‘Couldn’t we flirt to pass the time? Then you could wound me to the soul with a cutting put-down when the results arrive.’
‘I could do that now,’ she said, ‘only I’m too stressed out to bother. Just shut up, Frank, and— Hang on. Who’s that?’
Across Senate House Lawn, clusters of heads turned as a harassed-looking man stopped to talk to one of the smart-suited custodians by the wrought-iron gates. The two came hurrying around the flagstone path.
‘Is this it? Oh God, this is it,’ someone was mumbling in the next group over. ‘Please, please let it not be a Third. Please, please, please.’
A crowd of students converged on the men as they halted by one of the glass-fronted message boards along the lower walls of Senate House. The custodian took out a key and swung open the front of one of the screens used to post exam results.
‘Board 8. It’s us! Maths!’ someone shouted.
The crowd swarmed forwards as the official pinned two flimsy A4 pages up inside the shallow box then strode off. There was a breathless hush as the custodian calmly locked the screen again. He turned as if on parade and marched through the parting crowd. As soon as he was gone, the students surged forwards in a scrum of pushing, frantic bodies.
Nick hung back where the others had left their bags.
A whoop, a shout of joy. Two boys pushed through the left-hand side of the crowd, high-fiving as they raced off towards the gates.
More happy calls. A chorus of groans.
A group of six pushed out of the crowd, two members elated, three looking pleased and one crestfallen. Nick watched a girl who was beaming so hard her cheeks must have hurt put her arm about the girl who looked like she was going to cry. Slowly the crowd around the boards thinned.
‘Nick! What are you doing? Don’t you want to know?’ Frank asked, swaggering over.
‘Didn’t you look for me?’
‘That’d be telling,’ he called over his shoulder, tapping his nose.
Taking a deep breath, Nick walked slowly over to Board 8. The remains of the crowd frayed around him, students spilling away, chattering happily or slinking miserably with eyes averted.
When he reached the board, there was almost no one in the way. He stepped up to the glass, felt someone clap him on the back and thought for a second that he was going to throw up. Acid rose into his throat. He braced a hand against the wooden frame around the glass and focused his eyes on the pieces of paper pinned up inside.
It took him a moment to figure out how everything was organised. He’d known that results were called class lists, but he hadn’t realised this meant they were divided into actual lists of who’d achieved which class mark. ‘Mathematics Tripos, Part 1A’ read the title across the top of the first page. Underneath it simply said ‘Class I’. Below that were three shallow columns of names, followed by italicised initials for each student’s college. The Class II.1 students were below, stretching down the rest of the page. He started there.
D … Da … De … No Derran.
He took a shuddering breath, let his eyes move across to the second sheet and the equally long list of II.2s.
D … De … No Derran.
A Third? He swallowed. Let his eyes drop to the bottom of the page and the shallow columns there.
No Derran.
He let his eyes close. He couldn’t have got an unclassed pass: an Ordinary. He’d struggled less than he’d expected in the exam, more than he’d hoped, but it couldn’t have been that bad.
He let his eyes drift back to the II.1s. Surely his name had to be there, unless … He looked up to the Firsts.
And there it was.
Derran, N. TH
He heard himself make a noise that sounded more like pain suddenly relieved than joy, halfway between a sob and a whimper.
‘Boo!’ whispered a voice in his ear.
He started with a yelp. Susie was standing behind him, grinning. ‘I’m starting to realise you’re all noise and hot air, you know,’ he snapped at her, rubbing at his ear.
‘Oh, please. I’m all character and style. Frank’s the noise and hot air. I only got a II.1, but next year I’m getting a First, and then I am so going to give you a run for your money for Senior Wrangler in our final year.’
‘What’s a Wrangler?’
Susie held up a hand. ‘Stop. Right. There. Do not say another word. How can you not know this?’ She shook her head. ‘Wranglers are the students who get Firsts in their final year. Whoever gets the highest mark is Senior Wrangler, then it’s Second Wrangler, Third Wrangler … I don’t honestly know how many Wrangler places there are. I guess all the way through the Firsts. The worst mark of the whole year used to be called – and, apparently, given – a wooden spoon. But just so you know, the Senior Wrangler spot is mine, mini-genius or not.’
