House of Windows (8 page)

‘The porters threw me out,’ Nick snarled. ‘They wouldn’t
even let me go to SuperHall. I promised I wouldn’t drink but—’

‘That is understandably naïve of you, Mr Derran, but it has been my long experience that it is nigh-on impossible to attend College functions without being practically
doused
in alcohol. You might be
willing
to abstain but I’m sure that one of your drunker and stupider compatriots would take great pride in finding a way to ensure that you imbibed.’

‘Why can’t my dad just sign some legal disclaimer that he won’t sue the College no matter—’

‘I imagine that the College’s legal position is more complex than that. Regrettable as it may be, Mr Derran, your situation in this regard is a lost cause. In any case, I do not think you are missing much. By the morning the College will have been bathed in regurgitated alcopops and most of the undergraduates will be suffering from temporary memory loss induced by alcohol poisoning. You will be quite safe in pretending you were there if you feel that your absence will somehow hamper your social standing. No one will be any the wiser. Now, while this racket continues to prevent me from retiring at a reasonable hour, we shall continue your chess education. You may put the kettle on.’

By the time Professor Gosswin had barked a thousand orders from the Keeping Room – as she tartly instructed him was the proper name for any room in a college set that was not a bedroom – regarding the precise way her tea should be prepared, Nick no longer felt the bass beat of the music from the JCR as a throb of anger in his temples.

Tonight, there was a space beside the chessboard for the tea tray and a second chair drawn up in invitation by the white pieces.

‘You know, you don’t have to feel obliged to invite me for tea just because—’

‘
Mr
Derran,’ snapped Professor Gosswin, ‘when has it struck you, in our admittedly brief acquaintance, that I
ever
feel compelled to do that which I would rather not? Now
sit
down this instant and get on with it. While you do, indulge me by expanding on how you are faring at College thus far.’

‘Well, the city’s beautiful. And I’m enjoying the work. Everyone says Maths gets hard about Week 3 or 4, though, so I guess I’ll just have to wait and see.’

‘And the people?’

Nick fumbled a knight into position.

Gosswin sighed. ‘Send me patience,’ she begged the ceiling.

‘The people are OK,’ Nick said.

‘That was not a rousing endorsement, Mr Derran.’

Nick shrugged.

‘And a shrug is not an acceptable elaboration any more than that move is worthy of your intellect. No, not the
bishop
!’

Nick moved his knight again.

Professor Gosswin grunted. She let her hand hover over a castle, then her queen.

‘I guess I get on OK with the people I have lectures with.’

‘And your supervision partners?’

‘I make Susie condescending or tearful, and Frank doesn’t like that I keep doing better than he does.’

‘A fact that you take no trouble to hide.’

Nick threw up his hands, slumping back into his chair. ‘Why should I always have to pretend I’m not as clever as I am? If I can’t be smart at Cambridge—’

‘You are quite well aware, Mr Derran, that there is something of a difference between being smart and being a smart arse. You need to decide what matters more to you: forming friendships or challenging yourself with the work in the way you most enjoy. Try something with that rook.’

‘I want to enjoy the work,’ he said, eyes fixed on the board. ‘Susie and Frank are OK and I could probably get on better with them if I kept my mouth shut, but I’m never going to have a proper friendship with either of them. They’re just not …’ He shrugged.

‘
Words
, Mr Derran.’

‘Susie seems really confident outside supervisions, but she just keeps going to pieces over the work. I think she’s embarrassed that I’m there to see that. Frank slacks off and then gets cross when I want to know how well I’m doing: I’m working twice as hard as he is and he knows it, so why should I worry about him feeling inadequate when I get better marks? If he cares, why doesn’t he try harder? And if he doesn’t care enough to work more, then what’s the problem?’

‘That is a rational and logical argument, Mr Derran. However, as you will concede, people, even mathematicians,
are usually no more logical or rational than anyone else when it comes to life … and their ego.’

‘But this is work!’

‘For some people it is the same thing.’

‘For people like me. Frank doesn’t give a toss. He had a hangover last supervision.
And
he was late.’ Nick slammed a pawn off the chessboard with a swipe that sent it rolling on to the rug. ‘Sorry,’ he said quietly, reaching for it and setting it carefully to the side.

