Part 8 (1/2)

'Well there you go. You're a poet and I wasn't aware of it.' She looks at her watch. 'Right, I'd better be getting back.' 'Where d'you live?'

'Kenwood Manor, where that lousy party was.'

'Ah, the same as my friend Alice?'

'Beautiful-blondeAlice?'

'Is she beautiful? I hadn't noticed.' I'm testing out a kind of wry, post-feminist humour here, but Rebecca just tuts and scowls and asks, 'So how d'you know her, then?'

'Oh, we're on the University Challenge team together . . .' I say, shrugging casually. Rebecca's cackle bounces off the museum's stone walls.

'You're joking!'

'What's funny about that?'

'Nothing, nothing at all. I'm so sorry, I had no idea I was talking to a TV personality, that's all. So what are you trying to prove then?'

'What d'you mean?'

'Well, going on something like that, must mean you've got something to prove.'

'I haven't got anything to prove! It's just a bit of fun. And anyway, we haven't qualified for the TV tournament yet. We've got the selection heats next week.'

'Tournament, eh? Makes it sound quite macho. Like you've got to wear protective clothing or something. What position d'you play? Centre-forward? Goal defence . . . ?'

'Actually, I'm the first reserve.'

'Ah, so you're not technically on the team then.'

'No. No, I suppose not.'

'Well, if you want me to break anyone's buzzer finger for you, just give me the word . . .' We're standing on the steps of the gallery now, and it's started to turn dark since we've 91.been inside. 'Nice talking to you . . . I'm sorry, I've forgotten your name again.'

'Brian. Brian Jackson. Shall I walk you home?' 'I know the way, I live there, remember? See you around then, Jackson,' and she heads down the steps, then stops and turns. 'And Jackson? Of course you should study whatever subject you want. The written appreciation and understanding of literature, or any kind of artistic endeavour, is absolutely central to a decent society. Why d'you think books are the first things that the fascists burn? You should learn to stick up for yourself more,' and she turns, and trots down the steps and off into the evening.

92.11.

QUESTION: What word, German in origin, describes pleasure obtained from the misfortunes of others? ANSWER- Schadenfreude Today I finally got my first lucky break. Big Colin Pagett has contracted hepat.i.tis.

I find out in the middle of a lecture on Coleridge and Wordsworth's Lyrical Ballads. Dr Oliver's been talking for some time now, and I've been trying to concentrate, really I have, but to my mind a Lyrical Ballad is something like Kate Bush singing 'The Man With The Child In His Eyes', and that's my central problem with The Romantics; they're just not romantic enough. You imagine it's going to be a lot of love poetry that you can plagiarise in Valentine's cards, but generally speaking it's all about lakes and urns and leech-collectors.

From what I can glean from Dr Oliver, the primary concerns of the Romantic Mind were 1) Nature 2) Man's relations.h.i.+p with Nature 3) Truth and 4) Beauty, whereas I tend to respond best to poetry that explores the themes a) G.o.d, you're really nice b) I fancy you, please go out with me c) going out with you is really, really great and d) why won't you go out with me any more? It's the sensitive and profound handling of these themes that makes the poetry of Shakespeare and Donne the most affecting and lyrical in the English canon. I'm contemplating ent.i.tling my next illuminating essay 'Towards a Definition of ”Romance”, a comparative study of the ”lyrical” in Coleridge 93.DAVID NICHOLLS ^.

and Donne' or something, when, appropriately enough, I see Alice Harbinson's face appear at the door to the lecture hall. Everyone looks up, as well they might, but she seems to be jabbing her finger at me, and mouthing something. I point at 2 myself and she nods urgently, then ducks down and scribbles i something on an A4 pad and presses it up to the gla.s.s. 4 'Brian, I Need You - Urgently,' it says. I For s.e.x, I wonder? Presumably not, but still, I clearly have ^ no option but to go, so as discreetly as I can I pick up my books *

and files, crouch down and head towards the door. Dr Oliver, in fact the whole lecture hall, look across at me.

'Sorry - doctor's appointment,' I say, and place my hand ^ on my chest, as if to emphasise that I could drop dead at any

moment. Dr Oliver doesn't seem to mind much either way, and

goes back to the Lyrical Ballads, and I sneak out to find Alice j in the corridor, red-faced, sweaty, breathless and lovely.

'Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry . . .' she gasps.

'That's fine really, what's up?'

'We need you! For the qualifying round this afternoon.'

'Really? But Patrick told me not to bother 'Colin can't make it - he's got hepat.i.tis.'

'You're joking!' Of course, I don't punch the air or anything, because I quite like Colin and I am genuinely concerned for him, really I am, so I look anxious and say, 'Is he okay?'

'Absolutely. It's not the serious one, it's Hepat.i.tis A or something. He's bright yellow apparently, but he's going to be fine, completely fine. But it means you're on the team! Now!' and we do a little excited victory shuffle, nothing indecent or anything, then run over to the Student Union.

There are moments when mankind's achievements seem to stretch our very conception of what is humanly possible - the sculptures of Bernini or Michelangelo for instance, Shakespeare's tragedies or Beethoven's string quartets. And this afternoon in the empty student bar, for some reason that 94.defies rational explanation - fate, or luck, the unseen hand of G.o.d, or a state of grace - I seem to know just about everything.

'If Adenine is paired with Thymine, then Cytosine is paired with . . . ?'

Know it. 'Guanine.'

'What is the full name of the organisation that awards Oscars?'

Know it. 'Academy of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences.'

'Correct. Reed, bush, swamp and chiff-chaff are all varieties of the family Sylviidae and are better known as . . . ?'

Know it. 'Warblers?'

'Correct. Which Canadian folk-singer's real name is Roberta Joan Anderson?'

Know it. 'Joni Mitch.e.l.l.'

'Correct.'

The University Challenge people have sent down a researcher called Julian, who's a nice softly spoken young man, mid twenties, in a v-neck jumper and tie; Bamber Gascoigne's stunt-double basically. It's a straightforward quiz format forty questions in fifteen minutes, no starters, conferring allowed - to see if we're up to appearing on the televised champions.h.i.+p. And we are. Oh, we so obviously are. In fact, I don't mind saying we're on fire.

'Which twelfth century figure, Queen Consort of both France and England, was the inspiration for many of the poems of Bernard de Ventadour, the troubadour poet?'

'Eleanor of Aquitaine,' I say.

'Hold on, hold on - can we go through the captain please?' hisses Patrick, indignantly. 'Now, Brian, how do you know that?'

I actually know it because Katharine Hepburn plays her in that dodgy film that's always on Sunday afternoon telly, but I don't tell him that, I just nod sagely and say, wide-eyed, 'I just . . . know,' as if the sheer, awesome world-conquering 95.power of my general knowledge is an enigma, even to me. Sceptically, Patrick looks to Lucy Chang for confirmation, but she just shrugs, so he says 'Eleanor of Aquitaine?'

'Correct', says Julian.

I feel a hand squeeze my arm, and glance to my right, where Alice is sat smiling at me, eyes wide open in frank awe. That's my ninth correct answer in a row, and I feel like Jesse Owens must have felt at the 1936 Berlin Olympics. The others aren't getting a look-in, not even Lucy Chang, and all of a sudden it seems as if Colin Pagett's hepat.i.tis is the best thing that could have possibly happened, for everyone except Colin Pagett that is, because it really does seem as if I know everything about everything.

'Which parallel of lat.i.tude was chosen at the 1945 Potsdam conference as the approximate demarcation of North and South Korea?'

I don't know this one actually, but it's okay, because we've got Lucy.