Nick shrugged. ‘I thought I’d feel happier knowing I had people to go out with. People who didn’t just have me there on sufferance. But for that type of stuff aren’t people pretty much interchangeable? Can you really build a friendship on the fact that you happened to be one of the people there when Brent stormed the girls’ loo? I just watched. It wouldn’t have made any difference if I wasn’t there.’
Tim grinned. ‘You are not getting me to say that I think you should storm the girls’ loos yourself next time.’
But Nick didn’t smile like a normal person would have. He just fixed Tim with that strange solemn expression and let the silence grow thick and awkward, as if he were waiting for something while the kettle fizzed to a boil in the background.
Chapter 12
(Christmas Vacation [≈ start of December])
With Tim working double shifts at the coffee shop, the house was too quiet. Maybe it was some lingering uneasiness after the burglary, though he knew the chances of a repeat were minimal, but Nick found he’d got used to having another living, breathing presence around: someone to talk to now and then, even if it was just to say ‘How about a cup of tea?’
For a while he occupied himself looking up Shakespearean insults to use on the boat club. Neither ‘fustilarian malt-worm’ nor ‘flagitious giglet’ exactly ran off the tongue, but short of resorting to Latin nothing else seemed quite impressive enough. But there were only so many webpages on esoteric insults with genuinely original material and soon his laughter sounded forced even to his own ears.
Turning on the TV for the sound of another voice only made him feel more alone: talking to himself seemed strange and unnatural after a month where his words weren’t just falling on empty air. It had surprised him how much he’d enjoyed sharing his space: how far that went towards making the world seem more real, less distant.
With a sigh, he packed up his work and set off for the library, but detoured at the last moment into Clare to stand on the white stone bridge under the glorious copper beech, beautiful even naked of leaves. On the left, on the far side of the river, King’s College meadow was pale primrose in the cold sunlight, the weeping willow blue-white with frost, trailing into an iron river between silver banks. The dried leaves of the beech hedge that edged the Fellows’ Garden rattled in the wind. The shadowed flagstones were treacherous with ice, the air sharp as salt.
To the right, he could see Trinity Hall’s library jutting out over the river, all raw red brick and tall glass windows. He’d been standing just here, the day of his interview, when he’d decided that he absolutely had to go to Cambridge.
And now here he was. And there it was. My College, he breathed.
Ten minutes later, he was looking out of one of the windows he’d watched from the bridge. Only he seemed to be just as alone here. No other silent students labouring over their notes. No quiet camaraderie. If even Cambridge students don’t spend their holidays in the library … The words caught awkwardly in the air, seemed to hang there, mocking him. His skin prickled with embarrassment though there was no one to see, no one to hear. Sighing, he scooped his books back into his bag and hurried around Latham Lawn to Dr Gosswin’s staircase. Arriving half an hour early for an appointment with the Professor was inviting an argument, but better that than the slippery, shivery emptiness of the library. Yet all she said when he knocked, then popped his head around her door was, ‘You’re early. Good. You can make me coffee now.’
There was something comforting about being able to move around her gyp room almost without thought. It was nice to know a space that wasn’t his so intimately: to know exactly how to make her coffee. Apart from his dad, Tim and Bill, he didn’t know how anyone else in the world took their coffee. It seemed somehow like a failure.
‘For someone with such poor social graces it is incomprehensible that you should adopt such a relaxed and comfortable demeanour in my presence,’ she told him, when he brought the coffee tray in. ‘You have yet to attain the elevated position that would afford you the impunity to be irascible that is my due.’
‘My supervisor’s been telling tales, hasn’t he?’ Nick threw himself back in his chair. ‘So I got a little frustrated last week about this extra activity graphing a transformation. I figured out how to get the right answer, but I didn’t really get it. I’m never going to get a First if I don’t understand what I’m doing, and my supervisor wasn’t going to explain it because stupid Frank couldn’t even do the basic bit of the problem. If teachers can’t focus on the difficult stuff at uni because they’ve always got to focus on the stupid people, when can they?’
