Oxford Blood (27 page)

'Christ!' exclaimed Saffron, a good while later, sitting up in bed with his black hair in chaos. 'There's somebody trying to unlock the bloody door.' There was a good deal of other black hair all over his body, and as he jumped up and snatched at the red towelling robe, Jemima was reminded of how at Saffron Ivy she had thought he looked like a gipsy; no longer like a musician, he was much more like a gipsy, a healthy muscular young gipsy. Saffron ran into the other room, leaving her in the little cell. Jemima sank, sensuously, beneath the duvet. Then she thought in her turn: 'Christ, my
dress
is hanging up in there.'

She heard Saffron say: 'My dear Proffy, I've got special permission.'

'From the Dean, Saffer?'

'Have some lobster, Proffy,' was Saffron's reply. 'And some pink champagne!'

It seemed a very long time indeed before Saffron returned to the bedroom, in the course of which Jemima had begun to wish she had not also left her little gold bracelet watch in the sitting room, as well as her green crystal drop earrings (all of which must be extremely conspicuous, unless Saffron had had the wit to conceal them). The watch became increasingly vital. If the worst comes to the worst, thought Jemima, the programme comes first, and if I ever doubted it, witness the fact that I'm going to have to stalk into the sitting room starkers except for a pair of green sandals, and assume my clothing as graciously as possible, under the watchful eye of Professor Mossbanker as he guzzles the lobster, in order to get to St Lucy's on time to film Kerry Barber's demo.

But it did not come to that. Saffron returned.

'Proffy! He sure has a nose for a party. And for lobster. And for champagne for that matter.' Saffron heaved a sigh. 'Most dons give the Commems a wide berth. But I believe the old boy was simply moseying about the Staircase looking for refreshment.'

Jemima did not enquire about the dress. She only hoped that Proffy's legendary absent-mindedness extended to overlooking a ruffled green taffeta ball dress swaying gracefully in the window of Saffron's room. She was busy trying to replace Jemima, happily reckless lover of Saffron, with that other Jemima, presenter of Megalith's
Golden Kids
programme.

As Jemima and Saffron sped, under the great black umbrella, from Rochester, down the Broad and Long Wall to her rendezvous with Spike outside St Lucy's, they passed a series of other revellers, the men in dinner jackets — wing collars were clearly in fashion, and the occasional tail coat — the girls all in long dresses which would have satisfied Cy Fredericks.

'Gatecrashers!' pronounced Saffron with pleasure. 'The serious fun starts once dinner is over. In fact that is the only real fun of a Commem, gatecrashing it. Rochester's security is hopeless - anyone can get in if they want to - but St Lucy's is a good challenge: you can swim across the river, carrying your clothes in a plastic bag, I did that to Magdalen one year. On the other hand they're wise to the river. St Lucy's roof might be better: where it touches the botanical gardens; the chapel is too steep. There's a rumour that they're going to use hoses on the roof, which makes it even more fun. Added to which there's another rumour that Nigel Copley's brother was in the SAS, so that they're going to use SAS methods, or borrow the SAS on an amateur basis to keep out gatecrashers - which makes it even more fun, and more of a challenge. In fact I rather think I'll have a go—'

Jemima stopped.

'Saffron, whatever your plans are, you can gatecrash Buckingham Palace for all I care, but don't tell me. I've got a programme to make. In short, this is where we part. Do I make myself plain? If I see you, I don't acknowledge you. It's Falstaff and Prince Hal, only you're Falstaff and I'm Prince Hal.'

'I know thee not, young man?'

'Precisely.'

'You knew me.'

'I did. And you knew
me.
Very lovely it was. Goodbye, Saffron.' She kissed him on the cheek, then turned and crossed the road to St Lucy's.

Saffron called something after her: Til be there. It's a promise. Meet you at Pond Quad at dawn. A definite rendezvous.'

Jemima looked back. He was waving and blowing a kiss.