‘We’ve had this conversation, Susie. I’m not actually a genius.’
‘Yeah, yeah. Pot-ay-to, pot-ah-to. At a certain point, minus the loony-tunes Beautiful Mind-style geniuses, we’re all somewhere out there beyond the third standard deviation. So unless you’re going to say that there are categories of genius and you’re upset you’re not at the very top of the pile, just admit that there are a whole bunch of us here who are, give or take, as near as geniuses compared with everyone else.’ She shrugged. ‘Who’s going to argue? You’re not, are you?’
‘With you in this mood?’
Susie grinned at him. ‘Come on. Time to celebrate. I guess I should feel sorry about the fact that half my friends are sulking or crying, but they mocked me when I had a meltdown in First Term so I’m finding myself all out of sympathy. We all got what we deserved and you can’t say fairer than that. It’s their own fault for being daft thespy types too busy mucking around backstage at the ADC theatre or prancing around pretending they’re the new comedy stars of Footlights to do any studying until ten minutes before the exams.’ She shrugged, then grinned. ‘I worked my socks off after the world’s worst start to a Cambridge career so now I deserve to eat ice cream with happy people, even if they do include Frank,’ she sighed as he came jogging over to join them.
They bickered their way down the pavement to the ice-cream trolley, then wandered down to King’s, passing Brent on the cobbles outside the Great Gate. Brent flipped them the finger, practically snarling as his eyes met Nick’s.
Frank craned back over his shoulder to watch him stalk away. ‘Was that aimed at me?’ he asked. ‘Because I’m not sure I even know who that is.’
‘It was for me,’ Nick mumbled just loud enough to be heard.
‘Really?’ said Susie with interest. ‘Tell.’
Nick hunched his shoulders. ‘He’s captain of the Men’s Third boat: I was their cox for a few months, only there was an incident and … Anyway, I quit. I heard they had a bad time at the bumps, so I guess they sort of blame me.’
‘Rowed over, did they?’ asked Frank, nodding knowledgeably.
‘Wooden-spooned it,’ Nick said.
Susie snorted. ‘People take that stuff seriously?’
‘People take a lot sillier Cambridge things far more seriously than that,’ Nick said testily.
‘Well, that’s true enough,’ she conceded. ‘Let’s go through here,’ she said, gesturing to the little gate on the right of King’s bridge, leading the way down into the thick cool grass in its shadow. On the river, groups of tourists punted by guides in waistcoats and straw boaters glided serenely past, while smaller punts, propelled by the tourists themselves, collided with the bank, other punts, the bridge. A group of Japanese tourists in smart suits were sculling furiously with a single oar to where their punt pole was stuck upstream in the mud. On the far side, a woman wheeled a bike with a wicker basket along the raw orange clay of the riverside path.
Susie flopped back into the grass with a sigh. ‘So, you going to any of the May Balls, Nick?’ she asked around a yawn.
‘Not allowed.’
‘Why— Oh, all the free booze,’ Frank said. ‘That sucks.’
‘I bet they’ll be open to being talked round in our last year and by then you can save up enough to go to every ball you can get into,’ Susie said.
‘Hey, we could do a May Ball Crawl. One ball a night,’ Frank suggested. ‘Anyway, that’s two years away. The big question is “What are we doing for Suicide Sunday?”’
‘You leave me and Nick out of it,’ Susie snapped at him. ‘Just ignore him,’ she said, seeing the sick look on Nick’s face. ‘It’s just moronic back-to-front Cambridge-speak, like the fact that May Week is actually two weeks in June. Suicide Sunday is seventy-two hours or something where people just drink solidly without sleeping or sobering up. The dimmest of them – Frank will probably be one – get carted off in ambulances to have their alcohol poisoning dealt with at Addenbrooke’s. It’s pathetic: a bunch of people who don’t know how to have fun thinking that getting drunk enough must count for something. On that delightful note, I’m off to Cherry Hinton to report in to my family about my results before they send a search party down to College and make me rethink the wisdom of going to Uni in my home town.’
Nick’s new phone chirped as they climbed back up to the path. He hung back to answer, waving them on ahead.
