Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less (30 page)

They entered the shop, Stephen still in his
full academic dress as a Doctor of Philosophy.

“My friend would like to see the gown of
Doctor of Letters.”

“Certainly, sir,” said the assistant, who
was not going to argue with a Fellow of the University.

He vanished to the back of the shop and
returned with a magnificent red gown with grey facing and a black, floppy
velvet cap Stephen plunged on, brazen-faced.

“Why don’t you try it on, Mr. Metcalfe? Let’s
see what you would look like as an academic.”

The assistant looked somewhat surprised. He
wished Mr. Venables would return from his lunch break.

“Would you like to come through to the
fitting room, sir?”

Harvey disappeared. Stephen slipped quietly
out onto the road.

“James, can you hear me?
Oh
hell, for God’s sake answer, James.”

“Cool down, old fellow. I’m having a deuce
of a time putting on this ridiculous gown and in any case, our rendezvous isn’t
for seventeen minutes.”

“Cancel it.”

“Cancel it?”

“Yes, and tell Jean Pierre as well. Both of
you report to Adrian on the speaker and meet as quickly as possible. He will
brief you on the new plans.”

“New plans.
Is everything all right, Stephen?”

“Yes, better than I could have hoped for.”

Stephen clicked off his speaker and rushed
back into the tailor’s shop.

Harvey was just coming out of the cubicle
dressed as a Doctor of Letters; a more grotesque sight Stephen had not seen for
many years.

“You look magnificent.”

“What do they cost?”

“About one hundred pounds, I think.”

“No, no. How much would I have to give...?”

“I have no idea. You would have to discuss
that with the vice chancellor after the Garden Parry.”

After a long look at himself in the mirror,
Harvey returned to the dressing room while Stephen thanked the assistant,
asking him to wrap up the gown and cap and send them to the Clarendon Building
to be left with the porter in the name of Sir John Betjeman. He paid cash. The
assistant looked even more bewildered.

“Yes, sir.”

He was not sure what to do, except pray for
Mr. Venables’ arrival.

He did return some ten minutes later, but by
then Stephen and Harvey were well on the way to Trinity College for the Garden
Party.

“Mr. Venables, I have just been asked to
send the D.Litt. dress to Sir John Betjeman at the Clarendon Building.”

“Strange. We kitted him out for this morning’s
ceremony weeks ago. I wonder why he wants another outfit.”

“He paid cash.”

“Well, send it round to the Clarendon, but
be sure it’s in his name.”

Stephen and Harvey arrived at Trinity
College shortly after three-thirty. The elegant green lawns, the croquet hoops
removed, were already crowded with over a thousand people. The members of the
university wore an odd hybrid dress–best lounge suits or silk dresses topped
with their gowns, hoods and caps. Cups of tea and crates of strawberries and
cucumber sandwiches were disappearing with alacrity.

“What a swell party this is,” said Harvey,
unintentionally mimicking Frank Sinatra. “You certainly do things in style
here, Professor.”

“Yes, the Garden Party is always rather fun.
It’s the main social event of the university year, which is just ending, of
course. Half the senior members here will be snatching an afternoon off from
reading examination scripts. Exams for the final year undergraduates are in
full swing at the moment.”

Stephen staked out the vice chancellor, the
registrar and the secretary of the University Chest with a firm eye, and led
Harvey well clear of them, introducing him to as many of the older members of
the university as possible, hoping they would not find the encounter too
memorable. They spent just over three quarters of an hour moving from person to
person. Stephen felt rather like an aide-de-camp to an incompetent dignitary
whose mouth must be kept shut for fear of a diplomatic incident if he opens it.
Despite Stephen’s anxious approach, Harvey was clearly having the time of his
life.

“Adrian, Adrian, can you hear me?”

“Yes, James.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m in the Eastgate Restaurant: come and
join me here with Jean Pierre.”

“Fine.
We will be there in five minutes. No, make
it ten. With my disguise, I’d better go slowly.”

Adrian rose. The children had finished their
treat and he took them out of the Eastgate to a waiting car and instructed the
driver, who had been hired especially for the day, to return them to Newbury.
They had played their part and could now only be in the way.

“Aren’t you coming, Dad?” demanded Jamie.

“No, I’ll be home later tonight. Tell your
mother to expect me about seven o’clock.”

Adrian returned to the Eastgate to find Jean
Pierre and James hobbling towards him.

“Why the change of plan?” asked Jean Pierre.
“It’s taken me over an hour to get dressed and ready.”

“Never mind.
You’re still in the right gear. We had a
stroke of luck. I chatted up Harvey in the street and the cocky bastard invited
me to tea with him at the Randolph Hotel. I said that was impossible, but asked
him to join me at the Clarendon. Stephen suggested that you two should be
invited as well.”

“Clever,” said James. “No need for the
build-up at the Garden Party.”

“Let’s hope it’s not too clever,” said Jean
Pierre.

“Well, at least we can do the whole damn
charade behind closed doors,” said Adrian, “which ought to make it easier. I
never did like the idea of walking through the streets with him.”

“Nothing with Harvey Metcalfe is easy,” said
Jean Pierre.

“I will get myself into the Clarendon
Building by four-fifteen,” continued Adrian. “You appear a few minutes after
four-thirty, Jean Pierre, and then you, James, about quarter to five. But keep
exactly to the same routine as if the meeting had taken place, as originally
planned, at the Garden Party and we had all walked over to the Clarendon together.”

Stephen suggested to Harvey that they should
return to the Clarendon Building as it would be discourteous to be late for the
vice chancellor.