'See you,' then she called back: 'Take care!' It was her last sight of Saffron, vanishing back up Long Wall in the direction of Rochester.

20

Dancing in the Quad

As soon as Saffron was gone, Jemima was caught up totally in the concerns of Megalith Television, beginning with the filming of Kerry Barber's extremely visible demonstration, which straddled in front of the great mediaeval archway gate of St Lucy's. The effect, in view of the fact that Kerry Barber and his fellows were wearing
T
-shirts, jeans, baggy trousers and suchlike whereas the revellers visible inside were in formal evening dress, was to give the impression of peasants demonstrating against their feudal lord. The demonstrating peasants included not only Jack but an older woman, chic in khaki dungarees, whom Jemima guessed to be Kerr)' Barber's admirably teetotal wife Mickey. Then there was a girl Jemima dimly recognized and only pinned down later as Magda Poliakoff, she who had given evidence at the Bim Marcus inquest.

'All this,' said Jemima to Guthrie Carlyle happily, 'is going to look very good on our programme.' There was a brief interval while two would-be gatecrashers, both male and rather small, were unceremoniously evicted from St Lucy's.

'I told you it was no good saying you were from the
Observer,'
Jemima heard one say to the other indignantly. 'Who cares about the
Observer
at a Commem?'

'You said you were from the
Daily Mail
and you got slung out too,' hissed back his companion. 'On account of the fact that there are eighty or ninety people from the
Daily Mail
there already.'

Then Megalith, in the guise of Guthrie and Spike Thompson, were able to set to in earnest and film some splendid shots of Kerry Barber's banners - most of which mentioned the price of a Commem ticket -
one hundred pieces of silver
was the most effective - in contrast to the plight of the Third World. The rain made it even more effective.

Jack Iverstone was unaccustomedly tense during his brief interview on 
camera with Jemima - with a background of St Lucy's, plus a banner reading
one night's fun for you, one year's food for them
. Either he was suffering from anxiety about his father or else the medium of television had robbed him of his habitual ease of manner. Jemima was relieved when the interview was over. Jack vanished, possibly depressed by his performance, and did not rejoin the demonstration. Then Megalith was able to move inside the defended portals of St Lucy's and mingle with the lawful - or mainly lawful - crowds as they danced sedately to the new Glenn Miller, jived to the new Boy George, swayed to the people who once met a man who met Bob Marley, twisted (and shouted) in Luke's Disco, admired (and cat-called) at the strippers of all four sexes or repaired to the Junior Common Room for the sake of the advanced videos. Or simply vanished into the sitting-out rooms for the sake of wine or women, song being freely available outside in all varieties.

In all of this Jemima never spared a thought for Saffron. She was busy, doing a job, if not the job for which she had been sent into the world, at least a job which she enjoyed doing. She talked to Fanny Iverstone (who looked very pretty in her Brown's dress) and to Poppy Delaware (whose dress, at least by the time Jemima met her, was foiling down, but she also looked very pretty in it or out of it). She did not talk to Muffet Pember (whose partner had cut his hand on some glass, thus convincing Jemima that Muffet, or at any rate her partner, was in some peculiar way accident prone).

She found the Gobbler, preparatory to interviewing him, only he was in the pond under the statue of St Lucy's at the time, consuming gulls' eggs on a plate as the fountain played on his fair and foolish face. So the programme had to be made without the spoken views of the Gobbler on being a Golden Kid. There was only this striking illustrative shot of the Gobbler at play which many people afterwards thought was the finest shot in the whole film, and a still version of which was used on the cover of the
TV Times
and a whole host of other magazines but for which the Gobbler's parents, who turned out to be Very Important, were still trying to sue Megalith Television long after
Golden Kids
had picked up the last of its many inevitable awards.

All of this was to come. Jemima and camera picked their dainty way past rather a lot of people who had just been or were just going to be sick, particularly as the evening progressed, but the cameras avoided all of that, unlike the sight of the Gobbler at play. For one thing it was not really very socially relevant or as Spike Thompson sagely observed: 'Who needs Golden Kids losing their Golden Dinners out of their Golden Gobs? What's happened to the smashing bird in a red dress who promised to dive into the pool starkers once we get that fat boy out of it?'

