Less impressive was the room itself: neither luxuriant nor scented, and indeed to Felix (never having experienced the austerities of a boarding school) distinctly spartan. Ah well, he thought, stoically eyeing the narrow bed, perhaps it will do me good … though in what way he was not exactly clear.
However, he thought brightly, there were doubtless charming prospects in store – leisurely boating on the Cam, meandering in the Botanic Garden, poring over the porcelain at the Fitzwilliam – and not least, enjoying the company of the discerning and erudite … Actually, Felix was not so sure about the erudite: would the conversations prove uncomfortably rarefied? Would he flounder beneath the ‘wit’ of academia? He frowned and considered.
No, of course he wouldn’t. Why, attired in his new dinner jacket and explaining the finer facets of the Himalayan lily and its integration within a floral pillar he could hold his own with anybody. Besides, if at a real loss he could always talk amusingly about the piquant charm of those beastly royal corgis. Oh yes, undoubtedly his Cambridge sojourn was bound to be a success!
Bolstered by such thoughts, Felix opened the gaunt wardrobe and looked vainly for enough hooks on which to hang his suits.
In his room on the same staircase, Cedric was also unpacking and thinking. Over the years he had frequently returned to his old college and the pleasure never palled. Whatever the season – mistily autumnal, gusty in spring or, as at present, bathed warmly in summer sunshine – Cambridge was ever welcoming: its ancient stones and secret corners exuding an air of unchanging benignity. And this time, by bringing Felix with him the pleasure would be surely doubled. How gratifying to be able to introduce his friend to the university’s history and architecture – and indeed to the company of old cronies and colleagues. Cedric smiled at the prospect. And unlike Felix he was perfectly satisfied with the somewhat basic amenities of his allocated room (although perhaps befitting his alumnal status, its proportions were a little more capacious than that of his guest’s – something the guest had been quick to note).
The wardrobe being perfectly adequate for his needs, he quickly hung up his suits and made ready for the evening. And then spruced and eager, he opened the door and made his way a few steps down to Felix’s quarters below.
‘We are invited to the Combination Room for preprandial drinks,’ Cedric explained as they walked across Middle Court. ‘With luck, there should be one or two of my old associates there who I know will be delighted to meet you – although a word of warning, you may have to endure the prosings of ancient Phipps. Oh, and by the way, as honoured guests we shall be seated at High Table.’
‘Ah, well, that’s nice,’ Felix replied vaguely, unsure about Phipps and even less about the high table.
However, as things turned out Felix felt moderately at ease in his new surroundings – the Combination Room being a smaller, plainer and more intimate version of the drawing room of the Athenaeum, an institution that on rare occasions he had been privileged to visit.
Neither did he feel ruffled by the reception party: the Senior Tutor Dr Maycock and Mostyn Williams, the bursar. Both chaps seemed easy, amiable and surprisingly free with the sherry. As predicted, ‘ancient Phipps’ appeared – not exactly amiable, but who nevertheless granted him a wintry smile and a word of welcome. ‘Hmm,’ he had remarked, ‘I don’t suppose you will find Cambridge like Camberwell, but I daresay you will get used to us.’
Camberwell? Felix had bristled. Why bloody Camberwell? He had started to explain that his home ground was Knightsbridge – Sloane Street to be exact – but his words were lost in a plethora of genial jokes and pleasantries as others joined them.
Somebody turned to Cedric and made a reference to a Lord Bantry, apparently an undergraduate of years previously.
Cedric looked slightly perplexed. ‘Lord Bantry, who’s he? I don’t think I recall—’
‘You might well ask,’ Aldous Phipps interrupted acidly, ‘a bit of a rara avis, or so he used to be. In theory he had the effrontery to be reading Greek under my supervision; in practice he was never here – always on the river or out with hounds.’ Phipps gave a derisive snort. ‘Mind you, everything was Greek to him except larking on the Cam or hunting foxes. Useless! Do you know, he actually kept two hulking great hounds in his room, or at least he did until one of them bit the staircase scout. There was a tremendous ballyhoo and he was sent down; and a good job too, in my opinion – he couldn’t construe for toffee.’ Phipps looked indignant.
‘And yet he is one of the benefactors?’
