Paths of Glory (6 page)

“Chapeau, jeune homme.”

“Dommage.”

“Bravo!”

“Magnifique!”

It was the second time that night that George had heard a crowd crying, “Magnifique!”

He spotted Guy just as the police were about to bundle him into the van and drive off to heaven knows where. “Find Mr. Irving!” he shouted. “He’ll know what to do.”

Guy ran all the way back to the hotel and took the lift to the third floor, but when he banged on Mr. Irving’s door there was no response. Reluctantly he returned to the ground floor and sat on the steps, awaiting the arrival of his housemaster. He even considered making his way back to the Moulin Rouge, but on balance decided that that might cause even more trouble.

The hotel clock had struck six before a carriage bearing Mr. Irving pulled up outside the front door. There was no sign of the scantily dressed lady. He was surprised to find Guy sitting on the steps, and even more surprised when he discovered why.

The hotel manager only needed to make a couple of phone calls before he located which police station George had spent the night in. It took all of Mr. Irving’s diplomatic skills, not to mention emptying his wallet, before the duty officer agreed to release the irresponsible young man, and only then after Mr. Irving had assured the inspector that they would leave the country
immédiatement.

On the ferry back to Southampton, Mr. Irving told the two young men that he hadn’t yet made up his mind whether to report the incident to their parents.

“And I still haven’t made up my mind,” responded Guy, “whether to tell my father the name of that club you took us to last night.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

M
ONDAY
, O
CTOBER
9
TH
, 1905

G
EORGE WAS RELIEVED
to find that the front door of Magdalene College was open when he arrived for the first day of term.

He strolled into the porter’s lodge, placed his suitcase on the floor, and said to the familiar figure seated behind the counter, “My name’s—”

“Mr. Mallory,” said the porter, raising his bowler hat. “As if I’m likely to forget,” he added with a warm smile. He looked down at his clipboard. “You’ve been allocated a room on staircase seven, sir, the Pepys Building. I normally escort freshmen on their first day of term, but you seem to be a gentleman who can find his own way.” George laughed. “Across First Court and through the archway.”

“Thank you,” said George, picking up his suitcase and heading toward the door.

“And sir.” George turned back as the porter rose from his chair. “I believe this is yours.” He handed George another leather suitcase with the letters
GLM
printed in black on its side. “And do try to be on time for your six o’clock appointment, sir.”

“My six o’clock appointment?”

“Yes, sir, you are bidden to join the Master for drinks in the lodgings. He likes to acquaint himself with the new undergraduates on the first day of term.”

“Thank you for reminding me,” said George. “By the way, has my friend Guy Bullock turned up?”

“He has indeed, sir.” Once again the porter looked down at his list. “Mr. Bullock arrived over two hours ago. You’ll find him on the landing above you.”

“That will be a first,” said George without explanation.

As George walked toward First Court, he was careful not to step on the grass, which looked as if it had been cut with a pair of scissors. He passed several undergraduates, some dressed in long gowns to show that they were scholars, others in short gowns to indicate that, like himself, they were exhibitioners, while the rest didn’t wear gowns, just mortar boards, which they occasionally raised to each other.

No one gave George a second look, and certainly no one raised their mortar board to him as he walked by, which brought back memories of his first day at Winchester. He couldn’t suppress a smile when he passed Mr. A. C. Benson’s staircase. The senior tutor had telegrammed the day after their meeting, offering George a history exhibition. In a later letter he informed him that he would be tutoring him himself.

George continued on through the archway into Second Court, which housed the Pepys Building, until he came to a narrow corridor marked with a bold
7
. He dragged his cases up the wooden steps to the second floor, where he saw a door with the name
G. L. Mallory
painted on it in silver letters. How many names had appeared on that door over the past century, he wondered.

He entered a room not much larger than his study at Winchester, but at least he would not be expected to share the tiny space with Guy. He was still unpacking when there was a knock on the door, and Guy strolled in without waiting for an invitation. The two young men shook hands as if they had never met before, laughed, and then threw their arms around each other.

“I’m on the floor above you,” said Guy.

“I’ve already made my views clear on that ridiculous notion,” responded George.

Guy smiled when he saw the familiar chart that George had already pinned to the wall above his desk.

“You seem to have forgotten Montmartre,” he said. “Not to mention the Eiffel Tower.”

“The Eiffel Tower is only 1,062 feet,” replied George. “And
you
seem to have forgotten that I didn’t reach the top.”

Guy glanced at his watch. “We’d better get going if we’re not to be late for the Master.”

“Agreed,” said George, and quickly slipped on his gown.

As the two young undergraduates strolled across Second Court toward the Master’s lodgings, George asked Guy if he knew anything about their head of house.

“Only what Mr. Irving told me. Apparently he was our man in Berlin before he retired from the Foreign Office. He had a reputation for being pretty blunt with the Germans. According to Irving, even the Kaiser was wary of him.”

George straightened his tie as they joined a stream of young men who were walking through the Master’s garden in the direction of a Victorian Gothic house that dominated one side of the courtyard. They were greeted at the door by a college servant dressed in a white jacket and black trousers, carrying a clipboard.

“I’m Bullock, and this is Mallory,” said Guy.

The man ticked off their names, but not before he’d taken a closer look at George. “You’ll find the Master in the drawing room on the first floor,” he told them.

George ran up the stairs—he always ran up stairs—and entered a large, elegantly furnished room full of undergraduates and dons, with oil paintings of more ancient versions of the latter decorating the walls. Another servant offered them a glass of sherry, and George spotted someone he recognized. He strolled across to join him.

“Good evening, sir,” he said.

“Mallory. I’m delighted you were able to make it,” said the senior tutor, without any suggestion of teasing. “I was just reminding two of your fellow freshmen that my first tutorial will be at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. As you’ve now taken up residence in the college, you won’t have to climb over the wall to be on time, will you, Mallory?”

“No, sir,” said George, sipping his sherry.

“Though I wouldn’t count on it,” said Guy.

“This is my friend, Guy Bullock,” said George. “You don’t have to worry about him, he’s always on time.”

The only person in the room not wearing a gown, apart from the college servants, came across to join them.

“Ah, Sir David,” said the senior tutor. “I don’t think you’ve met Mr. Bullock, but I know that you are well acquainted with Mr. Mallory, who dropped into your garden earlier in the year.”

George turned to face the head of college. “Oh Lord,” he said.

Sir David smiled at the new undergraduate. “No, no, Mr. Mallory, ‘Master’ will suffice.”

Guy made sure that George was on time for his first tutorial with Mr. Benson the following morning, but even so, George still managed to turn up only moments before the appointed hour. The senior tutor opened his remarks by making it clear that weekly essays were to be delivered every Thursday by five o’clock, and if anyone was late for a tutorial, they should not be surprised to find the door locked. George was grateful that his room was a mere hundred yards away from Mr. Benson’s, and that his mother had supplied him with an alarm clock.