Part 28 (2/2)
”Yes, and very honoured to have been invited.”
”Whereabouts are you from?”
”Yorks.h.i.+re.”
”Ah yes, I did detect a certain northern burr in the voice. You'll know Professor de Longue, of course. He's a Halifax man. And David Willett-Smith is from your part of the country, Sheffield I think.” As I cast my eyes around the throng, I had an uneasy feeling that this august gathering was not a group of primary school teachers on a weekend creative arts course. My suspicions were strengthened as my friendly companion took me round and introduced me to one distinguished person after another. They were confirmed when a large be gowned individual appeared and announced: ”Fellows of the College, luncheon is served.” I had gate crashed a meeting of the Fellows of Wentworth College.
”So you are Dr. Finn, are you?” I turned to face a rather portly, elderly man with grey nibbled eyebrows and skin as white and s.h.i.+ny as a waxwork figure. ”I'm Herbert Rawnsley and have been so looking forward to meeting you.”
I shook a cold hand. ”You have?” I replied nervously.
”Yes, indeed. I was so delighted to hear that you had been elected one of our Honorary Fellows. You are a Cambridge man, are you not? Trinity, was it?”
”Er ... well ... I ...”
”Your book on Multi-Dimensional Scaling and Log-Linear Contingency a.n.a.lysis was refres.h.i.+ngly readable. We must get together after lunch.”
”Yes, we must,” I replied, thinking how, in heaven's name, was I to get out of this place.
”I must say, you have lost your Canadian accent,” continued the wax-faced individual.
”Gervase is from Yorks.h.i.+re, Herbert,” said Professor Morton who had just joined us.
”I thought you were Canadian? It is Maurice Finn, isn't it, author of Statistical Measurements in Social Science?”
”I'll just wash my hands, if I may,” I replied, turning in the direction of the exit.
”There's a lavatory through here,” my companion said helpfully and, grasping my arm, he added, ”I'll come with you. We'll sit together at lunch and compare notes. I'm working on some economic models in which you may very well be interested.”
I hid in a toilet cubicle for a few minutes, then crept away un.o.bserved. Once outside in the quadrangle, I breathed great gulps of air in relief. I found Sidney pacing up and down near the main entrance.
”There you are!” he cried. ”I thought you'd thrown yourself in the river or something. Where have you been?” Before I could answer, he rattled on. ”Never mind, it's all sorted. I've seen Miss de la Mare, found where we are to work and have copies of the programme. I've taken the larger room because I need the s.p.a.ce. You'll be all right in the little annexe, won't you? Yes, of course, you will, you don't need equipment for poetry, do you? Now, let's go and have some lunch.”
Miss de la Mare was waiting for me in the entrance to the seminar room where I was to lead the poetry workshop later that afternoon. She was wearing a beige cotton safari concoction, with pockets and zips everywhere. Her summer ensemble ended with a pair of pink plimsolls. There was a broad grin on her plump face.
”Mr. Phinn, Gervase!” she cried, grasping my hand and shaking it vigorously. ”How very nice to see you. Always a great relief to know that the speakers and tutors have arrived. I saw Mr. Clamp earlier and he said you'd found the college without too much difficulty. Now, come along in and see if you've got everything you need. There's a flip chart, screen, overhead projector, plenty of paper and materials.” Miss de la Mare seemed more nervous than I. ”It's fine, Miss de la Mare,” I rea.s.sured her, glancing around the small room.
”But is the room big enough, do you think?” ”It's fine,” I repeated.
”Because I could see if there is something a little larger if not.”
”It really is fine,” I said laughing.
”Good show!” she cried, rubbing her hands together. ”I'm sure your session will go really well.”
My afternoon workshop did, in fact, go well. The teachers were good-humoured and interested and produced some splendid poems. Sidney's session, however, did not turn out quite as planned. I was sitting in a small rose garden, enclosed by handsome wrought-iron railings, to the rear of the college, when I caught sight of him striding across the quadrangle with the stuffed badger tucked under his arm and a thunderous look on his face. I called to him and a few moments later he banged noisily through the gate, flopped on to the seat next to me and rather unceremoniously, I thought, dumped the badger at his feet.