‘Oh yes, indeed,’ the bursar broke in. ‘He insists that he nurses a masochistic nostalgia for the place … And along with that nostalgia there goes a good bit of dosh.’ He grinned. ‘Not only has he pledged to support our plot purchase, but better still he has hinted that he wants to endow a scholarship fund for the lame and indigent. So what do you think of that?’
‘Very commendable,’ Cedric said, slightly puzzled. ‘But, er, why the lame?’
‘He limps,’ said Phipps, ‘always did. On one of our rare encounters he told me that he had to have his right stirrup specially shortened. I told him that if he didn’t submit his Greek prose punctually that his time in Cambridge would be shortened too … Fortunately the hounds saw to that anyway.’
At that moment they were joined by John Smithers and Professor Turner. ‘Was that Bantry I saw just now?’ the latter asked. The others nodded, and Turner laughed: ‘Well we had better keep him well away from glorious Gloria, they can’t stand each other!’ He turned to the bursar. ‘Do you remember when they had that fearful row a couple of years ago and she called him a posturing playboy?’
‘Hmm. A bit past playing now, I should think,’ the other observed, ‘and he’s certainly never postured; doesn’t need to. He says and does what he means – which is why the endowment is a safe bet. Still, we don’t want any hitches. I must try to be my charming best.’
‘Difficult,’ Aldous Phipps was heard to mutter as he moved away.
Felix, who up to now had been silently hovering, was intrigued by Turner’s allusion to the row between Bantry and Gloria, and asked what it had been about.
Turner shrugged. ‘Could have been anything. Rumour has it that years ago they had a little walk-out, a sort of experimental dalliance that went spectacularly sour. Wasn’t it Congreve who wrote, “Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned”? Perhaps that had something to do with it.’
Felix wasn’t sure who Congreve was, but nodded all the same, recognising the condition.
‘Well, let’s hope they don’t start scrapping now,’ the bursar said impatiently. ‘Negotiations with the City Council are at a very delicate stage and the last thing we need is fisticuffs among the sponsors. The Master will get ratty, and I shall get the flak and the fall-out. It’s that Gloria – she stirs up everything. Always has. Mind you, Bantry isn’t exactly the essence of tact. He once asked Phipps if he had fought in the second Afghan War under General Roberts.’
‘Really?’ Smithers chuckled. ‘I bet that didn’t go down too well.’
‘Actually,’ Turner said, ‘I am told that Phipps was quite restrained, merely informing his student that since hostilities had ceased five years before his birth, alas he had been denied that honour. I bet his mind was otherwise engaged, else the response would have been more toxic.’
‘Well, let us just hope the three of ’em don’t cut up rough while the benefactors are here. If they start sniping at one another it won’t look good,’ the bursar said irritably. ‘The last thing we want is to unsettle our esteemed sponsors!’
‘Oh, I think you will find the sponsors have pretty thick skins,’ Cedric said smoothly, ‘I am sure we shall be absolutely fine.’
The other laughed. ‘Yes, I’m sure you are right. Deep pessimism is my forte. Always has been. Now, gentlemen, let us dine. I believe there’s some rather fine hock awaiting us.’ He ushered them towards the oak-raftered dining hall.
Here amid candlelight and gleaming silver, and to
the muted accompaniment of postgraduate voices (term over, and most younger students gone down), they ate well and convivially.
Seated between two old colleagues and talking academic shop, Cedric was in his element. At the further end of the table Felix was less in his element, but was nevertheless mildly enjoying himself. The man on his right was George Rawlings, one of the sponsors, and who although opinionated and garrulous was quite amusing. On his left was the elderly Professor Phipps, largely concerned with the contents of his plate, but who on occasions would make an observation of startling indiscretion. Plucking Felix’s arm, he nodded towards John Smithers.
‘Not my type,’ he murmured, ‘but sharp as a needle. Oh yes, that young man will go far – providing, of course, the ladies don’t do for him first. Always a hazard with that sort. He would be wise to be careful.’ He gave a sepulchral chuckle. And after a pause and a swirl of his hock goblet, he asked, ‘And so what exactly is your metier, may I ask?’