‘So have they been posted yet?’ Tim asked.
‘Yeah, hang on a sec! Bye!’ he yelled after the others.
‘You with friends? I can bother you later—’
‘No, they’re heading off.’
‘So …’
‘So …’ Nick echoed.
‘You really want to play that game? Well, in that case, I guess you don’t want this treat I got to celebrate with.’
‘What treat?’ Someone tapped him on the shoulder. Nick whirled to find Tim grinning down at him.
‘And …’
‘I got a First.’
‘Duh, of course you got a First.’ Tim wrapped an arm around Nick’s shoulders, steering him away from King’s and down KP towards Senate House Passage. ‘Who said you were going to get a First? Me. Who insisted on it? Me. You know, when you get a First again next year you get book tokens and a chance to autograph the College book of scholars. It is entirely overrated, but kind of nice all the same. In any case, you can now officially call yourself a Cambridge Scholar.’
It brought Nick up short for a moment, frowning. Then he laughed.
‘What was that about?’
‘Just something Professor Gosswin wrote. In the book she gave me. A prediction, I guess.’ He shook his head. ‘So what’s the treat you bought for this year?’
Tim rolled his eyes to the sky. ‘You see what I have to put up with, here? I have no idea what you’ve done to deserve me.’
Nick sighed. ‘I must have been awful.’
Tim cuffed the back of his head as they slammed through the p’lodge doors into College, then ran across Front Court and through the double doors into the corridor between the buttery and dining hall, bursting out the other side.
‘Right,’ Tim said, as they settled on the wall over the river. He set his bag down between them and produced two plastic champagne flutes with a flourish, then a mini-bottle of spumante. He popped the cork to a cheer from a passing punt. ‘Here we go. A toast to Mr Derran’s first First.’
Nick grinned as the glasses came together with a dull crunching noise.
‘Maybe less with the toasting and more with the drinking before these things split,’ Tim said. He nudged Nick’s shoulder. ‘Proud of you.’
Nick nudged him back. ‘You were waiting for me, weren’t you?’
Tim shrugged. ‘I went to find out if the results were posted after I finished at Clowns, then I looked around for you a bit. No big deal. Hey, what did your dad say?’
Nick stared at him. ‘I forgot to call him,’ he whispered, shock and wonder warring on his face. ‘I just forgot.’ He blinked blankly for a moment. ‘I was too busy being happy.’
Tim grinned. ‘Fair enough.’ He put his hand over Nick’s when he drew his phone from his pocket. ‘Call Bill first, OK? He deserves it more. Plus, he’s sent me three texts already today asking if you were OK and if you’d heard, so it might be best if we didn’t keep him waiting any longer than we have to.’
Nick brought up Bill’s contact details but let his finger hover over the call button for a moment. ‘I wonder if Dad has even remembered.’
‘He’ll still be pleased, Nick. And, hey, maybe he’s just trying not to crowd you since they’re never very reliable about when they’ll post the results.’
‘Yeah, maybe,’ Nick said, but he sounded wistful rather than angry. ‘Bill really texted you all those times?’
‘You just got a First, Nick. Don’t go joining the slow learners’ club now.’
Nick shook his head, smiling as he looked away over the river. ‘After a year of dreaming about today, I thought the big moment would be finding out my results.’
Chapter 28
(End of Academic Year [≈ third week of June])
The Blue Lagoon Lounge at Charlie Chan’s Restaurant on Regent Street lived up to its name: all blue and chrome and grey, with potted palms and mirrored walls and artful downlighting.
‘Swanky,’ Tim said, sniggering as they sank into their seats. ‘I feel like we’re somewhere in Vegas.’
Nick grinned. ‘Casino chic?’
‘You’re the one who booked it.’
‘It’s nice and clean and has chairs rather than benches, so I, for one, am not complaining,’ said Bill. ‘How about some starters and champagne while we wait for Mike?’
‘By all means, bring on the champagne,’ said Tim. ‘In which case, here.’ He passed Nick an orange envelope.
Nick ripped into it. ‘“Good one, Genius”,’ he read, grinning as he opened the card. ‘“You didn’t screw up your exams after all! Told you so.”’