Professor Gosswin steepled her fingers. ‘Your life would be easier, Mr Derran, if you didn’t categorise the majority of other people as stupid.’
‘But they are—’
‘They are more stupid than you, yes. Most of the world is more stupid than you. I can sympathise with your frustrations, Mr Derran, without thinking you are doing yourself any favours in the manner in which you choose to tackle these frustrations in front of your peers.’
Nick clenched his hands on the arms of his chair. ‘Why am I not allowed to get frustrated? Susie cried in our last supervision and she just got a pat on the back. Frank spends half the time swearing and he just gets a laugh. Why is it a problem when I show how I feel? Why is it any less important that I’m frustrated just ’cos I’m frustrated at a higher level than they are? I’m not doing it to make them feel bad, so why do I have to be understanding about the fact that they’re not being stupid to annoy me?’
‘And what did your father say when you talked to him about this?’
‘He said I’ve got as much right to learn as they do.’
‘And that “standards have gone down and those who can’t keep up should find themselves another university to study at”, I dare say.’ She shook her head.
Nick looked away to the window and shrugged.
‘You will use words, Mr Derran, to reply to my questions. You must refrain from this louche and unpleasant habit of raising a shoulder by way of response. It is a most imprecise form of communication.’
Nick scowled at her.
‘The glare at least is unambiguous,’ she conceded.
‘Everyone keeps waiting for me to run up against something I’m not clever enough for. They keep saying it gets harder and if there’s already stuff I can’t do—’
‘If your supervision partners are likely to pass with at least a Third or, at worst, an Ordinary, what are you likely to pass with, Mr Derran?’
‘My dad says that a First from Cambridge will open doors for the rest of my life.’
Professor Gosswin sat back in her chair. ‘And so it will. But then, Mr Derran, I dare say your intellect will do much the same, to much the same degree – especially if you could learn to be somewhat less of a challenge on a personal level.’
‘Some people like a challenge,’ Nick grumbled, sitting forward to reset the chessboard for a new game.
‘But most people like a quiet, easy life, Mr Derran. My life would have been quite different if I had been willing to concede that point.’
Nick looked up at her. ‘You’re not sorry you didn’t.’
Professor Gosswin’s eyes brightened. ‘Only sometimes.’ She cleared her throat, waving her hand at the board. ‘Leave this and fetch me another cup of coffee, you inconsiderate boy.’
‘Isn’t it a bit late for you to have so much caffeine?’
Professor Gosswin rolled her lip up in a sneer that showed her crooked left incisor: a sign of certain danger. ‘When I am ready for a nursemaid I shall not offer you the job.’
By the time Nick came back with the replenished coffee tray, Professor Gosswin was standing by the window, looking out over Latham Lawn to the roofs of Clare and the spires of King’s Chapel. She turned slowly, gesturing at a brown-paper package on the chessboard. ‘Something to occupy yourself with over Christmas,’ she said dismissively. ‘Now pour the coffee.’
Nick did as
he was told as she settled back into her chair, then sat turning the book – because it could only be a book – over in his hands.
‘It is not a watch, Mr Derran. It does not need to be tossed or wound in order to work. Put it in your bag and stop fussing at it.’
Nick pushed up from his chair then stopped and turned back. ‘Thank you,’ he told the floor by her right foot. ‘You didn’t have to.’
‘Of course I didn’t. Why do you always persist in telling me that I don’t have to do things, when I am perfectly well aware of that fact?’ She shook her head. ‘Now, return to your seat so I can trounce you once again.’ She turned the board to take the white pieces and advanced a pawn.
Nick picked a pawn at random.
Gosswin slapped his hand away from the board and moved a different piece for him. ‘Think, Mr Derran, think. You cannot blunder blindly on to the board and expect fate to guide you silently to victory.’
‘Well, nothing else is working.’
‘Perseverance, Mr Derran. Chess is a game played between people. And all things between people that are of any worth require perseverance.’
Nick sighed as she slammed a knight down for her turn.