Felix started to explain modestly that he was one of London’s foremost florists, but before he was able to get on to the subject of his royal patron, Phipps remarked that he must then doubtless know a daffodil from a tulip and that not many people did. ‘Take that fellow Winston Reid, the one we are all supposed to support for this sculpturing job, he hasn’t a clue about gardens – or indeed much else, in my opinion.’ The professor gave a disdainful sniff.
Felix was slightly at a loss. ‘Well, I suppose he can make a statue,’ he suggested vaguely.
‘Oh yes, he can do that all right. But he is not exactly one of life’s enhancers – or at least I shouldn’t have thought so.’ Phipps took a small sip of his wine and gave an appreciative nod.
‘Er, isn’t he very nice?’ Felix asked.
‘“Nice”? Now there’s an interesting term,’ the old man mused. ‘I shall have to give thought to that; it’s not a concept I often dwell upon. It has a sort of anodyne ambiguity, wouldn’t you say?’ He fixed Felix with a quizzical gaze.
But fortunately, before Felix could formulate an answer, George Rawlings requested that he pass the water jug and then demanded to know what kind of flowers his wife should select for their daughter’s wedding. ‘They tell me you’re the expert, so let’s have it from the horse’s mouth!’ he trumpeted.
The horse duly obliged, recommending pink roses and bunches of ‘nice’ delphiniums.
Later, as they mingled over port and coffee, Felix felt a light tap on his shoulder. He turned, and slightly to his surprise was confronted by the earnest face of Aldous Phipps. ‘You know, since our earlier conversation I have been cogitating upon your use of the epithet “nice”. I can only assume you intended it to mean “mannerly” – in which case, given the subject of your query, I should say not at all.’
Delivered of this observation and giving a pinched smile, Phipps drifted away to cadge an Abdulla cigarette from Rawlings … ‘Reminds me of my Cairo days,’ the reedy voice enthused. ‘Ah, the pleasures of gilded youth!’
Cairo? Youth? Felix was amused. It was difficult to associate Phipps with either image! There was a hollow laugh from behind, and he looked round sensing one similarly amused. Emboldened by a slight surfeit of wine, Felix asked his new companion in what latter-day pleasures the old man indulged.
‘Oh, that’s an easy one,’ John Smithers replied sourly, ‘putting the knife in, mainly.’
Back in his room that night Cedric felt pleased (and slightly relieved). Dinner had been most agreeable, and it was clear that once over his initial diffidence, Felix had enjoyed himself. This boded well for their time in Cambridge, and he was sure that his guest would be equally diverted by the engagement the following evening: an informal soirée held at the Master’s Lodge to welcome the prospective benefactors and to give them the opportunity to meet the new incumbent. Cedric had encountered Sir Richard Dick only a couple of times in the past, but from what he recalled he had seemed an able enough chap and one who in his new status would doubtless be an asset to the college.
He fell asleep quickly, soothed by the prospect of a most civilised sojourn.
CHAPTER SIX
After a day of congenial diversion, the two visitors were faced with the pleasant prospect of the Master’s drinks party. In his own time as an undergraduate Cedric had never had reason to enter the Lodge, in those days a rather grim-looking building – a feature shared by its then incumbent.
Now, however, with its timbers painted a neutral cream rather than the fuscous grey of his memory, and the dense ivy on the once grimy stonework replaced by a mass of climbing roses, it exuded an air of seemly welcome. Indeed, on that particular evening such welcome was enhanced by the sight of the front door propped wide open by a basket of leather-bound tomes (rejects awaiting the dustman?), presumably a sign to the prospective donors that their arrival would be met with grateful warmth.
Sounds of muted laughter could be heard from within and, once in the hallway, Cedric and Felix were greeted by an attractive woman in her forties, whom they took to be their hostess, Lady Dick, the Master’s wife. Introductions were made, small talk exchanged, and they were ushered into a large, mellow drawing room where, Felix was glad to see, copious drinks and canapés were briskly circulating.
Also circulating and clearly enjoying themselves were the other guests – men mostly, but with a sprinkling of women. One in particular caught Felix’s eye. She was tall and fine-boned, with sleekly bobbed, silvery pale hair. Her jacket of blue shot-silk was rather dashing and she wore it well. Felix was taken with this and wondered if he too might suit such a garment. Doubtless Cedric would disapprove … Still, it was certainly rather chic. Perhaps, in the course of the evening, he could find out where she had obtained it. Harrods? Or perhaps tailor-made?
