by Alan Judd
‘I revised the wrong bloody paper,’ he said, almost sobbing. ‘It’s political history and I thought it was political theory. I’ve had it now, I’ve had it for the rest of my life. I’m just doing what I can before the half hour is up.’
Robert put his arm round him. ‘You’ll be all right. You know more than you think.’
‘Go in. Sit down and relax for a while,’ said Tim. ‘Best thing you can do.’
‘It’s alright for you two, you don’t care,’ he said tearfully, and turned away.
Robert put his arm round him again. ‘Come on, you’ll make it.’ Between them they got him in.
Tim paused in the high doorway of his room and politely inclined his head to the invigilator, who nodded. Nearly everyone glanced up as he walked to the only empty desk, probably envying what must have looked like supreme confidence. He unscrewed the cap from his fountain pen, balanced it very precisely on the corner of the desk, then read the questions. They were searching, fair and well formulated. The paper had a modest, scholarly and serious appearance. He would have been very happy to talk about any of the questions; what bored him in examinations was writing his answers. He sat back and gazed at the ornate ceiling. He had never noticed it before. It was a very fine piece of work.
In another room Robert listened to the scratching of pens, stared at the girl in front, then at other girls, but saw no chance of serious distraction. Through the half-open door that led to the next room he could just see Hansford in a wheelchair, writing laboriously. Someone said he could have had an aegrotat but had insisted on sitting his papers, the first in his family who had.
Afterwards they had to push their way through the crowd. Neither spoke until they were on the High.
‘So?’ said Tim.
‘So what?’
‘So nothing.’
They passed parties in college gardens.
‘We’ve blown it this time,’ Tim said.
‘So?’
‘So nothing.’
‘Orpwood left early. I saw him go.’
‘He was still in the crowd outside, with Jan Simpson. She kissed him.’
‘Maybe he’s got there at last.’
Tim sighed. ‘I’d thought about leaving but it seemed impolite, having arrived so late. Like missing the starter, picking at your main course and leaving before the pudding. I kept thinking of Chetwynd too. That didn’t help.’
‘What are we going to do with his gun and bullet?’
‘What he said, I suppose.’
‘Now?’
Tim thought of Suzanne, with whom he was supposed to have tea. ‘So long as we’re not seen.’
They took the revolver from Tim’s drawer, the bullet from Robert’s jeans. Tim stuffed the revolver in his trousers and pulled his gown across in front.
‘I feel like a flasher,’ he said.
Chetwynd had specified the Cherwell and so they walked up to the parks. There were people on the bridge Robert usually ran over. They continued upstream towards the garden of Lady Margaret Hall.
Robert squinted at the sun on the water. ‘Remember when he played Russian roulette in front of us?’
‘I feel I’ve been playing it for months and lost this afternoon. But I never played it like that. Have you?’
‘No.’
‘Fancy it?’ Tim’s tone was light.
After a pause, Robert nodded very slightly. ‘If you like.’
They sat on the bank near where the Lady Margaret Hall fence ran down to the water’s edge. Beyond the trees people were playing tennis. Behind was the pond, a partial shield from the rest of the park. Two women with small children were throwing bread to the ducks which flapped and splashed and fought. First one swan, then another awkwardly left the island in the middle and glided swiftly towards the food.
At the sound of the shot ducks and swans rose clamorously, and the women reached for their children.
