Death at the Alma Mater sm-3

by G. M. Malliet

  She looked up at the sky, spotted a bright star, and wished upon it. But her prayer wouldn't be answered just yet.

  LIGHTING UP

  The next day with its full schedule of lectures and tours passed without incident, and Saturday evening arrived. Sebastian and Saffron were in her room in St. Mike's, where they had just made love, and they lay rather self-consciously folded in one another's arms. They had seen magazine ads, mostly for perfume, of how this pose of sybaritic abandon was supposed to look: glistening, tangled limbs and tousled curls; heads thrown back to gaze into one another's eyes in spellbound, satiated adoration. But because Sebastian did not adore, only Saffron held her head at this awkward angle. And it was much too cold in her room for abandoned limbs.

  "Time to go," he said.

  "I know," she replied, too quickly. Her voice, which she had tried to train since meeting Sebastian into the self-confident bray of the upper classes, usually betrayed her, this time breaking in the middle of the two short syllables like a schoolboy's. She cleared her throat and aimed for a lower register.

  "I have work to do," she added firmly but unconvincingly. He was making moves to get out of bed. Think of something to ask, quickly.

  "How's it going with the parents? Have you seen them today?"

  "Yes. It was ghastly. Bloody Lexy being here is causing no end of strain. I've even wondered…"

  "Wondered?" she asked, treading gently, gently. It wasn't like Seb to "share," as the American students would say. These few sentences were as gold to her. She didn't want to rush at him, make him clam up.

  "I told you. I've wondered if she has some vague hope of getting back together with my stepfather."

  "There's a cracked idea." Saffron gave a gentle snort of contempt, to mask her guilty realization of how similar were their situations, hers and Lexy's. The Americans would probably tell them both it was time to "let go and move on," and they'd be right. How easy it was to spout brainless platitudes.

  "Isn't it just? I really don't think James would be that mad, but you never know… he's such a stick; I never understood what my mother sees in him, really… I wish she'd go away… stay away from them. If anyone hurt India, I swear… "

  Saffron, thrilled at these disjointed disclosures, wisely kept quiet, but she was thinking, not for the first time, that Sebastian could be a bit of a mummy's boy. He'd do whatever it took to make his mother happy and keep her that way. The thought of James leaving his mother to reunite with the gorgeous Lexy-she could see it made Sebastian livid.

  "Maybe you could have a word?" she suggested tentatively.

  Sebastian, no longer listening, swung his legs over the side of the bed and reached for his rucksack. He had brought his kit with him to save time. He always did that. She knew how much rowing meant to him-she was reconciled to the fact he wanted that Blue more than he wanted anything, certainly more than he wanted her-but couldn't he at least pretend reluctance to leave? Maybe it was time, fretted Saffron, to start a slimming regime. She had put on a couple of pounds lately… The words of a Tracy Chapman song went through her head, as they often did when she thought of Seb:

  Maybe if I told you the right words

  At the right time you'd be mine.

  "Couldn't you…" she began. Don't say it.

  Sebastian began pulling on his rowing shorts and shirt. He reached for his warm-up top.

  "Couldn't I what?" His back was to her, which made it easier. Whatever you do, Don't Say It.

  "Couldn't you stay, just a bit? This once?" Oh, fuck. She knew better than this. She had no mind left when it came to Seb. Fuck fuck fuck it. Keep your face still and flat. Don't let him see.

  He turned. He wasn't angry, as she'd feared. It was worse. From the condescending, pitying smirk on his face, Saffron had her confirmation that those were not the right words. Those were precisely all the wrong words, lined up in the wrong order, and said in the wrong tone of voice. And definitely at the wrong time. Full points.

  It was his leaving a bit early that had thrown her off, she thought. Otherwise she'd have been smart enough, calm enough, to keep her mouth shut.

  Sebastian said nothing, just knelt to tie his shoes. Then he picked up his rucksack and headed for the door. As he was leaving, he threw over his shoulder the three little words that made her heart, which had plummeted like something thrown through an open trapdoor, lift again with hope.