‘Your work may take up more of your time, and be more integral to your sense of self, than is the case with your supervision partner, but it does not follow that he is necessarily the type to appreciate the distinction. Or your willingness to make a point of it.’

‘But I’m
not
making a point of it,’ Nick said, then winced at how loudly the words had come out. ‘I’m not trying to make a point of it to
him
.’

‘Indeed,’ said Professor Gosswin. ‘I am not criticising your choices, Mr Derran, but I
am
suggesting that they have consequences, which means you must look further afield for friendship. Because that
should
form a part of your time here. Look at your father. He and Mr Morrison have always made something of an odd couple, but while they were friends before they came up to Cambridge, I dare say it was their college days that enabled them to stay
great
friends even after they went down.’

‘Dad and Bill had cricket. What do you want me to do? Join a sports team? Oh, they’ll love me in the rugby squad.’
Nick snorted a bitter laugh. ‘I’m no good at tennis. I can’t sing. I can’t act—’

‘But you have one natural advantage for a key Cambridge activity.’

‘I do?’

Professor Gosswin gave him a look of deep disdain. ‘You have an excellent mind, Mr Derran. You must learn to use it in
all
areas of your life. Consider this: you are shorter than most students and very slender.’ When Nick’s face remained blank, she rolled her eyes. ‘You would make an ideal rowing cox. I understand from a colleague that they are trying to establish a Men’s Third boat and are missing a cox.’

‘Rowing?’

‘Use your
mind
, Mr Derran, not your vocal cords, at least not
sans
cogitation: you are not a parrot.’ Snatching a bishop from the board, she punched it down by his queen. ‘The other natural advantage that suits you to this endeavour is your capacity for insult. Some coxes strive to encourage their crew, but most focus on “tough love”. You should have no problem administering some of
that
. If you show some initiative and learn to tip yourself out of bed at ungodly hours of the morning, you may find yourself with a team of fellow students who are instantly well disposed towards you.’

‘I thought you were going to suggest something like the chess club.’

Professor Gosswin gave a long-suffering sigh. ‘No, Mr Derran. At present, that would be
most
unsuitable indeed.’

Four mornings later, seven o’clock found Nick walking downriver along the towpath, watching the sky blush to the blinding line of the yellow-white horizon. Mist curled dispiritedly over the water, stagnating about the reeds. The moisture hanging in the air made the discarded sweet and crisp packets bobbing at the waterline glow with sudden colour against the brown- and grey-green of the water, of the land.

A tall man in a waterproof jacket was standing in front of the Trinity Hall boathouse doors, along with a group of yawning students.

‘Nick?’ the man called, beckoning him over. ‘I’m your coach. And this sorry lot’s your crew.’ He gestured at the students standing in an uneven crescent around him.

As Nick raised his hand to wave, one of the students
mirrored him, wiggling his fingers tauntingly. Nick quickly dropped his hand.

‘Since this boat was so pathetic on their mandatory initial session with an experienced cox, they had to have a second session,’ said the coach, ‘so no harm done that you’re joining us a few weeks late, though it’s a pity you’ve missed the official Combined Boating Clubs induction.’ The coach shook his head as he looked Nick up and down. ‘At least you’re small,’ he said, to sniggering from the crew. ‘Button it.’ He made it a command without even raising his voice.

The crew went quiet, eyes on their shoes. Nick looked from one to the next, hoping for a friendly smile. Two of the students were clearly twins, dressed near-identically, standing in exactly the same way, with exactly the same smarmy grins.

‘Time to look lively. What’s the first thing you do, Nick?’ asked the coach.

‘I check the app on my phone for the lighting-down time, which is actually when the sun comes
up
,’ Nick said.

‘Don’t tell me: show me.’

Nick resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he brought the app up. ‘Lighting down was one minute ago. So in fifteen minutes we can go on the water without static lights, right?’

‘
But
…’ prompted the coach.

‘But Third Boats aren’t important enough to be on the water before seven-thirty, so we can’t even go on the river
with
lights for fifteen minutes anyway.’

‘And what else do you need to check?’

Nick tried to envisage the Handbook, tried to see the page about lighting up and preparing for an outing.

