, even if the younger students were behaving like excited children milling in a playground. And yet Loxton had thrust the role upon me.
‘Has anyone seen Martin?’ I scanned the group, already missing that reassuring presence. I’d had a boyfriend like him after Andy; the sol
idity was all too comforting.
Gloria stopped what she was saying to Rupert, who had appeared from nowhere and was already near the centre of the melee as if they’d been his year all along, and looked round. ‘He’s coming by car, from home. I thought he told you but maybe not. He’s such a turkey.’
Why had Loxton not mentioned this – or was I forgetting?
‘Of course. Let’s hope he’s prompt. And Lyndsey – anyone seen her this morning?’
That figured: she’d be the absent-minded one. By the time she arrived we’d nearly finished loading the vans, some of the students were already seated and Loxton was back in the Lodge, negotiating with a steward about access to the cellar.
Lyndsey looked surprised at the fuss being made. ‘Am I late? I was sure it was nine-thirty. Nine o’clock sounds so abrupt.’ She dropped a small piece of luggage onto the pile by the back of the second vehicle, and balanced a satchel and another bag on top. ‘Have you all been waiting?’
Gloria called out from inside: ‘Well, yes … anyway, it’s twenty to!’
I was right: Lyndsey was known for poor timekeeping. She had that look about her, of someone whose thoughts faced inwards not out.
Hugh, at my side, swung her modest bag awkwardly over the metal step under the rear doors and followed it up with the rest of the luggage and a muddle of coats. He shoved them all into line behind the third row of seats, Gloria’s large suitcase at the edge where it wasn’t so much in the way, and then got in and held his thin hand out for Lyndsey.
‘Here. Dr Loxton’s preoccupied with his wine: they forgot to bring it up. Jump in and he may not notice – missing bottles are much more important than missing women.’
The two of them sat down behind Rupert, Chloe and Gloria, who had arranged themselves in the row of seats immediately behind mine – the girls on one side of the gangway, where Chloe, pulling out a tin of tobacco and some Rizla papers, began rolling another fag; Rupert with space to himself on the other. Hugh checked something with Lyndsey and opened a window. My brothers had never been so polite, not even the elder one when smitten with Jenny.
The Reading Party Page 6
