The Choice (22 page)

When I got back to college there were another four notes in my pigeonhole, all from people demanding to see me immediately and all to do with Suarez. I hurried for the Chamber, now close to panic, and spent a frantic hour searching people out and trying to change their minds. Everybody seemed to want my personal attention, and my sole consolation was that Giles would be working even harder than me, so I was less than pleased to find him in the bar, sprawled in his pet armchair with a pint of beer in his hand.

I put all the sarcasm I could muster into my voice as I approached. ‘Don’t work too hard, will you, Giles? I’ve seen most of the people who count, and I’ve got most of the press on our side or at least neutral, except for …’

I broke off as he made a gesture with his hand, only then condescending to lower the glass from his mouth.

‘Sit down, Poppy. Relax. Get yourself a drink.’

‘Relax? We’ve got to …’

‘No we haven’t. Uncle Randolph called earlier this afternoon to say that it would be too politically sensitive to have Suarez in the country at present. Naturally I had to cancel.’

‘Cancel?’

‘Cancel. Be a doll and find some plausible excuse, would you?’

It took me the rest of the week to backtrack on all the work I’d done for the Suarez visit, during every minute of which I was fantasising over cruel and elaborate ways to murder both Giles and his uncle Randolph. By the weekend I’d had all I could take, and accepted Violet’s invitation to spend the night at James’ house. I slept like a log on the Saturday night, but we spent Sunday in the woods, where I was given a very gentle birching, not even hard enough to prick my skin and leave marks. In suggesting the punishment I had hoped to recapture at least something of what I’d felt in France, but succeeded only in creating the faintest of echoes, which was more frustrating than satisfying.

I did at least feel rested enough to face the following week, the last before Eights Week, which was such hard work that I was wondering if I could have coped at all had it not been for the cancellation of the Suarez visit. That in no way reduced my resentment of Giles, and nor did his claim to have been searching for me during the period I was asleep in the Bodleian. In my view he should have stuck to his principles, rather than caving in after a single phone call from his uncle.

At the time I’d been too taken aback to make my feelings clear, but I was determined to do so and finally got the chance after rowing one day. Stephen was still on the river, and I’d showered and changed in the Boniface boathouse, so found
myself
passing Mary’s on my way back. Giles’ window was open, so he was presumably in, while I had just enough time to visit before my tutorial. I wanted to talk to him face to face, so instead of climbing up and sticking my head through the window I went into Mary’s.

He was there, and greeted me with his usual friendly condescension, waving to an armchair. ‘Poppaea, I thought you might be along. Come to gloat over your re-election?’

‘What re-election?’

‘Nobody is opposing you, it seems.’

‘Oh … that’s good. No, I haven’t come to gloat, I …’

‘I would, in your shoes, not that pink boating pumps really suit me …’

‘Will you talk sense for a moment, please? I wanted to know if you’re going to cancel any of your other speakers this term.’

His response was casual, unmoved by my sarcasm. ‘The cleric, yes, the blood-sports crowd and the fellow from Philadelphia, no.’

‘Is that on your uncle’s advice?’

‘Yes. It’s a nuisance, I know, but what must be done must be done.’

‘Why? You’re not obliged to do as Sir Randolph says, and God knows you don’t take any notice of anybody else.’

‘Ah, but I am obliged.’

‘Why?’

‘For the very simple reason, my dear, that without my uncle Randolph’s good opinion I might one day have to join the ranks of the wage slaves.’

‘Why?’

‘You are beginning to repeat yourself, my dear, which is not a good habit. Why do you suppose I’m going into politics? I am doing so to please my uncle Randolph, and I must continue
to
please him. Otherwise my inheritance will vanish like a fart in a hurricane.’

‘So you’re willing to abandon your principles just because you’re scared he’ll disinherit you?’

‘Absolutely, and besides, my principles, in so far as I have any, are largely his own, and will remain so, along with my loyalty, until the day he hands in his dinner pail. Speaking of which, I’m prepared to offer you five per cent of what I get from him if you’ll shag the old bugger to death. How about it?’

‘Do try to be serious, Giles.’

