by Jenny Kane
Agatha didn’t bother trying to hide her smirk, ‘You! A bridesmaid!’
‘Yes, all right, I know,’ Grace snapped, before smiling apologetically and sitting back heavily in her seat, ‘So what does Professor Davis deem appropriate attire? I’m always smart, aren’t I?’
‘You are indeed, and to be fair, Davis doesn’t give two hoots what you wear as long as you do your job properly. No, it’s a new “directive,”‘ Agatha made speech marks in the air with her fingers and placed a resigned expression on her face, ‘from the Vice Chancellor no less. Apparently we need to “promote the good name of Leicester University in other academic institutions”.’
‘You mean the old buffer is worried about how well De Montfort Uni is doing, and wants us to outshine them with our haute couture, even though our clothing has nothing to do with our brainpower.’
‘That about sums it up.’
‘Oh, hell! This is such a waste of time. So what do I wear?’
‘Did you iron your shirt?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Do you own a suitable dress? A smart trouser suit?’
Grace grimaced and pointed to her holdall, ‘I have a creased pair of linen trousers and a white blouse with a button missing to wear while shopping tomorrow.’ ‘Smart?’
‘In a very casual way.’
‘Not smart then.’
‘Well, no.’
‘When do you need to leave here?’
‘My train is at 10.05.’
Agatha stood up, a determined expression on her face, ‘Right, that gives us a whole hour and a half. Come on, Cinders, you shall go to the ball. Even though you don’t want to!’
Ten minutes later Grace found herself back on Queen’s Road out of breath, standing in a cramped Oxfam shop changing room. Agatha was passing her random skirts, tops and jackets, as Grace stood self-consciously in an un-matching bra and pants, and unsuitable black ankle socks and trainers.
Three skirts, four shirts, and two jackets later, Agatha declared Grace done, but insisted on fastening her own chunky silver necklace around Grace’s neck, ‘to add that “vital something.”‘
Having paid an amazingly cheap price for a complete outfit, Grace was hurried off to her home to put on tights and her one and only pair of court shoes.
As she stuffed her jeans and trainers into the top of her weekend bag, Grace swore at the Vice-Chancellor under her breath. About to meet the new historian on the block, and examine a whiz kid postgraduate in the most important interview of his life; she was supposed to feel relaxed, professional, and confident. Instead Grace felt conspicuous, and rather like an over-dressed Christmas tree.
Forcing herself to stand still for a second, Grace stared into her bedroom mirror and took some calming breaths. The creature gazing back at her seemed only vaguely familiar. A deep khaki, full length, but flattering shaped skirt was topped with a paler green V-necked top, which to Grace’s mind made her boobs look enormous, but which Agatha assured her made them look shapely and attractive. The jacket they’d found almost matched the skirt, and was luckily plain and simple. Grace hadn’t had the heart to tell Agatha she only had navy blue shoes, but personally she didn’t care, and was pleased by her minor flouting of fashion’s bizarre rules.
She had twelve minutes to get to the station. Thank goodness Aggie had arranged a cab. Making sure she had the thesis, her own work, money, her iPod, a train ticket, and her overnight things for a stay at Daisy’s, Grace let herself out of her house and onto the doorstep in the gentle sunshine as the taxi pulled up in front of her.
To Grace’s immense relief, the train was five minutes late, and she managed to settle herself in one of the few vacant seats just in time for the East Midlands train to whisk her to Beeston station on the outskirts of Nottingham, which was only a stone’s throw from the university.
Plugging her iPod into her ears, Grace rested her head against the seat and tried to relax, as the haunting tones of Clannad playing the Robin of Sherwood soundtrack soothed her. She briefly toyed with the idea of reading through some of her own manuscript, but it was only a twenty-five minute journey and she knew she’d be better employed re-reading the PhD abstract and conclusion.
Grace had just been re-impressed with the postgraduate’s neatly tied together final paragraph when the train pulled into Beeston’s small station. Five minutes later Grace was in another taxi, taking her to the nearby university campus.
