Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less

16

At 5 am the sun rose over the Cherwell, and those few Oxonians who were about that early would have been left in no doubt as to why the connoisseurs consider Magdalen to be the most beautiful college at either Oxford or Cambridge. Nestling on the banks of the river, its perpendicular architecture is easy on the eye. King Edward VII, Prince Henry, Cardinal Wolsey, Edward Gibbon and Oscar Wilde had all passed through its portals. But the only thing that was passing through Stephen’s mind as he lay awake that morning was the education of Harvey Metcalfe.

He could hear his own heartbeat, and for the first time he knew what Robin and Jean-Pierre had been through. It seemed a lifetime since their first meeting only three months before. He smiled to himself at the thought of how close they had all become in their common aim of defeating Harvey Metcalfe. Although Stephen, like James, was beginning to have a sneaking admiration for the man, he was now even more convinced that Metcalfe could be outmaneuvered when he was not on home ground. For over two hours Stephen lay motionless in bed, deep in thought, going over his plan again and again. When the sun had climbed over the tallest tree, he rose, showered, shaved and dressed slowly and deliberately, his mind still on the day ahead.

He made his face up carefully to age himself by fifteen years. It took him a considerable time, and he wondered whether women had to struggle as long in front of the mirror to achieve the opposite effect. He donned his gown, a magnificent scarlet, proclaiming him a Doctor of Philosophy of the University of Oxford. It amused him that Oxford had to be different. Every other university abbreviated this universal award for research work to Ph.D. In Oxford, it was D.Phil. He studied himself in the mirror.

‘If that doesn’t impress Harvey Metcalfe, nothing ever will.’

And what’s more, he had the right to wear it. He sat down to study his red dossier for the last time. He had read the closely typewritten pages so often that he practically knew them by heart.

He avoided breakfast. Looking nearly fifty, he would undoubtedly have caused a stir among his colleagues, though probably the older dons would have failed to observe anything unusual in his appearance.

Stephen headed out of the college into the High, unnoticed among the thousand or so other graduates all dressed like fourteenth-century archbishops. Anonymity on that particular day was going to be easy. That, and the fact that Harvey would be bemused by the strange traditions of the ancient university, were the two reasons why Stephen had chosen Encaenia for his day of battle.

He arrived at the Randolph at 9.55 am and informed one of the younger bellboys that his name was Professor Porter and that he had come to pick up Mr Metcalfe. Stephen took a seat in the lounge. The young man scurried away and returned moments later with Harvey.

‘Mr Metcalfe — Professor Porter.’

‘Thank you,’ said Stephen. He made a mental note to return and tip the bellboy. That touch had been useful, even if it was only part of his job.

‘Good morning, Professor,’ said Harvey, taking a seat. ‘So tell me, what have I let myself in for?’

‘Well,’ said Stephen, ‘Encaenia begins officially when all the notables of the university take a breakfast of champagne, strawberries and cream at Jesus College, which is known as Lord Nathaniel Crewe’s Benefaction.’

‘Who’s this Lord Crewe guy? Will he be at the breakfast?’

‘Only in spirit; the great man died some three hundred years ago. Lord Nathaniel Crewe was a Doctor of the university and the Bishop of Durham, and he left £200 a year to the university as a Benefaction to provide the breakfast and an oration which we shall hear later. Of course, the money he willed no longer covers expenses nowadays, with rising prices and inflation, so the university has to dip into its own pocket to continue the tradition. When breakfast is over there is a procession and parade to the Sheldonian Theatre.’

‘What happens then?’

‘The parade is followed by the most exciting event of the day. The presentation of the Honorands for degrees.’

‘The what?’ said Harvey.

‘The Honorands,’ said Stephen. ‘They are the distinguished men and women who have been chosen by the senior members of the university to be awarded Oxford honorary degrees.’ Stephen looked at his watch. ‘In fact, we must leave now to be sure of having a good position on the route from which to watch the procession.’

Stephen rose and guided his guest out of the Randolph Hotel. They strolled down the Broad and found an excellent spot just in front of the Sheldonian Theatre, where the police cleared a little space for Stephen because of his scarlet gown. A few minutes later the procession wound into sight around the corner from the Turl. The police held up all the traffic and kept the public on the pavement.

‘Who are the guys in front carrying those clubs?’ inquired Harvey.

