House of Windows (4 page)

The gym hall at Kelsey Kerridge was packed with rows of Freshers’ Fair stalls, second and third years hawking the various University clubs and societies from behind rickety laminate desks and trying to stop home-printed posters falling off unstable head-height partitions. Squinting at the diagram in his hand, Nick squeezed into the tight-packed column of students squirming clockwise down the middle aisle. He stumbled out of line at the Fantasy Book Club stall, accepting the leaflet that Gandalf thrust brusquely into his hands.

‘Fridays at six during Term.’

‘As opposed to what? The holidays?’ Nick asked.

Gandalf heaved a weary sigh. ‘Full Term’s an extra week before and after Term. We only meet in Term.’ Another sigh as Nick’s face went even blanker. ‘Term is Weeks 1 to 8
when there’s teaching. You do at least know weeks start on a Thursday, right?’

‘Oh yeah,’ Nick drawled. ‘
Everyone
knows that Cambridge is in a time-warp where different temporal rules apply.’

Gandalf pointedly turned his back to greet a new student.

‘We take it in turns to host in our rooms,’ Spock said, taking pity on him. ‘All we ask is that you nominate your chosen linguistic speciality by Week Three so we can assign a tutor.’

Nick tried but failed to stop himself staring as Spock set to stroking the point of his left ear lovingly. ‘Linguistic speciality?’ he parroted.

‘We recommend one of the Elvish languages, or Klingon. But we will accept Vulcan as well as the language of the dwarves or that of the gnomes,’ Spock said, yawning as he passed over a clipboard.

Nick stared at it.

‘You put your name, College and email address.’

‘In Elvish?’ Nick asked, and handed the clipboard back.

Contemplating the heaving mass of students, he stared dismally at the desk to his right and wondered about the feasibility of getting down on his hands and knees and trying to crawl under the tables to reach the end of the aisle.

A girl stepped into his path. ‘Ready to start thinking about how you can get a University Blue?’

‘A blue what?’ he asked.

‘A sporting Blue,’ she said, rolling her eyes.

‘Oh. Like Cricket Blues,’ he said, thinking of Bill and Michael.

‘You can get Cambridge Blues for all sorts of things nowadays. You just have to represent the Uni at a Varsity match or national competition.’

‘Sounds great,’ said Nick. ‘Only I hate every sport ever invented. But thanks for thinking of me.’

‘Yeah, really glad you appreciate me being nice and inclusive, seeing as how you’re the puniest excuse for a Fresher I’ve seen yet,’ she sneered. ‘Ta now. Enjoy being a pathetic loser.’

And this is why I hate all sports.
Nick squeezed back into the crowd and let it carry him away.

By the time he emerged into the light and fled across Gonville Place into the expanse of Parker’s Piece, he felt battered and sweaty. A young man in a military uniform stepped into his path. ‘Cambridge University Officers’ Training Corps? We get to do parachuting and actual shooting.’

‘My favourite things!’ There was a vicious delight in letting sarcasm drip from the words.

The officer in training gave him an unapproved middle-finger salute.

This bodes so well for what College Induction has in store,
Nick muttered as he set off across the grass.

By the time he reached the pedestrian zone, he’d been shouldered into two walls. It took him five minutes to push through the crowd blocking the width of Petty Cury. When he finally wriggled out into Market Square, Nick found the perimeter gridlocked with cars. Many of the drivers had their doors open, peering about: others were leaning on their horns.

Suddenly one car moved by the frontage of Paperchase, and then another. Very slowly the line of cars started disappearing up past Holy Trinity Church. People dispersed, melting back into shops or between the stalls. Nick had just wound his way to the corner by the Cambridge University Press bookshop when a flash of electric blue caught his eye.

A very short thin girl with wild white-blonde hair, wearing an enormous pair of blue fairy wings that rose up above her head and trailed down nearly to the ground, was skipping her way down the line of cars, pausing at each to whisper in at the driver’s window.

‘Hey, Ange!’ A girl hurried across the street to the fairy, who squealed with joy and threw her arms about the newcomer.