”I was harangued by a mad woman!” he exclaimed, eyes blazing and beard bristling. ”A mad woman in crimson dungarees with bright red hair and clanking metal jewellery. Compared to her, Mrs. Savage is a veritable Mother Teresa.”
”Who was she?” I asked, trying to suppress a smile.
”Some animal rights activist, by the way she behaved. She took against my stuffed creatures from the start and refused to put brush to canvas. ”How would you like to be murdered, gutted, stuffed and mounted and then painted by all and sundry?” she screeched at me, as I was arranging the heron. The whole session went from bad to worse and deteriorated into a debate on the rights and wrongs of stuffed animals.” Sidney's eyes were now fairly crackling with anger. ”I endeavoured to explain to her that the animals were not deliberately killed, but had been found dead, but would she have it?” My colleague caught sight of the slight smile on my lips. ”You may find this amusing, Gervase, but that smile will rapidly disappear when I tell you that, at my suggestion, Boadicea in the red dungarees and battle jewellery is moving to the poetry workshop with you tomorrow morning. I suggested that she might find poetry more to her liking.”
”Well, thanks a bundle, Sidney!”
”We are doing pottery tomorrow and I certainly don't intend having that red she-devil savaging me for digging up the environment, stripping clay from river beds, disturbing the natural habitat of snails and generally ruining the planet. I'll tell you this, Gervase -'
”Excuse me, sir.” It was the gaunt, lugubrious-looking porter.
”Yes?” snapped Sidney. ”What is it?”
”Your voice is carrying across the quadrangle sir.”
”Really?”
”It's echoing.”
”You don't say.”
”This garden is reserved for the Fellows of the college.” He scrutinized Sidney as if looking for dirt and then his eyes rested on the stuffed badger. ”And pets are not allowed.”
”Pets!” exclaimed Sidney. ”It's not a pet, it's a stuffed badger.”
”I can see what it is, sir.”
Sidney patted the creature on the head. ”And it's dead.”
”I take it you are not a Fellow of the college, sir?” continued the man unperturbed.
”Do I look like a Fellow of the college?” exclaimed Sidney wearily. He was dressed in a coloured T-s.h.i.+rt and bandanna, paint-spattered jeans and multi-coloured plimsolls.
”No, sir, you do not.”
”You are correct! I am not a Fellow of the college.”
”Well, would you mind vacating the garden then, please, sir, taking the animal with you?”
”Am I doing any harm? Am I doing anything heinously wrong in merely sitting on a bench in the suns.h.i.+ne, minding my own business? Is my stuffed companion ripping up the lawn or savaging the flowers?”
”The garden is for the exclusive use of Fellows of Went-worth College,” the porter persisted. ”I must ask you to leave.” With a great exhalation of breath, Sidney got to his feet angrily, s.n.a.t.c.hed up the badger and strode away. I got up to follow him.
”I am sorry that you were disturbed, Dr. Finn,” said the porter. ”We do get all sorts of unsavoury itinerants over the summer who slide in when my back is turned. I trust you were not too inconvenienced?” Without waiting for an answer he walked away but turned as if he had suddenly forgotten something. ”Oh, by the way, Dr. Finn, Professor Rawnsley has been looking for you.”
”Bringing the stuffed animals was a complete and utter disaster,” growled Sidney as I helped him load the car the following afternoon. ”I feel like throwing the blasted badger in the river. It's brought me nothing but grief. I should have got them to paint insipid watercolours of the college and the gardens, do pretty little sketches of flowers. Mind you, we would have been banned no doubt by that gatekeeper from h.e.l.l from drawing anything in his wretched Fellows' garden.”
Before I could answera stately, crimson-gowned figure entered the quadrangle. It was the elderly don with the face of the Roman senator whom I had met the previous day. He smiled benignly at me.
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