‘Who is that woman?’ he asked.
‘What?’ Cedric looked over to where she was standing, talking to their host. He was about to say, ‘I’ve no idea,’ but stopped short. ‘Good Lord,’ he exclaimed, ‘it’s Dame Margery – well, she’s certainly looking good! We haven’t met for years. That must be remedied!’ He set off across the room.
‘Ask her about the jacket …’ Felix began, but was unheard.
‘It is rather snazzy, isn’t it, Felix?’ a familiar voice said in his ear, ‘but too pale for your colouring.’ He turned, to be met by the smiling face of Rosy Gilchrist.
He was surprised; he had learnt from Cedric that she was in Cambridge, but had not expected to see her here at the sponsors’ reception.
He sniffed. ‘Some of us prefer subtlety,’ he remarked, appraising her scarlet skirt and matching shoes. ‘Anyway, what on earth are you doing here? I thought you were attending a reunion at that women’s college. Don’t tell me that you just happen to be one of the sponsors for this Biggs-Brookby statue as well. I shouldn’t have thought that was at all your style.’
‘No more than yours,’ Rosy retorted; and then, grinning, said, ‘Actually, like you I’m just here for the beer – riding in on the coat-tails of the cognoscenti, as it were.’
Had Felix not been intent on procuring a glass of champagne for himself and some rather enticing cocktail bits, he might have taken umbrage. As it was, he merely asked to whose coat-tail she was attached.
‘Your lady in the blue jacket, Dame Margery Collis. She is staying temporarily at Newnham and we got talking. Apparently she is a friend of the Dicks – hence her being dragooned into contributing to this monument business. When I mentioned that I knew one of the other intending donors, i.e. our Cedric, she invited me to come along as her guest. I gather that Anthea Dick had been worried that there would be a dearth of women and wanted to even things up … So, here I am.’
‘Hmm, so I see.’ Felix frowned and glanced at her glass. ‘You’re lucky to have that,’ he observed, ‘some of us haven’t even had our first sip. A chap could die of thirst – I’m beginning to think that waiter is deliberately avoiding me. I know that sort, they get so bumptious.’ Excusing himself quickly, he slid away in dedicated pur
suit.
He was replaced at her side by a small, elderly man with white hair and somewhat perilously perched spectacles. ‘I admire the skirt,’ he remarked. ‘A bold touch, if I may say so. Makes one stand out from the crowd, which is why I always ensure my Popsie wears a red coat – in the winter months, at any rate. She looks rather dashing.’ He beamed.
Rosy regarded the diminutive figure, taking in the wispy hair, sharp eyes and wizened cheeks. ‘I see,’ she said warily. ‘And, er … does your, uhm, popsie like doing that, standing out from the crowd?’
‘Oh yes,’ Aldous Phipps replied with enthusiasm, ‘she loves it. She’s such a little show-off – but then, of course, that sort all are. Little tarts, really.’ Rosy blinked.
‘Do you have one?’ he asked conversationally. ‘Or perhaps you prefer cats – difficult creatures in my view, you can never quite get their measure. Whereas my Popsie is as open as the day is fair! They are like that you know, Norfolks.’
Rosy smiled in some relief, and explained that unfortunately, due to the constraints of her job, she had neither dog nor cat.
The old man deemed that a pity. And then, leaning towards her and in a conspiratorial tone, added, ‘Mind you, not everyone is suited to domestic pets. For example, take our nominee sculptor, Winston Reid; he used to keep a cat for a while, but it took offence and walked out. Yes, went to live two streets down and never looked back. Frankly, if I were a cat, I’d have done the same. The man can turn out a competent bronze, all right, but he is not the brightest of fellows. The cat probably got bored. Reid and I used to play Scrabble occasionally. He wasn’t especially good and I invariably beat him.’ Phipps gave a satisfied sniff.
Then he muttered something else, which sounded a little like: ‘Nor is he especially pleasant,’ but the words were difficult to catch as he had turned away, distracted by a commotion at the door. A large woman in a ballooning blouse was berating a waiter who had evidently dropped his tray. ‘Not very clever,’ a hectoring voice declared. ‘You must have seen me standing here. Pull your socks up, Michael!’
The Cambridge Plot Page 4