‘I’m on a rescue mission. Halt!’ the fairy yelled, holding out her hand to a car that was about to pull past them. She leaned down to speak to the driver, then straightened up again, gesturing the car on. ‘Some idiots from Magdalene dressed up with police hats have put cones across the turn on to Jesus Lane. They seem to think it’s amazingly funny to send people round and round the one-way system. Don’t they know the proud history of University pranks? Where is the equivalent of the Austin Seven van on the roof of Senate-House? Hang on a sec.’ She bent to talk to the next driver in line as Nick turned away to Senate House Passage.

He found that Trinity Lane had become a car park. Cars lined the length of the street, boots and doors open. Parents and students were carrying suitcases and boxes and bags
and plants and tennis rackets, and even a life-size cardboard cut-out of a film star, through the College gateway.

‘You’re practically living in a museum!’ a little girl was saying to her sister, staring wide-eyed around at the courtyard. ‘It’s like one of those stately homes.’

‘Off! The! Grass!’ bellowed a passing fellow at a family cutting across the courtyard on the diagonal. They jumped as one and scuttled back to the nearest path.

Nick kept to the cobbles that edged the grass, squeezing past a group poring over a College map, oblivious to the angry shoving beginning around them. A cluster of students were waiting in the lee of the chapel, where they’d been told to meet for the Freshers’ College Tour.

Tim was with them. ‘Hey, Nick.’

‘This your little brother?’ one of the girls standing beside Tim asked.

Nick tried not to make a ‘going to be sick’ sign when she dimpled her cheeks at Tim, winding a ringlet about her fingers.

‘Nope,’ Tim said, grinning down at the girl. ‘This here is TitHall’s own
bona fide
—’

‘I’m not a genius,’ interrupted Nick acidly. ‘I just work hard.’

‘As I was
about
to say,’ Tim said, ‘this is TitHall’s shortest smart-alec pain in the arse. Let’s just agree that most people here are advanced in the brain department and somewhat stunted in the social one. If you don’t fit that profile, you probably don’t belong. Now, if you’ll all follow me, I will begin the Grand Tour.’

‘So what’re you studying?’ the girl asked, falling into step beside Nick. ‘I’m doing Natural Sciences.’

‘In Cambridge, we don’t study subjects, we
read
them,’ Tim cut in. ‘In any case, the correct response is “I’m a NatSci” – spelt “s-c-i”, pronounced “ski”. Nick here is a Mathmo. Any other Mathmos?’ There was a desultory show of hands as they moved under the nearest arch and into a rectangular courtyard, divided on the diagonal by a flagstone path edged with triangular flowerbeds enclosed by low box hedges. The huge arched windows of Clare College Chapel loomed up on the far side.

‘That door is the office of the JCR President: bottom of F staircase,’ Tim said, gesturing at a little arched opening on their left. ‘Everything works by staircases in Cambridge. Off there is the stately F-staircase gyp room: that’s a mini-kitchen, for the uninitiated.’

Despite the bustle of students and families filing past, the courtyard felt hushed, calm. The whitewashed building on the right, half hidden by the tall plants in the beds on either side of the path, had the feel of an overgrown cottage. The grey-brown of the towering Clare Chapel wall seemed like a misplaced film backdrop. As if two different places and times had been stuck together with no effort to join them. Ten steps in any direction was a transition into a different world: the damp cold of the stone staircase, the mayhem of Front Court, the reverence of the tiny panes of the chapel windows.

‘Now, the lovely people who will come to rouse you out of
bed at a reasonable hour once a week so they can douse your room in bleach are called “bedders”. They are not actually for bedding. On which note, watch out for Predatory Third Years – and, yes, that’s an official title. You may end up bedding one of those, but I’d generally recommend against.’ Tim beckoned them back towards the chapel and along the path, then through the double doors under the cupola, which were standing open to ease the flood of people. ‘On the right we have the buttery, where you buy food. And on our left, Hall, where you eat it. When you see a charge for “KFC” on your end-of-term bill be aware that in Cambridge it stands for Kitchen Fixed Charge, which you have to pay, whether you ever eat in Hall or not.’

They passed out under the far arch, under a Victorian-style lantern. To the right was the Old Library, two scant storeys of brickwork the colour of long-dried blood, overgrown with roses and fronted by a deep herbaceous border, the fading summer flowers tilting drunkenly into each other.

‘To the left we have the Master’s Lodge.’

It was an ugly mess of too-yellow stone, squatting behind a circular patch of lawn. But ahead was a little copse of trees and beyond Latham Lawn, with its glorious copper beech.