‘People sometimes do not learn as fast as they should, nor indeed as fast as they need. But sometimes we have to accept that there are types of learning that cannot be rushed. It’s a difficult lesson for those of us who are usually quick on the uptake,’ she added wryly. ‘There are things I think I am only just starting to learn now, when it is almost too late for them to be useful. On which note, is your godfather joining you for Christmas?’
‘Yeah, but how’s that related?’
‘And Mr Brethan. What are his plans?’
‘I haven’t asked.’
Professor Gosswin heaved a sigh of great forbearance. ‘Then maybe you should,’ she said.
The book lay open across his knees, glowing as if even the cover were gilded in the last of the sunlight spilling between the houses opposite. A group of kids raced past, yelling and laughing, piling up the front path of one of the neighbouring houses and through the front door. A group of teenagers sauntered in the opposite direction, pulling faces and looking disdainful.
‘Whatcha reading?’
Nick started, nearly dropping his book as he jolted upright. Tim was slouched in the doorway, looking unshaven and shadow-eyed.
Nick’s hands pressed the book protectively to his chest. ‘Something Professor Gosswin gave me … to read.’
Tim shrugged. ‘I didn’t think you were going to play tennis with it.’
Nick grinned. ‘It’s … Well, it’s a good book, but it’s less about the content and more … I guess you could say there’s another meaning to it.’
‘Ah, a mystery. Fair enough then.’ Tim let his satchel drop to the floor. ‘Coffee?’ he called, as he loped through to the kitchen.
‘You OK?’ Nick asked, coming to lean in the doorway.
Tim shrugged. ‘Why?’
‘You look,’ he made a vague gesture in the air, ‘disreputable.’
Tim laughed, though there was something brittle about the sound. ‘Sounds about right.’
‘I thought you were going to see Ange.’
‘I was.’
‘She stood you up?’
‘Nope.’
‘Did she tell you off about a girl?’
Tim gave him an aggrieved look.
‘What?’ Nick raised his hands. ‘You don’t tend to upset her in any other way. So what did you do?’
‘Just leave it alone, Nick.’
Nick watched him splat a teabag on to the floor then slosh milk across the counter, cursing as he grabbed a cloth to clean up the mess. ‘Anyway, I’ve been meaning to ask what you’re up to for Christmas: when you’re going to see your family—’
Tim hunched over the counter. ‘When do you want me to go?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘When do you want me to clear out?’ Tim snapped.
‘Hey, I was just asking—’
‘You tell me the dates I should be gone, and I’ll go.’
‘I know you said to leave it alone,’ Nick snapped back, ‘but I thought you meant your fight with Ange, not all topics of conversation.’
‘It’s not … Look, just tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it.’
Nick raised his hands in a helpless shrug. ‘I don’t want you to do anything, except not yell at me for nothing. I was just asking about your plans. If you’re going to be here it would be good to know. I mean, we don’t have anything special planned but I guess if there’s something particular you like for Christmas dinner we should order it or find where we can buy it, or,’ he wrinkled his nose, ‘I suppose we could find a recipe.’
Tim’s face did something so odd that Nick wondered if perhaps that was how he looked when people said he went blank and remote. ‘But you must want some time … I mean, family time.’
Nick peered into his mug as if checking it was clean, rubbed at a mark on the rim. ‘Bill will be here, but you like him, right? He’s coming on Christmas Eve and going to his sister’s on Boxing Day. Some years we go to his but Dad thought it would be fun to do Christmas in Cambridge this year. Not that we do much: play board games, watch films. Well, mostly Bill and I do that and Dad creeps off to work till Bill fetches him back. It’s kind of like you’d expect: not terribly jolly but … I just assumed you’d want to go and see your parents.’