‘Before you go on the river,’ said the coach, with a long-suffering sigh, ‘you check the flag. Which flag do I mean?’

‘It’s on one of the boathouses, but I can just check it on the website.’ He looked up to find the coach standing with his hands raised as if in supplication. ‘Right.’ He brought the page up on his phone. ‘It
was
yellow, which is only for the really good boats, but now it’s green, which is for everyone.’

‘Now, what is it that you, personally, are missing?’ The coach heaved a dismal sigh at Nick’s blank look. ‘What goes on to the river with you and not your eight?’ At Nick’s even blanker stare, he fixed his eyes on the sky as if Nick were too stupid to look at. ‘Your eight: your eight rowers. Why do you think your boat is called the Men’s Third VIII? Didn’t you even skim the Handbook?’

‘There’s just a lot to remember—’ He looked away, took a deep breath, then a second. ‘I need to get a life jacket.’

‘Am I stopping you?’ The coach made a shooing gesture.

Such a great start to my rowing career.

Nick walked into the boathouse and set about looking for the life jackets. When he finally found and fought his way into one, he turned to find the coach and crew waiting behind him. They gave a little cheer as he stepped towards them.

Nick bit down on the inside of his cheek. By the time he’d supressed the rudest retorts in his head, trying to think serene
thoughts about the gentle ripples of the water visible through the open boathouse doors, the time for saying anything witty and confident was gone.

‘Now,’ said the coach, beckoning Nick over to stand beside him, ‘the key is to give commands as early as possible. On the river, you need to plan three boat-lengths ahead. It’s safety first, so the only priority for today is to have an outing with no accidents. I don’t care how slow and messy it is provided you respect the rules of the river. I’ll be with you the whole way on the bank to prompt you if need be.’

‘How come I’m the only one in a life jacket?’ Nick asked.

‘The crew are lower in the boat than you and better anchored with their blades and their feet. Coxes aren’t allowed to fix themselves in, so they’re the most likely to fall in the drink.’

‘Or be tossed in!’ came a call.

‘It’s traditional after a win at the Lent and June bumps – the races next term and after the exams – for the cox to get dunked in the river,’ explained the coach. ‘It’s not likely to be an issue for you with this lot. Let’s get this disaster waiting to happen over and done with, shall we?’

‘River! Five minutes!’ Nick ordered. ‘Get the … stuff ready!’ His shout seemed to bounce off the wet air and back into his face. A few members of the crew giggled.

‘On the river!’ bellowed the coach, giving Nick a haughty look when all eight of the crew scrambled towards the boat. ‘Stroke side opposite your riggers! Prepare to lift! Nick, give the order.’

‘Hands on!’ he said, wincing when it came out more squeak than shout.

The twins sniggered.

‘Oh shut up,’ Nick growled, and got a look of approval from the coach. ‘Prepare to lift one inch only! Lifting on three, two, one, lift!’ It was close enough to word-for-word from the Handbook that the coach just raised an eyebrow. ‘Walk it out!’

Nick and the coach led the way on to the wide concrete path between the boathouse and the river.

‘No, you idiots! Stern goes upriver! Stern!’ shouted the coach. ‘The back bit goes to the left! Nick, you command the turn.’

Eventually the boat was the right way up and facing in the right direction. The crew slowly lowered it to the surface of the water. Nick crouched on the edge, holding the rudder steady so that it didn’t smack into the bank as the crew scrambled awkwardly into the boat, making it pitch dangerously to one side then the other. People passing on bikes and in jogging gear didn’t even turn to look. A dog stopped thoughtfully by the open boathouse doors, then peed against the jamb.

A heron landed on the far side of the river. Nick watched it stalk into the reeds, digging at the bank. Upriver, the St Catz boathouse was sodden and grim in the fine rain. The dark blue paintwork of the bay doors along the front ran with moisture.

Finally, the crew were settled, shoes off and feet fixed into
place. They called off their positions one by one. With one last look over his shoulder at the river, Nick took a breath and carefully slid from the bank to the stern.

‘Push off when you’re ready!’ called the coach.

