The Pink and the Grey (5 page)

Hypocrisy was another matter. When poor dear Oscar was picking oakum, and St Paul’s, in a funk, admitted only the butchest of the butch, a far-sighted bursar — whose own college exploits if proven might have toppled several unmentionable establishment figures from their marble pillars into the Thames — took it upon himself to institute an extensive record-keeping operation. Should a student of another college visit St Paul’s to see a friend for afternoon tea and a nosh and later, perhaps many years later, raise a tabloid mob against unnatural vices, he might well wonder if some evidence of his behaviour were still extant, ticking, in our archives.
 

“Maybe there isn’t any gossip,” said Claire. “Not everyone is as open-minded about such matters as you might think — or want, dear. And anyway, didn’t a lot of your type go to Oxford?”

“We have a sister college. Reciprocal arrangement. I’m told we had one of the first dedicated leased lines when the academic networks grew up, you know. Lots to share.
Lots
.”

She turned eagerly to me. “You’ve seen it?”

I shook my head. “Insufficient clearance. I hear stories, of course. The Archivist, bless him, has been known to loosen his lips after the third or fourth port. Gets a twinkle in his eye and asks someone to name a year. ‘Oh, yes,’ he’ll go, his hair dancing about, ‘A very good year, that,’ and then he’ll lay down a clue or two. I couldn’t
possibly
, of course. What happens in St Paul’s stays in St Paul’s.”

“Except when it’s useful for blackmail purposes.”

“There’s a tiny asterisk after ‘stays’. All the way down the page in small print it says ‘your career may be at risk if you do not keep up repayments’.”

Claire refilled her glass. “There you go, then. Speak to the Archivist first thing in the morning and you’ll have your money in no time.”

“But don’t you see, Claire?” I pressed my glass against hers until she refilled that one too. “Amanda might be one wheel short of a unicycle but she’s well aware of the Archivist. You know the PM writes to the underground sailors telling them what to do if they can’t receive the
Today
programme three days in a row? Whenever St Paul’s appoints a new Master, the first thing they do is meet the Archivist. Then it’s a mug of sweet tea and an hour alone in a darkened room.”

“She already knows the gossip but won’t use it, that’s what you’re saying?”

“Nobody knows for a hundred percent what the Archivist told her. Probably just a broad sweep across, no photos. I would expect a worked example involving a long-expired historical figure, purely to set the level. I rather strongly suspect the Archivist wouldn’t trust a freshly minted Master with contemporary information unless it was immediately to be deployed, torpedoes away,
bellum collegium contra cockpot
.”

“Perhaps Amanda thinks it too crude a tactic to use simply to beg for money.” She took a long swig. “We women are more sophisticated thinkers than you. Not so phallocentric. I learned that in
Merchant
with Miriam, you know.”

“Reserving the nuclear option? It’s possible. It would certainly suggest the college is not in imminent danger of ruin and rack. Begone, foul accountants, ho, or something.”

“Maybe she’s just out to get you, Spencer.” She laughed.

I sat back, finding the thought entirely plausible to my increasingly addled mind. We had, after all, locked horns on more than one occasion despite my proclivities being hardly of note in the span of college history or in its present. In comparison to those long-ago times before the college was forced to admit heterosexuals, I was borderline celibate.

I decided to apply some logic. “Either she’s after my rather attractive hide or she isn’t. If she is, the best thing I can surely do is not fail, because then the Chatteris beast is defeated. If she isn’t, and the college is indeed broke, then it is my sworn duty to save it for tomorrow’s homos. The homorrows.”

“That seems prudent, darling. Ideas, then.”

We spent another bottle brainstorming. Most of the suggestions required upfront investment, which wasn’t available, or too great a risk, or both. Even on his most successful days, would our founder Drybutter have wagered the college on the Derby? The ideal solution would involve the minimum of expense, the maximum of publicity, and a legally watertight side-effect of income. We couldn’t stand bellowing on street corners with those awful buckets: that was fundraising, which Amanda would not countenance.

“How about some kind of college competition?” said Claire.

“Competition? You mean, sport? Vertical exercise with scorecards? Claire, have you
seen—?
”

“Not necessarily sport. Some contest between the colleges that you could win. Synchronised bumming?” She laughed.

“While I have no doubt it’s a competition in which we would triumph — I refuse to say ‘come first’ — I suspect the university might raise a dusty eyebrow at such ungodliness. An intercollegiate contest
is
attractive, though. We could butter the cost around the collegiate toast. We might even be able to locate a sponsor of some wealth and gullibility and spend precisely not one solitary.”