  "See you tomorrow."

  But his tone was dismissive, like a king ordering the removal of a chamber pot, and she worried over this for a long while, playing and replaying the whole scene in her head. Rewind. Couldn't you stay? Oh my God, what had she been thinking? Play… just a bit? This once? Rewind. Just a bit?

  Anger, the only fitting response to his boorish behavior, never entered into it. The option of never seeing him again wasn't a choice that existed for Saffron. She was too amazed, too in awe, that Seb had ever looked her way in the first place, let alone chosen to spend time with her.

  That the awe was the reason he would leave her one day-that she knew already. -- The path to the boathouse skirted the sanctum of the Fellows' Garden, so Sebastian missed witnessing any scenes that might be playing out there. He walked instead along the outside brick wall of the garden, even though he had long since learned how to take a forbidden shortcut through whenever the coast was clear. With all the visitors, he doubted the favored meeting spot would be clear tonight. He passed by Gwenn Pengelly-he recognized her from the telly. She was headed away from the tennis courts towards the main building. She seemed to want to engage him in conversation so he just gave her a wave of his hand and kept going.

  He looks dark, she thought. Obsessed. Too serious for his age, that one.

  Sebastian quickened his pace. Having dawdled, he was late now. He had his routine, and it seldom varied; it unsettled him when it varied. He hadn't missed a day on the water except when a red flag warned of foggy or windy conditions, or the stream was running too fast. First, he's have a warm-up in the gym, including a spot of weight-lifting and a stint on the much-despised ergometer, then he would carry the single scull from the boathouse and feed its awkward length into the river. He would lock in the oars and, grabbing both oars in one hand, step lightly into the narrow scull, maneuver expertly into the seat, and secure his feet onto the footboards.

  Nearly an hour later he was ready to set out. The weather being warm, the air heavy, he had brought with him a drink bottle, which he slotted behind his shoes in the scull. He took a few minutes to settle himself, breathing deeply, then used one oar to push off into the river. He began building up his pace slowly, the boat slivering through the water and leaving a ribbon trail behind. Immediately, he felt calmer, anonymous and alone, just himself testing himself against the limits of his endurance. To Seb, sculling was much harder than rowing, because of the need to keep an even pull on both oars. In a way, he preferred it, for the challenge. He thought he might always prefer the isolation of the single scull to the camaraderie of a crew boat.

  He was St. Mike's star: Everyone knew he was headed for the Blue Boat-that he'd one day compete in the famous, four-and-a-quarter-mile Oxford-Cambridge race. Kevin, the club captain, granted him more leeway than most, even though Kev, whose father was career Army, had a morbid fear of the early morning marshals and stayed well within the rules. Kev reminded Sebastian, who assessed any rule in terms of whether it served his own purposes, of a dog behind an invisible electric fence, terrified of setting one paw wrong and being zapped silly. Imagine living your life that way-Sebastian couldn't. Old Kev even believed, when closer observation of his character might easily have convinced him otherwise, that Sebastian always operated within the rules. Even if he'd been so inclined, that was getting harder each day: There was so much congestion on the Cam a flurry of regulations had been issued to try to disentangle everyone and their oars. With the rules changing so often, the chances were good there was always someone out there illegally, rowing or spinning at the wrong place and time.


  Still, trying to outwit the EMMs for the heck of it was one of Sebastian's favorite pastimes, although their main interest was to be on the lookout for too much early noise and too many novice boats on the river. Sebastian knew just how far to push it, and went no further. He wasn't going to risk what he already thought of as his seat in the Blue Boat.

  Sebastian's thoughts kept pace with his steadily increasing speed, his powerful leg drive propelling the scull with ease: So what if the boats these days seemed to be filled with long, tall graduate students, some doing bullshit degrees just so they could row. I can compete with the best of them. I will win.

  Sebastian was far from being a novice rower, even when he had been a novice. He had grown up near Cambridge, and knew the river well, from Baitsbite to Jesus. For much of his young life, he had withstood hot days in the sun and bitter cold mornings in the rain just to be on the water. He now knew the river, he thought, as well as he knew Saffron. Better than. He knew the moment boats had to cross at the Gut and Plough Reach; he knew where crews would be spinning, just upstream of Ditton Corner. He knew where the river narrowed to the point it was barely possible for two eights to squeeze past each other.