‘Now there’s a touching sentiment.’ Bill rolled his eyes as he produced his own card. ‘I’m afraid I’ve gone the traditional boring route.’
Nick opened the card, grinning, but his eyes stayed on the message. He slid his thumb across the writing as if wiping away a speck of lint or trying to touch the words. ‘Thanks.’
Bill frowned at the oddly shy smile on Nick’s face as he set the cards in the centre of the table. Nick’s phone beeped at almost the same time as his own. Bill glanced at the message then rubbed wearily at his forehead. ‘Your father is giving me a migraine.’
The arrival of the starters, a protracted argument over the relative merits of straw mushrooms versus shitake, and the subsequent arrival and demolishing of the main courses saw them through four further iterations of Michael’s insistence that he’d ‘be there soon’.
‘This is the longest “soon” I’ve ever seen,’ Tim said as Nick wound his way across the packed restaurant towards the sign for the loos. ‘How the hell can Michael be missing this?’
Bill tossed his napkin aside. ‘I knew I should have come down today, instead of last night, just so I could go by the office and drag him away on time.’
‘At least you’re here, not busy being “stopped for an hour at Tottenham Hale”.’
Bill topped up their glasses with the last of the wine. ‘I have to hope it’s the truth. I seem to have as much trouble giving up on Mike as Nick does, even though friendship’s a choice while family …’ He trailed off with a sigh. ‘Well, maybe that’s a choice too.’
‘At least you’re choosing in Nick’s favour,’ Tim said. ‘Sorry if I’m being rude about Michael.’
Bill raised a hand. ‘You’re entitled. Especially since you’re stuck here, helping pick up the pieces when I know it’s not a responsibility you ever wanted. Pretty high price for your rent.’
Tim blushed. ‘Yeah, I remember saying something like that a few months ago. I’ve changed my mind, you know,’ he said, flicking a quick sideways look at Bill.
Bill smiled softly. ‘Yes, I know.’
‘All good for your celebration?’ asked the waiter, starting to clear the plates. ‘You must be v
ery proud of your son,’ he said, nodding at the congratulations cards.
‘Mm,’ said Bill, forcing an awkward smile. ‘We’re all very proud of Nick.’
‘You haven’t finished the wine too!’ Bill and Tim turned in their seats to see Michael hurrying over.
‘Dad!’ called Nick, darting joyfully through the tables. He stopped a foot away, made an awkward movement just as Michael did the same. With an embarrassed laugh, they tried a rough, shoulder-slapping hug then quickly stepped back.
‘You OK, Bill?’ Michael asked.
‘What? Oh yes, fine.’
Tim watched Bill push himself to his feet and head over to the front desk, suddenly moving as if he were in pain.
‘What’s he— Oh, he’s not going to pay, silly blighter,’ Michael said, already hurrying after him. ‘Oi, Morrison. Hands off your wallet!’
Nick and Tim grinned at each other as they followed, leaving Bill and Michael to it when the friendly squabble became rather pointed on Bill’s side.
‘Do you think Bill’s OK?’ Nick asked, as they stepped out into the softness of the hot evening air.
‘He’s just ticked off with himself for not making sure your dad was here earlier.’
‘Why’s that his fault?’ Nick shook his head. ‘Let’s leave them to catch up.’
‘Make up, more like,’ Tim said with a snort. ‘By the way, probably should have mentioned this – oh, an hour ago – but you’ve got a soy-sauce splatter on your nose.’
Nick stopped dead in the middle of the pavement, a look of outrage crossing his face before he dived at Tim, who raced off down the street with a bark of laughter. When they reached Parker’s Piece, Tim slowed to a walk, watching Nick pelt on into the low-slanting sunlight.
Chapter 29
(Long Vacation [≈ second week of July])
The Kingston Arms was dim in the fading light, the windows cloudy with condensation from the fug of the fire glowing behind the soot-caked grate. The low ceilings and shiny new wood gave the pub a cramped but cosy feel. The bartender knew them by name after a month of weekly pub quizzes and often let them hide away in one of the corner booths, nursing one drink apiece through an hour at a time.
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