‘They are the University Marshal and the Bedels. They are carrying maces to safeguard the Chancellor’s procession.’

‘Jesus, of course it’s safe. This isn’t Central Park, New York.’

‘I agree,’ said Stephen, ‘but it hasn’t always been so over the past three hundred years, and tradition dies hard in England.’

‘And who’s that behind the Bedel fellows?’

‘The one wearing the black gown with gold trimmings is the Chancellor of the university, accompanied by his page. The Chancellor is the Right Honourable Harold Macmillan, who was Prime Minister of Great Britain in the late ’50’s and early ’60’s.’

‘Oh yes, I remember the guy. Tried to get the British into Europe but De Gaulle wouldn’t have it.’

‘Well, I suppose that’s one way of remembering him. Now, he’s followed by the Vice-Chancellor, Mr Habakkuk, who is also the Principal of Jesus College.’

‘You’re losing me, Professor.’

‘Well, the Chancellor is always a distinguished Englishman who was educated at Oxford; but the Vice-Chancellor is a leading member of the university itself and is usually chosen from the heads of one of the colleges.’

‘Got it, I think.’

‘Now, after him, we have the University Registrar, Mr Caston, who is a fellow of Merton College. He is the senior administrator of the university, or you might look on him as the university’s top civil servant. He’s directly responsible to the Vice-Chancellor and Hebdomadal Council, who are the sort of cabinet for the university. Behind them we have the Senior Proctor, Mr Campbell of Worcester College, and the Junior Proctor, the Reverend Doctor Bennett of New College.’

‘What’s a Proctor?’

‘For over 700 years the Proctors have been responsible for decency and discipline in the university.’

‘What? Those two old men take care of 9,000 rowdy youths?’

‘Well, they are helped by the bulldogs,’ said Stephen.

‘Ah, that’s better, I suppose. A couple of bites from an old English bulldog would keep anyone in order.’

‘No, no,’ protested Stephen, trying desperately not to laugh. ‘The name bulldog is given to the men who help the Proctors keep order. Now, finally in the procession you can observe that tiny crocodile of color: it consists of heads of colleges who are Doctors of the university, Doctors of the university who are not heads of colleges and the heads of colleges who are not Doctors of the university, in that order.’

‘Listen, Rod, all doctors mean to me is pain and money.’

‘They are not that sort of doctor,’ replied Stephen.

‘Forget it. I love everything but don’t expect me to understand what it’s all about.’

Stephen watched Harvey’s face carefully. He was drinking the scene in and had already become quieter.

‘The long line will now proceed into the Sheldonian Theater and all the people in the procession will take their places in the hemicycle.’

‘Excuse me, sir, what type of cycle is that?’

‘The hemicycle is a round bank of seats inside the theater, distinguished only by being the most uncomfortable in Europe. But don’t you worry. Thanks to your well-known interest in education at Harvard I’ve managed to arrange special seats for us and there will just be time for us to secure them ahead of the procession.’

‘Well, lead the way, Rod. Do they really know what goes on at Harvard here?’

‘Why yes, Mr Metcalfe. You have a reputation in university circles as a generous man interested in financing the pursuit of academic excellence.’

‘Well, what do you know.’

Very little, thought Stephen.

He guided Harvey to his reserved seat in the balcony, not wanting his guest to be able to see the individual men and women too clearly. The truth of the matter was that the senior members of the university in the hemicycle were so covered from head to toe in gowns and caps and bow ties and bands, that even their mothers would not have recognized them. The organist played his final chord and the guests settled.

‘The organist,’ said Stephen, ‘is from my own college. He’s the Choragus, the leader of the chorus, and Deputy Professor of Music.’

Harvey could not take his eyes off the hemicycle and the scarlet-clad figures. He had never seen a sight like it in his life. The music stopped and the Chancellor rose to address the assembled company in vernacular Latin.

‘Causa hujus convocations est ut...’

‘What the hell’s he saying?’

‘He’s telling us why we’re here,’ explained Stephen. ‘I’ll try and guide you through it.’

‘Ite Bedelli,’ declared the Chancellor, and the great doors opened for the Bedels to go and fetch the Honorands from the Divinity School. There was a hush as they were led in by the Public Orator, Mr J. G. Griffith, who presented them one by one to the Chancellor, enshrining the careers and achievements of each in polished and witty Latin prose.