She’d done about half a dozen vivas in her five-year stint as a lecturer, twice as a supervisor, and four times as the external examiner. Grace should have been calm and radiated confidence, and yet wearing these unfamiliar clothes, about to face a stranger she was slightly in awe of, Grace found herself questioning whether she really knew anything about her subject at all.
Usually when invited to attend such interviews, Grace already knew the other examiner fairly well, even if they’d never met she would have read their books and papers and probably heard them speak at a conference or two. The medieval England historians’ circle was a small world, and everyone was aware of everyone else. This Rob Franks was new and therefore an unknown quantity. Was he young or old, black or white, straight or gay? Was he vastly published, or completely new and unpublished? Grace cursed herself for being too wrapped up in her own writing to research Franks as properly as she would normally have done. It was unprofessional, and she felt she’d let herself down.
Panic had a go at trying to claim Grace, but she quickly shrugged it off and attempted to be practical as she headed to the School of History, situated in a stunning Georgian building called Lenton Grove on the west side of the campus. Walking sedately, trying to get a grip on her nerves, Grace, not caring if anyone overheard and thought she was nuts, muttered under her breath, ‘For goodness sake, this is Nottingham. If you’re out there anywhere, Robin Hood, then help me get through this in one piece, and then I’ll return to the novel, I promise.’
Chapter Eight
Determined not to appear as flustered as she felt, Grace took herself into the nearest cloakroom and washed her hands. Fluffing her mass of hair into a marginally less straggly state, she sternly told her reflection that she was clever, knew as much as anyone about medieval England, and that this Dr Franks would be friendly and it would all be fine. She didn’t let herself think about after the viva. The idea of dress shopping with Daisy the following day made her palms sweat.
Picking up her belongings, Grace thought of her novel’s protagonist, Mathilda, frightened but brave, sitting with a member of the infamous Folville family with no idea what fate was about to throw at her. ‘And you think you’ve got problems!’
Having announced her arrival to the Humanities Department receptionist, and asking if he would mind storing her overnight bag until the viva was over, Grace took a seat and awaited Dr Franks. As she looked around at the inevitable Robin Hood motif and the associated posters you’d expect to see anywhere in Nottingham, her mind drifted once again to Mathilda. Aware she was in danger of getting bogged down in too much historical detail if she wasn’t careful, she tried to work out how to move the story along a little faster.
Usually Mathilda bathed in the village ford, splashing around in an attempt to scrape off the flour, leaves, grass, and dust of daily life. Total immersion in a bath was a completely new experience for her.
When the austere female servant had been instructed to take her to bathe, Mathilda had been frightened, not really understanding what was about to happen. Everything was changing so fast. Only a little while ago she’d been catching fish in the river, then she’d been taken and imprisoned, and now she was being told to strip off all her dirty but familiar clothes, and get into the water that steamed before the fire in a small room off the main hall.
Her fears, in this case a least, were unfounded. Plunged into the lightly lavender-fragranced tub, the blissfully warm water soothed her undernourished body and un-knotted her tense muscles. Mathilda sighed with the feeling of a temporary repr
ieve, for while she immersed in that pool there was nothing she could do about anything except get clean, and she found herself unexpectedly grateful for a period of forced inactivity, where she could neither receive instructions nor fruitfully plot to run away.
I’m alive, she mused, and if, as Robert de Folville himself had told her she’d been exchanged for a debt, then her family should also be alive and well, so that could work on paying it off.
As the tight-lipped housekeeper undid the remaining ties of her hair, and washed out its knotted tresses Mathilda resolved to believe that her new master was basically kind. It was less frightening that way. If the opportunity arose for her to ask about her family again, then she would do just that.
‘Dr Harper?’
A tall, fair-haired man, who she’d guess was probably in his late thirties, towered over Grace.
Rising with a start, Grace dropped her manuscript into her bag as she stood. ‘I’m sorry, I was miles away.’