  He knew that come Michaelmas term, between Chesterton footbridge and Jesus Lock, the junior and novice crews would be menacing everyone else out on the water. Uncoxed boats, rowing blind, the steerer's mind elsewhere, were a particular hazard. It didn't help that the river was increasingly crowded with rowers of all skill levels, and that long boats motoring past often had a complete disregard for the rowers, rather seeming to steer straight towards them. The "party" long boats of an evening, carrying drunken passengers, were the worst. No matter how many regulations CUCBC might pass, you couldn't regulate against stupidity. The dangerous corners of the Cam-Queen Elizabeth Way, Green Dragon, Ditton, and Grassy-each year awaited the unwary.

  An uncoxed boat was bearing down on him now, all of the rowers, to Sebastian's trained eye, too quick into the catch, or splashing their blades about in a domino effect from the stern. He eased up and gave a shout-it was that collection of berks from Jesus again. This time of year, there were usually only town crews on the river; very few, if any, college crews like this lot; maybe the odd post-graduate crew. Annoyed at the interruption, Sebastian strove to regain his rhythm, his thoughts also changing course, to his parents, the famous Lexy, all the oldies who had begun arriving the day before. Some of them in their forties, from the look of them. Really old. It was a wonder they could walk. Losing their hair, wearing glasses in old-fashioned frames, flaunting their kangaroo paunches. Trying too hard, some of them, to look with it. And that was just the women. It was pathetic.

  Thirty, to Sebastian, was a great age. Christ had been thirty-three when he died, hadn't he?

  Thinking: Only thirteen years to go, Sebastian pulled harder and the scull shot away, skimming the glassy water like a gull. -- Sebastian was well downriver as the old members enjoyed a celebratory meal, preceded by drinks in the SCR.

  Portia, wearing her academic gown over a dark sheath, had been making her way downstairs when she ran into Lexy, coming from the other end of the corridor. Tonight Lexy had exchanged her vamp-of-the-sea look for a black one-button pantsuit that accented her whippet waist, with a filmy white blouse spilling out of the low-cut jacket. She had looped her black academic gown over one arm, along with a small and sparkly evening bag, so as not, Portia imagined, to obscure her splendid appearance just yet. Portia also imagined it was the slightly longer gown of a Master of Arts; Lexy having matriculated as an undergraduate the requisite number of years before, the "promotion" was automatic.

  Portia commented on the elegance of her suit.

  Lexy nodded, abstractedly acknowledging the compliment. Her manner was jumpy, which might have been explained by her next words:

  "Someone broke into my room-I guess while we were at the wine tasting today," she said. "Went through my things."

  "Oh, no. I am sorry. That kind of thing is rare around here, you know. The students will 'liberate' the occasional food item from one of the communal kitchens, but that's only because they're starving half the time, poor things."

  "Well, it's happened now."

  "We'll have to make sure the Master knows. What was taken?"

  Lexy hesitated, a frown creasing her otherwise flawless complexion. "That's just it. Nothing is missing, that I can see. It's just… a bit creepy, is all. Considering."

  Portia didn't have time to wonder what she was meant to consider, for Lexy had gone on to a new topic:

  "You'll be at High Table, I suppose? What a bore. I was going to ask you to sit with me and Geraldo."

  Portia thought this would probably be more entertaining than what went on at High Table, and said so.

  "The thing is," said Lexy confidingly, peering up at Portia out of her legendarily blue eyes, "I'm rather afraid Sir James may try to sit next to me."

  Portia, who had gained the impression Lexy thought that an outcome devoutly to be wished, was confused. The famous Lexy might do many things, she felt, but confide in the likes of a perfect stranger like Portia wasn't one of them. Not without an ulterior motive.

  "Afraid?" she prompted.

  "Oh, I don't mean afraid afraid. It's just jolly awkward. You do see?"