Stephen’s translation, however, followed a rather more liberal line and was embellished with suggestions that their doctorates were as much the result of financial generosity as of academic prowess.

‘That’s Lord Amory. They’re praising him for all the work he has done in the field of education.’

‘How much did he give?’

‘Well, he was Chancellor of the Exchequer. And there’s Lord Hailsham. He has held eight Cabinet positions, including Secretary of State for Education and finally Lord Chancellor. Both he and Lord Amory are receiving the degree of Doctor of Civil Law.’

Harvey recognized Dame Flora Robson, the actress, who was being honored for a distinguished lifetime in the theater; Stephen explained that she was receiving the degree of Doctor of Letters, as was the Poet Laureate, Sir John Betjeman. Each was presented with his scroll by the Chancellor, shaken by the hand and then shown to a seat in the front row of the hemicycle.

The final Honorand was Sir George Porter, Director of the Royal Institution and Nobel Laureate. He received his honorary degree of Doctor of Science.

‘My namesake, but no relation. Oh well, nearly through,’ said Stephen. ‘Just a little prose from John Wain, the Professor of Poetry, about the benefactors of the university.’

Mr Wain delivered the Crewian Oration, which took him some twelve minutes, and Stephen was grateful for something so lively in a language they could both understand. He was only vaguely aware of the recitations of undergraduate prize winners which concluded the proceedings.

The Chancellor of the university rose and led the procession out of the hall.

‘Where are they all off to now?’ asked Harvey.

‘They are going to have lunch at All Souls, where they will be joined by other distinguished guests.’

‘God, what I would give to be able to attend that.’

‘I have arranged it,’ replied Stephen.

Harvey was quite overwhelmed.

‘How did you fix that, Professor?’

‘The Registrar was most impressed by the interest you have shown in Harvard and I think they hope you might find it possible to assist Oxford in some small way, especially after your wonderful win at Ascot.’

‘What a great idea. Why didn’t I think of that?’

Stephen tried to show little interest, hoping that by the end of the day he would have thought of it. He had learned his lesson on overkill. The truth was that the Registrar had never heard of Harvey Metcalfe, but because it was Stephen’s last term at Oxford he had been put on the list of invitations by a friend who was a Fellow of All Souls.

They walked over to All Souls, just across the road from the Sheldonian Theatre. Stephen attempted, without much success, to explain the nature of All Souls to Harvey. Indeed, many Oxonians themselves find the college something of an enigma.

‘Its corporate name,’ Stephen began, ‘is the College of All Souls of the Faithful Departed of Oxford, and it resonantly commemorates the victors of Agincourt. It was intended that masses should forever be said there for the repose of their souls. Its modern role is unique in academic life. All Souls is a society of graduates distinguished either by promise or achievement, mostly academic, from home and abroad, with a sprinkling of men who have made their mark in other fields. The college has no undergraduates, and generally appears to the outside world to do much as it pleases with its massive financial and intellectual resources.’

Stephen and Harvey took their places among the hundred or more guests at the long table in the noble Codrington Library. Stephen spent the entire time insuring that Harvey was kept fully occupied and was not too obvious. He was thankfully aware that on such occasions people never remember whom they meet or what they say, and happily introduced Harvey to everyone around as a distinguished American philanthropist. He was fortunately placed some way from the Vice-Chancellor, the Registrar and the Secretary of the University Chest.

Harvey was quite overcome by the new experience and was content just to listen to the distinguished men around him — which surprised Stephen, who had feared he would never stop talking. When the meal was over and the guests had risen, Stephen drew a deep breath and played one of his riskier cards. He deliberately marched Harvey up to the Chancellor.

‘Chancellor,’ he said to Harold Macmillan.

‘Yes, young man.’

‘May I introduce Mr Harvey Metcalfe from Boston. Mr Metcalfe, as you will know, Chancellor, is a great benefactor of Harvard.’

‘Yes, of course. Capital, capital. What brings you to England, Mr Metcalfe?’

Harvey was nearly speechless.

‘Well, sir, I mean Chancellor, I came to see my horse Rosalie run in the King George and Elizabeth Stakes.’