‘Was it nice there?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Forget it, I was being silly.’ He extended a perfectly clean and pleasantly warm hand, the remnants of a tan faintly discernible, ‘I’m Robert Franks. Everyone calls me Rob.’ ‘Grace.’
‘Good journey?’ Dr Franks went into the usual routine of small talk as he led Grace towards the staff common room, and the chance of lunch and a more serious conversation about the forthcoming viva interview.
After ordering a baked potato and cup of coffee apiece, they settled themselves by a window overlooking the expanse of parkland beyond the university. Grace stared out across the green landscape, her eyes mentally removing the lampposts, litterbins, and students, to see it with medieval eyes.
‘It’s a nice view, isn’t it? Dr Franks was watching Grace intently, ‘They tell me the grounds run to about 330 acres.’
Grace found herself blushing under the intensity of his stare, and was furious with herself for letting his piercing blue gaze affect her.
‘That’s a lot of walking.’ Her voice sounded rather brusque as she attempted to regain her composure, wishing that Dr Franks wasn’t quite so attractive, and then tacitly rebuked herself for being so superficial.
Mellowing her tone, Grace added, ‘I’ve never been up here for food before.’
‘I’m surprised; I assumed you’d have been an examiner here before.’
‘Not here, no. I had your department head come to Leicester last year though.’
‘So, this is the return match?’
She smiled; her preconception that Dr Franks was going to be stuffy and without a proper dry British sense of humour already dissolving, ‘Indeed.’
‘I should apologise,’ Rob said as he picked up a thin paper serviette and flapped it carefully over his lap, ‘I wanted to ask you to be the external examiner in the first place, but some politics became involved.’ ‘As usual,’ Grace chipped in.
‘As usual! And I had to ask a bod up in Durham first.
‘David? He’s a nice chap. Damn clever.’
‘I’ve not met him. Excellent reputation of course, but not exactly right for the subject in this case, although I’m sure he’d have coped brilliantly.’
‘He would have. No question.’
‘You sound very sure. You know him well?’
‘He was the external at my own viva.’
‘No way! How did you get on?’
‘Well, I failed, obviously!’
‘Oh, ha ha!’
Grace’s memory filled with the full horror of the occasion. She’d never been so nervous before or since. As she’d sat before her examiners, knowing that the next few hours would determine the course of her career, she’d been almost paralyzed with fear until her examiner, who she now knew on first name terms, had smiled at her and asked her a question about how the stories of Robin Hood had influenced criminal activity in the later middle ages. From that moment it had been a breeze – well, it had been as good as a nightmare can get.
‘So,’ Grace asked, ‘what happened to stop David facing the train trip south?’
‘He got a better offer.’
‘Makes sense,’ Grace chewed thoughtfully, ‘and so, here I am, saving you at the last minute.’
‘Like Robin Hood himself.’
Grace tried to ignore the effect the mischievous twinkle that had appeared at the corner of her companions eyes was having on her. ‘Tell me about the student, what was it, Christopher something?’
‘Christopher Ledger; he came over from Houston with me.’
‘Really?’ ‘It’s not as dodgy as it sounds. His Dad works in the oil industry. For Texaco or BP – I never was sure which. He was over there for four years before coming back to live in Aberdeen. The contract in Houston was almost up, so as I was coming home, Chris got a room in halls here for six months and came too. His family are back in Scotland now.’
‘So he’ll head back up there once we’re done here today?’
‘He will, although I can’t imagine it’ll be long before he gets an academic post in a university somewhere. Chris really knows his subject.’
Grace smiled, ‘Let’s go and put that claim to the test, shall we, Dr Franks?’
The PhD exam was flawless. Grace had never been to one that ran so smoothly. The candidate was confident without arrogance, and the strategy of questions she and Rob had agreed upon beforehand had worked well.
Sitting back in a padded armchair in Dr Franks’ office, Grace waited for him to return from privately congratulating his student in the main reception. Looking around her, Grace saw a smaller book-lined study than her own, but very similar, albeit without the added Robin Hood paraphernalia. While surveying the space, her eyes caught a glimpse of her skirt, and Grace started in surprise at not seeing her jeans covering her legs, and privately pleased that she’d performed so well without wearing trousers, and therefore operating outside of her comfort zone. Then she told herself off for thinking such idiotic psycho-babble.