‘Seven per cent and your choice of car, that’s my final offer.’

‘Shut up. I worked really hard on that Suarez thing, Giles, and …’

‘As I remarked before, I did try to tell you. Still, I suppose I should have realised that it would be a step too far, so I apologise. How about that?’

‘Thank you, but …’

‘He’s hard to judge you see, old Uncle Randolph, and he too has his political masters, but you needn’t worry your pretty head any more, because he insists the cleric is out but he’s happy with the other two.’

‘Thank you, it’s useful to know that, but …’

‘Oh, and, while you’re here, you’ll be interested to know that Mitchell’s up for the Hawkubites again, and this time I feel confident he’ll be accepted.’

I was going to ask how he could be so sure, only for a thought to occur to me. ‘You blackballed him last time, didn’t you? You blackballed him because you thought I’d accept the money to be gang-banged and he wouldn’t have let you, didn’t you?’

‘Certainly not! I would never dream of doing such a thing.’

He was trying not to laugh, and I knew I was right.

‘You complete and utter bastard! You sneaky, conniving …’

‘Poppy, please, you’re making me blush.’

‘I’m going to tell him.’

‘I shall deny it, and who do you think he will believe?’

There was no doubting the answer.

‘You.’

I slumped back in my chair, defeated. He chuckled and reached out to a decanter of whisky, poured two and handed one to me. I took a swallow, once again wondering what I could possibly do to bring him down a peg or two. At that moment there was a knock on the door, which swung open even as Giles answered.

Lucy looked in. ‘Oh, you’ve got company.’

‘No, no, come in, darling. It’s only Poppy.’

Lucy came in, giving me a friendly but shy glance before turning to Giles with an expression of complete devotion. He pulled her down onto his lap, one arm around her tiny waist. It should have been a good time to leave, but I had the excuse of needing to swallow half a beaker of neat whisky in one and decided to confirm the date I’d suggested, as I was sure there was potential in introducing Stephen to Lucy.

‘Remember we were talking about all going out together, Lucy. Let’s set a date, although it will have to be after Eights Week.’

I’d expected Giles to try to find some excuse to get out of it, but to my surprise he responded with enthusiasm.

‘The weekend will be hopeless, what with bumps suppers and things, not that it will be much fun, because the college authorities are refusing to let us burn the boat. Health and safety apparently. Not that I’m even a member of the club, but still. How about the following Wednesday, after we’ve all had a chance to recover?’

We agreed and I left after a few minutes, now in despair of
finding
anything that could shake Giles without causing trouble for everybody else, myself included.

The next few days were pretty much routine, but with an underlying tension for the approach of Eights Week and in my case the near certainty of a spanking from Stephen. Watching other colleges at practice, I felt sure that in the crucial women’s bumps Mary’s would be able to catch Emmanuel, and probably on the first day. We had at least a chance of doing the same on the second, but were very unlikely to catch either Mary’s or St Helen’s, who were equally good and likely to row over for the last two days. The result was therefore likely to be St Helen’s, Mary’s, Emmanuel, Boniface and a session over Stephen’s knee for myself.

There was mandatory practice all weekend, depriving me of my fix from James and Violet, while I was supposed to be in bed by ten o’clock every night and lay off alcohol. I tried, after a fashion, but both Chamber business and work had to take priority. Dr Etheridge had very little sympathy with sports, which he considered trivial, but by working late on Sunday night and spending most of Monday morning in the Bodleian I was able to get my essay finished and spend most of Tuesday relaxing.

I’d been praying for fine weather, but while Wednesday dawned clear there was a stiff south-west breeze, which meant we’d be rowing into a wind that would also be pushing us against the bank. The heavier boats were likely to do better, making the women’s bumps even less predictable, but it was only when I got down to the bank that I realised how bad it was. I’d often seen the Exe Estuary smoother, while the marshals were looking worried and talking about postponing the start.

Stephen joined me, looking bronzed and fit, and when he
put
an arm around me with one huge hand resting on my hip I could feel my stomach fluttering in anticipation of what he might be doing with it in just four short days’ time. Twice he’d mentioned my forfeit, jokingly, but while the idea seemed to make him a little nervous I was sure he wouldn’t back out.