  "You think he's carrying a torch, do you?"

  "All indications are so, yes." Lexy blushed becomingly. "What do you think?"

  Portia smiled. "I'm hardly in a position to know. Has he been bothering you?"

  "Oh. Well, no, not exactly. James is too much the gentleman for that. It's more this hangdog look whenever he sees me. The sad eyes following me everywhere. It's obvious he wants to get me alone. I can only guess why."

  Portia, who didn't really believe Lexy's answer to a request for a chat would be "no," pondered the meaning behind this extraordinary conversation. While Portia knew Lexy in the way one did know someone who was constantly in the news, Lexy could have no idea who Portia was. Portia was used to being confided in-she had that kind of face, she guessed-but this was… different. It had, thought Portia (beginning to descend the stairs, Lexy glued to her side), all the hallmarks of a woman scorned wishing to be vindicated before the world of society, the world in which Lexy operated, the only world Lexy knew. If anything, Portia was certain Lexy would welcome Sir James' approaches, if only so she could turn around and leave him in a publicly splashy way.

  Now, how to get myself out of the middle here? she wondered.

  Fortunately, they had reached the SCR by this point, where the buzz of animated conversation could be heard even through the heavy wood door.

  "I'm sure it will be all right," Portia, who had no such certainty, told Lexy. "Oh! I think I hear your friend Geraldo."

  Geraldo Valentiano was indeed in the room, talking loudly about polo in what seemed to be his trademark predatory fashion with none other than Sir James' wife. He might have been leaning in a bit too close, but India, for her part, was openly admiring his biceps. Portia slid a glance over to Lexy to see how she was taking this, and was surprised to see a look of genuine indifference on her lovely face. Her eyes were seeking someone else. Three guesses who that might be, thought Portia.

  Then Portia noticed the search operation was mutual-that is, Sir James stood near the drinks tray looking vaguely around the room, but at the sight of Lexy his gaze, anxious and worried, settled immediately on her. Portia wondered if there weren't some truth in Lexy's take on the situation. Odder things have happened, she thought, than old flames reigniting.

  But Lexy headed straight for Geraldo, who had left India with the promise of fetching her a drink. He had stopped, however, to admire his profile in a gold-framed mirror, a distraction which had temporarily derailed his mission. Lexy, with a meaningful glance at Sir James, was heard to tell Geraldo and the assembly in a loud voice that someone had broken into her room.

  Sir James looked about to respond, but a couple walked in just then, looking unmistakably American in a
way Portia found hard to define. Perhaps it was that their clothes looked starchily brand new, as if fresh out of the boxes. The man wore a Masters' gown, also shining in its newness. The woman Portia assumed was his wife wore a dress straight from the Paris couture collections, but of an unbecoming shade of purple under her own academic status gown.

  Just after the pair came Hermione Jax, Fellow of the college and one of its most stalwart supporters, financial and otherwise. Hermione in academic regalia looked to be in her element, as in fact she was. Disapprovingly, she scanned the assembled company with her protuberant, long-lashed eyes, then made her way over to the drinks tray where the Master and Bursar were now standing.

  Over the growing volume of conversation, Portia heard Sir James say, "It would be jolly fun. You're quite right. A row for old times' sake." She turned and saw he was talking with the Reverend Otis and the big Texan from the bar. "Lexy was our coxswain, back in the day. I wonder if you could persuade her?"

  "That's a grand idea," agreed Augie Cramb. "I used to love to row. Do we have enough to make an eight?"

  "Doubtful," said Sir James. "But we could manage a four, I think. I say, Geraldo, you rowed for your college, didn't you?"

  Geraldo, tearing himself away from his image, said, "Of course. I was and am a superb athlete." Clasping his hands in front of his stomach, he flexed his chest muscles by way of demonstration.

  "I saw a young man decked out for rowing headed towards the river earlier," said Augie.

  "That was my son," said Sir James, not looking at Augie. His voice held an odd, gruff note that might have been melancholy.

  "Will he be joining us for dinner?" asked Augie.