Copulating couples were however not utterly ignored. As Spike observed to Jemima: 'This might be a witty voice-over situation for you, my love.'

'Sex in, sick's out,' was the way Guthrie Carlyle summed it up.

In the early hours of the morning the rain stopped and the fireworks went up into the night sky.

For the first time Jemima, gazing at them restlessly - she hated fireworks in principle as dangerous and wasteful yet found them irresistible - thought of Saffron. She wondered if he had indeed tried to gatecrash St Lucy's and if he had succeeded. There had been no sign of him. Of those she knew, Jack Iverstone had never reappeared, and Fanny Iverstone, glimpsed early on looking rather flushed in her Brown's dress dancing in Luke's Disco, had long since vanished.

At about two o'clock a great cry went up in Pond Quad: 'Ahoy there!' Then: 'They're on the roof!' Then to the delight and excitement of all those lucky enough to be inside St Lucy's, two figures in black hoods and darkened clothing were glimpsed on the sloping roof of St Lucy's chapel. The invaders' situation looked perilous enough already, but then the firehoses began to play upon them. Although some of those at the Ball also got drenched - 'Oh fuck off!' shouted an indignant girl of elfin appearance wearing a sprigged muslin crinoline, when the water sprayed her - it was thought by the rest to be a small price to pay for the fun.

The invaders slid ignominiously down the roof.

Saffron? Jemima rather hoped not.

It was only later that she learnt that the so-called invaders had actually been security men, the recriminations about the hosing down afterwards being so violent as to lend some credence to the theory that they were out-of-hours SAS men.

It was not until the dawn, a luminous dawn, with mist rising off the river, and the first intrepid revellers climbing into the punts, reckless of the rainwater, and the pretty skirts - or perhaps they were sufficiently dishevelled anyway - that she began to wonder seriously where Saffron was.

Jemima leant her head on Guthrie's shoulder.

'Breakfast, my love? You look as if you could do with kidneys, bacon, sausages, kedgeree, scrambled eggs, and whatever is the rest of the menu which I have in my pocket. Spike's going to take some shots of the river now the boats are out. He
doesn't need you any
more. Then an overall picture of the aftermath.'

St Lucy's was beginning to look like a battlefield, as recumbent bodies, the survivors, lay about, sleeping, unconscious, twined round each other. Bottles were everywhere. Somewhere one of the bands - or was it Luke's Disco? - was still loyally playing.

'No thanks, I have a previous engagement. I think I'll wander off Jemima looked again at the scene of mayhem before her, more like Dutch peasants at the kermis, than anything more classically graceful - no shades of Poussin here.

'I wonder who won this battle? And who lost?'

'We won it. Megalith Television won it,' said Guthrie smugly.

'There seem to be a great number of losers.' Jemima pointed to the inert bodies, corpses as they seemed, strewn around them. 'One wonders whether some of these will ever wake again.'

I must look for him, she thought. Then: Saffron - he broke his promise. Why? Did he fail to gatecrash after all? Then with more urgency: Saffron: why didn't he come?

For the first time since she had parted from Saffron, she thought of the possible dangers to him in this great Oxford night of rout. Where were all those who might wish ill to Saffron? Where for that matter was Saffron himself?

At Rochester College, there was the same feeling of the battle lost and won, the same slightly morbid impression of corpses, as Jemima, now wrapped in a vast Chinese shawl against the cool of the morning, stepped her way through the quad to Staircase Thirteen. She had received, with Saffron, a pass to leave Rochester and return: finding she had lost it, Jemima expected the man at the gate to raise an eyebrow; instead she was waved on with a resignation singularly at variance with the paranoia recently exhibited at St Lucy's. If security was the standard by which a successful Oxford ball was rated, no wonder Rochester's was considered to be inferior.