Tim snorted. ‘That wouldn’t be jolly at all. They … They died the summer before I came to uni.’ He cleared his throat, looking away, but Nick stayed silent, staring at him. ‘I thought Gosswin might have said.’ He cleared his throat again. ‘Anyway, no aunts or uncles, no grandparents. My sister’s in America. I’m going out just after Easter for her wedding but no way does my budget stretch to a transatlantic Christmas as well. The plan was to go to my girlfriend’s and then I thought maybe Ange might invite me but …’ He cut himself off, clenched his jaw for a moment. ‘If you’re really sure you don’t mind me being here, I can stay in my room whenever you want, or go out for a bit …’ He turned only to jump when he found Nick standing next to him, hand raised as if about to touch his arm.
Nick jerked back. Then he glanced up with an oddly shy smile. ‘You’re more than welcome, Tim. You don’t have to go anywhere, even your room, unless you want to. I mean, you’ll probably want to but,’ a deep breath, ‘just so you know you don’t have to.’
Tim nodded awkwardly.
Nick turned away to fiddle with the kettle switch, cheeks pink. ‘So … so if you’re staying and all, is there anything special you want? Like … um … Brussels sprouts or …’
Tim burst out laughing. ‘I do not want Brussels sprouts.’
‘Good. We’ve never figured out how to cook them properly. They always turn into grey mush. Even the ones that are pre-prepared from those “extra nice, extra expensive” food ranges. We don’t, er, really cook, of course. Unless you count nuking leftovers.’
Tim laughed as he was supposed to. ‘So how about you? Any aunts or grandparents to visit?’
Nick shook his head, applying himself to making a fresh pot of coffee. ‘Nope. My … my grandmother died before I came to live with Dad, and his parents died before I was born. He’s got a brother in the States but we never see him.’
‘How about your mum?’
Nick looked away to the window, just as Tim had. ‘She’s dead too.’
Tim drew in a sharp breath. ‘God, no one said: no one told me. I’m sorry, Nick. I had no idea.’
Nick shrugged. ‘I didn’t know about your parents.’
‘Why didn’t Gosswin …’ He broke off with a sigh.
‘I keep asking Dad if we can go and visit the grave,’ Nick said quietly. ‘Do you do that? Visit, I mean?’
Tim leaned back against the counter, crossing one foot slowly over the other. ‘They wanted to be cremated and have their ashes tossed out to sea down where we used to holiday in Cornwall,
but I haven’t been back since. There doesn’t seem much point without anything specific to visit.’
Nick nodded, fixing his eyes on the floor, then they both just stood there, drinking their coffee in silence.
Chapter 13
(Christmas Day = 25 × December [even in Cambridge])
The windows were fogged up from the inside with air that smelt of spice and burnt sugar. The coffee table was awash with dirty plates. Nick curled himself into the corner of the sofa opposite Tim, smiling lazily at Bill and Michael as they sprawled in the armchairs, sleepy with too much food and brandy.
‘Well, this is a nice turn-up for the books,’ Bill said, around a yawn. ‘None of the food ruined or turned to sludge, and no complaints from Nick about being bored with his academic work. A toast to Cambridge, and the new generation.’ He inclined his head to Nick then Tim.
Tim coloured and mumbled something incomprehensible as he set about gathering up the dirty dessert plates.
‘I may have to institute a house rule against muttering, since it seems to be infectious,’ Michael said with a touch too much cheer.
With a sigh, Nick pushed up from the sofa and grabbed the cream and brandy butter to take through to the kitchen.
‘Don’t abandon us for Tim just yet,’ said Bill, catching his arm and tugging until he sank back down. ‘Though I’m glad to see it’s working out so well with him living here.’
‘It’s in his best interest, isn’t it, to make nice?’ Michael said. ‘Not such a high price for free accommodation. Including over Christmas.’
Bill frowned at him, noting Nick’s wince. ‘Given how much of today you’ve spent with the rest of us, versus on the phone in your study, I really don’t see you’ve got much cause for complaint, Mike.’
‘And Tim’s done more than his fair share of the cooking and the clearing up,’ Nick put in quietly.
Michael grunted.
Bill rolled his eyes. ‘Oh, give the hard-done-by act a rest, Mike. Come on. I’ll go and give Tim a hand while you and Nick pick out a board game. Derrans versus all challengers.’
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