Stephen was now standing behind Harvey and made signs to the Chancellor that Harvey’s horse had won the race. Harold Macmillan, as game as ever and never one to miss a trick, replied:

‘Well, you must have been very pleased with the result, Mr Metcalfe.’

‘Well, sir, I guess I was lucky.’

‘You don’t look to me the type of man who depends on luck.’

Stephen took his career firmly in both hands.

‘I am trying to interest Mr Metcalfe in supporting some research we are doing at Oxford, Chancellor.’

‘What a good idea.’ No one knew better than Harold Macmillan, after seven years of leading a political party, how to use flattery on such occasions. ‘Keep in touch, young man. Boston was it, Mr Metcalfe? Do give my regards to the Kennedys.’

Macmillan swept off, resplendent in his academic dress. Harvey stood dumbfounded.

‘What a great man. What an occasion. I feel I’m part of history. I just wish I deserved to be here.’

Having completed his task, Stephen was determined to escape before any mistakes could be made. He knew Harold Macmillan would shake hands with and talk to over a thousand people that day and the chances of his remembering Harvey were minimal. In any case, it would not much matter if he did. Harvey was, after all, a genuine benefactor of Harvard.

‘We ought to leave before the senior members, Mr Metcalfe.’

‘Of course, Rod. You’re the boss.’

‘I think that would be courtesy.’

Once they were out on the street Harvey glanced at his large Jaeger le Coultre watch. It was 2.30 pm

‘Excellent,’ said Stephen, who was running three minutes late for the next rendezvous. ‘We have just over an hour before the Garden Party. Why don’t we take a look at one or two of the colleges.’

They walked slowly up past Brasenose College and Stephen explained that the name really meant ‘brass nose’ and that the famous original brass nose, a sanctuary knocker of the thirteenth century, was still mounted in the hall. A hundred yards further on, Stephen directed Harvey to the right.

‘He’s turned right, Robin, and he’s heading toward Lincoln College,’ said James, well hidden in the entrance of Jesus College.

‘Fine,’ said Robin and checked his two sons. Aged seven and nine, they stood awkwardly, in unfamiliar Eton suits, ready to play their part as pages, unable to understand what Daddy was up to.

‘Are you both ready?’

‘Yes, Daddy,’ they replied in unison.

Stephen continued walking slowly toward Lincoln, and they were no more than a few paces away when Robin appeared from the main entrance of the college in the official dress of the Vice-Chancellor, bands, collar, white tie and all. He looked fifteen years older and as much like Mr Habakkuk as possible. Perhaps not quite so bald, thought Stephen.

‘Would you like to be presented to the Vice-Chancellor?’ asked Stephen.

‘That would be something,’ said Harvey.

‘Good afternoon, Vice-Chancellor, may I introduce Mr Harvey Metcalfe.’

Robin doffed his academic cap and bowed. Stephen returned the compliment in like manner. Robin spoke before Stephen could continue:

‘Not the benefactor of Harvard University?’

Harvey blushed and smiled at the two little boys who were holding the Vice-Chancellor’s train. Robin continued:

‘This is a pleasure, Mr Metcalfe. I do hope you are enjoying your visit to Oxford. Mind you, it’s not everybody who’s fortunate enough to be shown around by a Nobel Laureate.’

‘I’ve enjoyed it immensely, Vice-Chancellor, and I’d like to feel I could help this university in some way.’

‘Well, that is excellent news.’

‘Look, gentlemen, I’m staying here at the Randolph Hotel. It would be my great pleasure if you could all have tea with me later this afternoon.’

Robin and Stephen were thrown for a moment. He’d done it again — the unexpected. Surely the man realized that on the day of Encaenia the Vice-Chancellor did not have a moment free to attend private tea parties.

Robin recovered first.

‘I’m afraid that would be difficult. One has so many responsibilities on a day like this, you understand. Perhaps you could join me in my rooms at the Clarendon Building? That would give us a chance to have a more private discussion?’

Stephen immediately picked up the lead:

‘How kind of you, Vice-Chancellor. Will 4.30 be convenient?’

‘Yes, yes, that will be fine, Professor.’

Robin tried not to look as if he wanted to run a mile. Although they had only been standing there for about five minutes, to him it seemed a lifetime. He had not objected to being a journalist, or an American surgeon, but he genuinely hated being a Vice-Chancellor. Surely someone would appear at any moment and recognize him for the fraud he was. Thank God most of the undergraduates had gone home the week before. He began to feel even worse when a tourist started taking photos of him.