The boat wobbled, pitched, made a jerky sideways motion. Nick flinched as the stroke slid towards him. He hadn’t realised how intimidating it would be to have someone pulling forward so close, and the rest of the crew behind, all rushing at him while he had to sit still at the stern, focusing on the river. When he had imagined his first outing, there had been versions where they all fell in the river; versions where they ran aground; versions where the coach ordered him out of the boat never to return; and versions where everyone simply fell into pace with each other, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Reality involved getting soaked to the skin by the mizzle as they fought their way upriver in fits and starts, almost colliding with the bank when they had to cross over after the first ninety-degree bend, which the coach named as Ditton Corner, and then back again after Grassy Corner, the second sharp bend. Their attempt to ‘spin’ by Baitsbite Lock, which marked the end of the stretch of water given over to rowing, collected a crowd of dog-walkers and parents with pushchairs, all delighted by the farce being enacted for their viewing pleasure as the Trinity Hall Men’s Third VIII tried and failed and tried again to turn their boat towards home. Nick let the coach’s voice fade into the background as the orders became progressively
shorter, sharper and ruder. Slowly, waveringly, the boat started to turn.

There were bulrushes beside the bank upstream, away from the lock. A clump of wild geranium tumbled orange and scarlet over and between the filigree of a fallen tree branch. The brambles were wine-dark, the leaves the purple-black of an aubergine, catching the odd slant of light through the cloud.

Then suddenly the trees were blazing yellow and amber and green as columns of sunlight streamed down the bank, on to the water, and just as suddenly were gone. A sharp tug of wind shunted the boat sideways. The crew hunched stinging cheeks into their shoulders.

‘Stop admiring the wildlife, Nick!’ shouted the coach.

Nick started. He corrected the rudder to move away from the bank then had to re-correct back the other way.

‘May we come past?’ came an amplified shout from behind.

‘Easy the boat! Bow side, I mean stroke side … Passing side, watch your blades!’ Nick shouted, heart thumping as the boat overtaking them burst into jeers and catcalls, while his own crew glared mutinously.

The other boat pulled level, the cox grinning maliciously.

‘Watch your own bow, you onion-eyed foot-licking measle,’ Nick told him.

Silence descended over the river. The other boat pulled past, their cox turning to stare back. Nick watched with satisfaction at they steered into the bank.

When he turned back to his crew, the stroke was grinning at him.

There was no time to admire the fields and woods, the willow trees feathering into the water. The coach talked him through a series of simple commands about ‘backstops’ and ‘half slides’, while Nick fluffed the steering and the crew failed to pull in unison, let alone with equal power. The boat weaved and jerked its way back downstream.

Nick tried to keep his eyes on the river but they kept drifting back to the boathouses that periodically dotted the final stretch of their journey. Picked out in the appropriate College colours, each displayed a plasterwork crest but no other signpost to distinguish one from another. Somehow he couldn’t stop thinking of them as posh garages, lined as their fronts were on the ground floor with high double doors. He supposed the height was to give ample clearance for the expert crews, who carried their boats out above their heads.

Ahead, he spotted the Trinity Hall boathouse. Triple lead-light windows jutted out on thick oak-beams over the forecourt at either end; matching gables rose into fancy swirling plasterwork below sharp-pointed brown-tiled roofs.

They managed to ‘park’ in front of the boathouse without falling in or losing any oars, but it was a near thing. Then they nearly dropped the boat as they turned it upside-down to rack it again. By the time it was safely stored, the crew looked hollow with humiliation and exhaustion.

‘Any words, Nick?’ the coach asked.

Nick looked at his fingers, purple and white with cold. ‘I
need to invest in better gloves.’ He shrugged. ‘I thought we should end on a positive note, but that was all I could think of.’

The stroke laughed.

‘Same time Friday, boys!’ said the coach to a general groaning and grumbling as the crew trudged away up the towpath towards the footbridge to Midsummer Common.

The stroke, arm over the shoulders of one of the twins, looked back suddenly. ‘You waiting to be carried, Nick?’ He made a ‘come on then’ gesture.

It meant going back to College in his wet things, where everyone else separated to shower and get ready for lectures, leaving him to double-back on himself to head home, but it was worth it to spend twenty minutes as part of one of the loud boisterous groups jostling across Midsummer Common. Even though no one spoke to him specifically, and he added nothing to the conversation, it was nice to belong there: to be part of something.