‘The Fellows’ Garden is behind that big wall on the left. The Master has a garden party there in the summer and for one day only we all get to go and be envious, but generally, like most pieces of grass in Cambridge, it’s Strictly Off Limits to students.’

‘What’s the thingie?’ someone asked, pointing to where
a series of stepped platforms were being built on the edge of Latham Lawn.

‘
That
is for your Matriculation photo tomorrow. Do
not
forget your gowns. Feasts – like Matric Feast tomorrow evening – and Friday Formal Halls are basically the only times you need your gown, but, trust me, there is no leeway. And so to the local fauna: the short, grey dude who just passed us is the Master. You probably won’t have much to do with him. You get to shake his hand sometimes on special days and he’ll mumble something generically complimentary to you. You can mumble whatever you like back: he’s kinda hard of hearing. Any questions?’

‘It’s not about the Master, but why do I have a Tutor who’s an English professor when I’m doing Maths?’ asked a girl with a tumble of dark curls.

‘You’re getting confused about the Senior Tutor: she’s head College honcho when it comes to all things academic.
Personal
Tutors are responsible solely for your pastoral care. They’re usually from a completely different subject area just to make the point that they’re there to check up on you at the start and end of each term, largely for liability purposes: basically, so College can sign off on the fact that you’re still breathing and at least passing for sane. The important thing is to stay on the right side of your Director of Studies – in other words, your big-D little-o big-S – who is responsible for – you got it! – your academic progress. Or lack thereof. So remember that your “doss” will not appreciate jokes about his or her role in helping you learn how to doss about. And
if you think that acronym is unfortunate, consider what the Board of Graduate Studies abbreviates to. Now, let’s do some “getting to know you huddles”. Mathmos, you take that bench down by the river. Natscis, you have the bench by the Fellows’ Garden …’

The group drifted apart. Nick found himself perching on the wall beside the girl who’d asked about tutors. She offered her hand with a grin. ‘I’m Susie and I’m fully intending to wipe the floor with everyone here, even you. But, seriously, you’ve
got
to be a genius to be at Cambridge when you’re, what, thirteen?’

‘I’ve just turned fifteen, thanks,’ snapped Nick.

‘Oh,’ said Susie. ‘Sorry. It’s just—’

‘I’m short for my age? Thanks for that.’

‘Making friends?’ Tim said, appearing next to them.

Nick cast him a glare.

‘Right, making enemies then. That can work too, you know, as a starting point. Not necessarily the way I’d go but … I’ll leave you to it.’ He wandered away towards the Natscis.

‘Hey, sorry about that,’ said Susie, jostling her shoulder against his and making him jump. She heaved an exaggerated huff of a sigh. ‘I wasn’t trying to be mean, all right, so don’t get in a pet. Looks like it’s down to me to be organiser.’ She pushed herself to her feet and blew a sharp whistle that made the loosely clustered group wince. ‘OK, we’ve been told to introduce ourselves, so how about we get in a circle and go around and say our name and something about ourselves?’

Several people rolled their eyes or muttered under their breath, but they did so while shuffling obediently.

‘I’ll kick off, shall I?’ asked a tall boy with a grin that suggested he was used to being admired. ‘I’m Frank – by name if not always by nature. If it’s got something to do with polo, yachting or clubbing, I’m your man.’

When it got to Nick’s turn, he managed to force out his name, and the fact that he liked reading, without looking anyone in the eye. He let his breath out in relief a moment too soon.

‘Hey, you can be like our class mascot, Nick,’ said Frank.

Susie’s mouth fell open in a little O of distress.

‘I’m not hearing much talking over there!’ called Tim.

‘We were just …’ Susie trailed off, casting a look of reproach at Frank.

‘OK, enough with the huddling. Regroup! There’ll be plenty of time for further introductions tomorrow, while you’re knocking each other off the Matric scaffolding by standing on each other’s robes,’ Tim said, as they gathered around again. ‘Now, if you haven’t got yourself a copy of the Reporter to check your timetable, you’d better go look it up online ’cos, unlike at school, no one is going to know or care if you don’t make it to lectures. Though you will be charged if you miss supervisions without giving notice. And here ends the Tour. Fare thee well and may the rest of Freshers’ Week be filled with joy, merriment and far too much alcohol.’