Now Harvey had turned all their plans upside down. Stephen could only think of Jean-Pierre and of James, the finest string to their dramatic bow, loitering uselessly in fancy dress behind the tea tent at the Garden Party in the grounds of Trinity College, waiting for them.

‘Perhaps it might be wise, Vice-Chancellor, if we were to invite the Registrar and the Secretary of the University Chest to join us?’

‘First-class idea, Professor. I’ll ask them to be there. It isn’t every day we’re visited by such a distinguished philanthropist. I must take my leave of you now, sir, and proceed to my Garden Party. An honor to have made your acquaintance, Mr Metcalfe, and I look forward to seeing you again at 4.30.’

They shook hands warmly, and Stephen guided Harvey toward Exeter College while Robin darted back into the little room in Lincoln that had been arranged for him. He sank heavily into a seat.

‘Are you all right, Daddy?’ asked his elder son, William.

‘Yes, I’m fine.’

‘Do we get the ice cream and Coca-Cola you promised us if we didn’t say a word?’

‘You certainly do,’ said Robin.

Robin slipped off all the paraphernalia — the gown, hood, bow tie and bands — and placed them back in a suitcase. He returned to the street just in time to watch the real Vice-Chancellor, Mr Habakkuk, leave Jesus College on the opposite side of the road, obviously making his way toward the Garden Party. Robin glanced at his watch. If they had run five minutes late the whole plan would have struck disaster.

Meanwhile, Stephen had done a full circle and was now heading toward Shepherd & Woodward, the tailor’s shop which supplies academic dress for the university. He was, however, preoccupied with the thought of getting a message through to James. Stephen and Harvey came to a halt in front of the shop window.

‘What magnificent robes.’

‘That’s the gown of a Doctor of Letters. Would you like to try it on and see how you look?’

‘That would be great. But would they allow it?’ said Harvey.

‘I’m sure they won’t object.’

They entered the shop, Stephen still in his full academic dress as a Doctor of Philosophy.

‘My distinguished guest would like to see the gown of a Doctor of Letters.’

‘Certainly, sir,’ said the young assistant, who was not going to argue with a Fellow of the University.

He vanished to the back of the shop and returned with a magnificent red gown with gray facing and a black, floppy velvet cap. Stephen forged on, brazen-faced.

‘Why don’t you try them on, Mr Metcalfe? Let’s see what you would look like as an academic.’

The assistant was somewhat surprised. He wished Mr Venables would return from his lunch break.

‘Would you care to come through to the fitting room, sir?’

Harvey disappeared. Stephen slipped out onto the road.

‘James, can you hear me? Oh hell, for God’s sake answer, James.’

‘Cool down, old fellow. I’m having a deuce of a time putting on this ridiculous gown, and in any case, our rendezvous isn’t for another seventeen minutes.’

‘Cancel it.’

‘Cancel it?’

‘Yes, and tell Jean-Pierre as well. Both of you report to Robin and meet up as quickly as possible. He will fill you in on the new plans.’

‘New plans. Is everything all right, Stephen?’

‘Yes, better than I could have hoped for.’

Stephen clicked off his speaker and rushed back into the tailor’s shop.

Harvey reappeared as a Doctor of Letters; a more unlikely sight Stephen had not seen for many years.

‘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 pm 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 pm 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 floor. 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 pm.

‘Good evening, my lord,’ said Mr Mills, the club owner.

‘Good evening. I’m dining with Miss Summerton and I’ve had to leave my car double-parked. Can you take care of it?’ said James, dropping the keys and a pound note into the doorman’s white-gloved hand.

‘Delighted, my lord. Show Lord Brigsley to the private rooms.’

James followed the head porter up the red staircase and into a small Regency room where dinner had been laid for three. He could hear Anne’s voice in the next room. She came through, looking even more beautiful than usual in a floating mint-green dress.

‘Hello, darling. Come on, I want you to meet Daddy.’

James followed Anne into the next room.

‘Daddy, this is James. James, this is my father.’

James went red and then white, and then he felt green.

‘How are you, my boy. I’ve heard so much about you from Rosalie that I can’t wait to get acquainted.’