Even after the rowing had begun I was still thinking about it, despite my best efforts to concentrate on psyching myself up for the race. I hadn’t been getting done often enough, even with my regular visits to James, or hard enough because I couldn’t risk showing any marks, but that had only made my need stronger, while the thought of a boyfriend as strong and handsome as Stephen who would spank me whenever I needed it was enough to make me weak at the knees. I could only pray that when he’d done me he would develop an addiction just as I had, only for dishing it out.

Only when the time came for Stephen to race did I make the effort to get to the edge of the bank, cheering him on as the Emmanuel boat moved into position. They were ninth, and so could only hope to advance up the table, while there was no real risk of being relegated, but it was still thrilling to watch as his boat closed on the one ahead while simultaneously losing ground to their pursuers. Neither managed to bump and they rowed over, as had Mary’s at the front of the line, with over three lengths of clear water separating them from their rivals.

With the women’s races starting I made for the Boniface boathouse, where I was given a ticking off by the coach for not being there earlier and told to get ready. I’d seen how even the best of the men had struggled with the wind, and was imagining the embarrassment of running into the bank or even sinking as I got changed, and for all my anticipation I was determined to do my best.

My adrenalin was running high as we warmed up, and a
tight
knot had formed in my stomach before we’d climbed into the boat. I could see Stephen outside the Emmanuel boathouse, and plenty of other friends; Giles and Lucy on the veranda of the Mary’s boathouse drinking Pimms, even Dr Etheridge, muffled against the wind and doing his best to look disapproving. Violet had promised to come, and to try to drag James along, but they were nowhere to be seen.

I wasn’t particularly surprised, as neither of them had the slightest interest in sport, and put everything but my task from my mind as the cox called out for us to manoeuvre away from the bank. The boat was rocking the moment we were in open water, with little waves breaking over the side to wet my legs, and it took all my concentration to handle my oar properly as we got into position.

The cannon fired and we took off, hurling the boat forwards through the water with the wind whipping at my hair and the slack of my top. In just two strokes I knew we weren’t going to get caught, a big gap already opening up between us and our pursuers, but I didn’t dare look round to see how Mary’s were doing. Maybe forty strokes and I heard a bump called, imagining for one wild moment that we’d done it before I realised that Mary’s had caught Emmanuel. My heart sank, only to rise again at the thought of catching St Helen’s to over-bump and take the Head of the River in true style, but it was a hopeless task and we had to be content with rowing over.

Only as we made our way back up river did I realise that James and Violet were sitting at one of the tables in the beer garden of The Boatman’s, which could only mean they’d been there since opening time, because it was packed. I waved and blew a kiss, which Violet returned.

The following day was not only windy, but also wet, making conditions even worse. Fortunately I was used to it, from
sailing
on the Exe and being dragged out to sea in fishing boats by Ewan and others. Most of the other girls weren’t, and the boats behind us ended up sideways across the river in a tangle of oars, which wasn’t the first disaster of the day. We bumped Emmanuel, who’d shipped so much water they could barely make headway, but both Mary’s and St Helen’s rowed over, which meant we had to bump them on successive days in order to go Head of the River. I couldn’t see it happening, short of a miracle, and I was already thinking of how I would feel as I lay across Stephen’s legs, with one powerful arm holding me firmly in place as he peeled down my shorts to bare me for my forfeit. I’d told Violet already, but couldn’t resist repeating myself when she came in for a coffee that evening.

‘Do you remember I told you about my bet with Stephen? It looks like I’m going to get it.’

‘Lucky girl. And speaking of spanking, you won’t be rowing for the rest of term, will you?’

‘Only once a week, I’ve got to study for prelims after all. But if you’re thinking about marks: what about Stephen? He’s sure to notice, especially as I hope he’ll be doing me regularly after this weekend.’

‘I wasn’t thinking about marks, as it happens.’

‘Oh. That’s a pity.’

‘Marks can be arranged, bad girl, in due time, but James and I have a little treat for you that doesn’t involve marks.’