The door opened, ‘Well, that was fantastic,’ Rob crashed into his chair, his face glowing with pleasure and pride, ‘I’ve never had a viva go so well. Chris is over the moon.’
‘So he deserves to be.’ They’d had no need to confer. This unique student had so obviously deserved his PhD, and the distinction that went with it, that further discussion hadn’t been necessary.
‘Now,’ Rob sat back up, ‘this leaves us with a dilemma.’
‘It does?’
‘Yes. We were supposed to have an hour of heavy debate as to whether he’d pass and what rewrites were required. Naturally this is not needed, so, shall I take you for a coffee, or shall we go for a walk in the park? Wollaton Hall and its grounds are within walkable distance if you fancy it.’
Grace had made noises about leaving to catch an earlier train than planned, but Dr Franks had managed to persuade her against it, and in the end Grace had agreed on a short walk; after all, the grounds were beautiful and the sun was shining.
‘I have an ulterior motive for holding on to you a bit longer. I wanted to ask you something.’ Rob looked at Grace with a quizzical expression as they strolled away from Lenton Grove, ‘If that’s OK?’
‘Depends what it is,’ Grace was amazed at how at ease she felt in this man’s company. This wasn’t like her at all.
‘Tell me about Robin Hood. Tell me why him, and how your book is progressing. Professor Davis obviously has high hopes of you. I’ve also heard you’re something of an obsessive when it comes to outlaws.’
Abruptly, the feeling of being comfortable disintegrated, and Grace blushed at hearing herself described in such a way. She knew she was an obsessive, Daisy had told her often enough. But Daisy was a friend. This man was a relative stranger, and had no right to tease her.
Grace could feel herself becoming defensive and prickly, ‘I’ve always been interested in the legend. Since I was a kid; and the book is fine, thank you.’
Aware that Rob was privately laughing at her, Grace looked away quick
ly. It was like being a teenager again, the subject of bemusement and private jokes. It had hurt then and it hurt now – some feelings never disappear. Grace snapped, ‘No need to be so damn superior. You are obviously as obsessed with your work as I am, or you wouldn’t be here.’
‘OK, OK.’ He put up his hands in a placating gesture, ‘I was only teasing.’
‘Well, don’t’
‘Right. Sorry.’
They walked on through the park, the lack of conversation less companionable than it had been only a short while ago, until they reached the lake. Standing, staring into its depths, the two medievalists saw how the last few days’ rain had swelled its volume so it lapped at its banks. The gentle sun made the surface water sparkle, highlighting the orange flash of the goldfish which darted to and fro, before they became abruptly motionless for a few seconds, and then flitted off again.
Never one for an uneasy silence, Grace sighed and launched into her well-rehearsed and often repeated justification of her Robin Hood fascination.
‘The Robin Hood legend is so resilient, so utterly lasting. We all know the stories from childhood, whether we enjoy them or not. They have engendered countless films and television shows, and taught generations of people how brutal the consequences of our less-advised actions can be. The story is more widely known than Shakespeare, for its language has adapted with us over the centuries. I believe, or at least, I’m working on the hypothesis, that the tales themselves held a strong influence over the genuine outlaw bands or lawless groups of the fourteenth century and beyond. So much so, that some families used the Robin Hood ballads and accompanying stories and songs of the day as examples of the justice they aspired to and hoped for. Maybe they even used them as justification for their criminal activities.’
Dr Franks continued to peer into the lake water as he listened to Grace’s passionate declaration. ‘You may well be right about using the ballads as tales to live by. Damn tricky theory to prove though.’
Grace smiled wanly. ‘Completely impossible.’
Rob tilted his head towards Grace, but refrained from looking at her as he replied, ‘Not completely, surely, what about Folville’s law?’