“Sure. Jesus, it’s twenty past four already.”

They left the Garden Party and walked
quickly down to the Clarendon Building at the bottom of the High, Stephen
explaining en route that the Clarendon was a sort of Oxford White House, where
all the officers and officials of the university had their rooms.

The Clarendon is a large, imposing
eighteenth-century building which could be mistaken by a visitor as another
college. A few steps lead up to an impressive hallway and on entering you
realise you are in a magnificent old building which has been converted, with as
few changes as possible, for use as offices.

When they arrived the porter greeted them.

“The vice chancellor is expecting us,” said
Stephen. The porter had been somewhat surprised when Adrian had arrived fifteen
minutes earlier and told him Mr. Habakkuk had asked him to wait in his room and
even though Adrian was in full academic dress, the porter kept a beady eye on
him as he did not expect the vice chancellor or any of his staff to return from
the Garden Party for at least an hour. The arrival of Stephen gave him a little
more confidence. He well remembered the pound he had received for his guided
tour of the building.

The porter ushered Stephen and Harvey
through to the vice chancellor’s rooms and left them. The vice chancellor’s
room was in no way pretentious and its beige carpet and pale walls would have
made it look like the office of any middle-ranking civil servant had it not
been for the magnificent picture by P. Wilson Steer over the marble fireplace.

Adrian was staring out of the vast windows
overlooking the Bodleian Library.

“Good afternoon, Vice Chancellor.”

“Good afternoon again,
Professor.”

“You remember Mr. Metcalfe?”

“Yes indeed. How nice to see you again,”
Adrian shuddered. All he wanted to do was to go home. They chatted for a few
minutes. Another knock and Jean Pierre entered.

“Good afternoon, Registrar.”

“Good afternoon, Vice Chancellor, Professor
Porter.”

“May I introduce Mr. Harvey
Metcalfe.
”

“Good afternoon, sir.”

“Registrar, would you like some...?”

“Where’s this man Metcalfe?”

The others stood stunned as a man looking
ninety entered the room on sticks. He hobbled over to Adrian, winked, bowed and
respectfully said:

“Good afternoon, Vice Chancellor,” in a
loud, crotchety voice.

“Good afternoon, Horsley.”

James went over to Harvey and prodded him
with his sticks as if to make sure he was real. “I have read about you, young
man.”

Harvey had not been called young man for
thirty years. The others stared at James in admiration. None of them knew that
in his last year at university James had played L’Avare to great acclaim. His
secretary of the Chest was simply a repeat performance–even Moliere would have
been pleased with it. James continued:

“You have been most generous to Harvard.”

“That’s very kind of you, sir,” said Harvey
respectfully.

“Don’t call me sir, young man. I like the
look of you–call me Horsley.”

“Yes, Horsley, sir,” blurted Harvey.

The others were only just able to keep
straight faces.

“Well, Vice Chancellor,” continued James. “You
can’t have dragged me halfway across the city for my health. What’s going on?
Where’s me sherry?”

Stephen wondered if James was going too far
and looked at Harvey, but he was evidently captivated by the scene. How could a
man so mature in one field be so immature in another?
he
thought. He was beginning to see how Westminster Bridge had been sold to at
least four Americans in the past.

“Well, we were hoping to interest Mr.
Metcalfe in the work of the university and I felt that the secretary of the
University Chest should be present.”

“What’s this Chest?” asked Harvey.

“Sort of treasurer for the university,”
replied James, his voice loud, old and very convincing. “Why don’t you read
this?” And he thrust into Harvey’s hand an Oxford calendar, which Harvey could
have obtained at Blackwells’ bookshop for two pounds, and indeed James had.

Stephen was not sure what move to make next,
when happily for him Harvey took over.

“Gentlemen, I would like to say how proud I
am to be here today. This has been a wonderful year for me. I was present when
an American won Wimbledon. I finally bought a Van Gogh. My life was saved by a
wonderful, wonderful surgeon in Monte Carlo and now here I am in Oxford
surrounded by all this history. Gentlemen, it would give me a great deal of
pleasure to be associated with this wonderful university.”

James took the lead again:

“What have you in mind?” he shouted at
Harvey, adjusting his hearing aid.

“Well, gentlemen, I achieved my life’s
ambition when I received the King George and Elizabeth trophy from your Queen,
but the prize money, well, I would like to use that to make a benefaction to
your university.”

“But that’s over £80
,000
,”
gasped Stephen.

“It’s £81,240 to be exact, sir. But why don’t
I call it $250,000?”

Stephen, Adrian and Jean Pierre were
speechless. James was left to command the day. This was the opportunity he’d
needed to show why his great-grandfather had been one of Wellington’s most
respected generals.

“We accept. But it would have to be
anonymous,” said James. “Only I think I can safely say that the vice chancellor
would inform Mr. Harold Macmillan and Hebdomadal Council, but we would not want
a fuss made of it. Of course, Vice Chancellor, I would ask you to consider an
honorary degree.”

Adrian was so conscious of James’s obvious
control that he could only say, “How would you recommend we go about it,
Horsley?”

“Cash cheque so nobody can
trace it back to Mr. Metcalfe.
We can’t have those bloody men from Cambridge chasing him for the rest
of his life. Same way as we did for Sir David–no fuss.”

“I agree,” said Jean Pierre, not having the
vaguest idea what James was talking about. Neither, for that matter, did
Harvey.

James nodded to Stephen, who left the vice
chancellor’s office and made his way to the porter’s room to enquire if a
parcel had been left for Sir John Betjeman.

“Yes, sir.
I don’t know what they left it here.”