“And to bring in the press, you could find a famous face and get them involved.” She placed an excited hand upon my arm.

“Back to the Archivist, then. We want an A-list celeb, A for anal. B for—”

“No, no need for that. Make it something to do with charity. Celebrities love charities.”

I thought for a moment. “Yes. Yes, I think we have the glimmerings.” I began to fumble drunkenly over the outlines of a plan. “Celebrity face, of the persuasion or not. Charity. Sponsorship. Colleges in competition. That works for me. I pronounce us winners.”

I tapped a drum roll on the table and flicked my glass as a cymbal.

“What kind of competition, though?” Claire asked.

I waved my hand at her. “Oh, goodness, that can wait. We’ve made some progress. I no longer feel homicidal, which deserves some kind of celebration. Would madam, by any significant chance, care for another bottle?”

Without waiting for an answer I hauled myself up and inched through the now-packed bar — past the silly-hatted weirdo who’d shifted barely a buttock since we’d been there — and sought the attentions of Eddie the barman, who was looking a mite more attractive and less dressed than the previous bottle. He acknowledged me, nodding toward the patron to whom he was currently attending. I smiled at them both— all three— both. I’d seen that gentleman here before numerous times and I remembered we’d spoken briefly — well, I’d dangled an innocuous flirt and he’d batted it subtly away, no matter, hardly worth— He had what I called an autumnal mane, almost leonine: auburn, tinting enticingly towards red under any kind of illumination. A light beard, more than stubble but less than tramp, and pleasingly trimmed, I suspected all over. Irish, I thought, or one of those places. He appeared to be accompanied by someone, a damnable shame, I decided, unless… Perhaps I could later encircle them both and demonstrate the
Flowers manoeuvre
, patent pending. Anyway. His name whispered from somewhere: Conor.

I nodded at the baldie beardy drunk around the corner of the bar trying to queue-jump to his forty-ninth bottle of wine. My smile said
take your turn, buddy, you’re in no danger of drying out just yet
. Meanwhile he was so busy making googly eyes at Eddie the barman he didn’t notice his standard-issue checked cuffs soaking up half a Stella spilled over the chrome. Classic college bell-end, I thought: probably never held down a proper job, probably called himself
boi
on all the usual sites and chopped ten years and ten kilos off and talked about
trust
.

A few months ago he’d tried it on with me at Humbug. We’d exchanged mumbles and then he made a surprise lunge disguised as a trip over an invisible manbag. I’d deflected him onto an overmedicated friend of mine I particularly despised, and they groped off together like a ride on a Ghost Train. Two birds, one stoned.
 

The baldness of the guy I could deal with. The age difference was not an issue either. He was just a twat.

The bar was pretty packed that night with town gays and gown gays mixing it up. It was always like that: the big nobs wanting a crack at the servants, and the workers fancying a bit of the high life. Nothing wrong with that unless you make a habit of it and your profiles start laying down the law on salary expectations, or pedigree.
Postman seeks peer for special delivery, please supply references (Debrett’s)
.

It was a decent place though, especially when full to popping, the hardwood floor scuffed by a couple of hundred pointy shoes. A great long aircraft carrier of a bar with mirrored shelves stacked with every shaped and coloured bottle you could think of, and cute staff that knew how to handle them. I couldn’t be arsed with all that juggling shite but some punters liked it.

Plenty of space to spread out and hawk your wares if that’s what you were into, or to talk and be talked about — high silver-coloured tables mostly, with low surfaces and comfy chairs around the corners for the old folk and the lightweights. It had wide glass doors along two sides that opened up in summer and doubled the size of the place. At this time of year the glass was pulled shut but you could still go out with your booze, for a fag or a flirt, if you passed inspection by one of the bouncers.

The barman finally delivered the goods, a couple of cocktails, and shouted out a price.

“Let me buy these, Mr Geraghty,” said the interloper above the noise. He was called Seb, he’d revealed on the walk here from the Union. It was the only thing he
had
revealed. It wasn’t what you’d call a conversation, more a monologue from yours truly towards someone auditioning for Mount Rushmore.

Three letters wasn’t a great deal of return on my Friday night investment. Since the initial greeting — and the promise of a story — he’d withdrawn into a silence, a cocoon. Perhaps, I thought, it was because I’d suggested we come here. Maybe he wasn’t
one of us
after all — as if that would stop me testing the boundaries after a couple.

I graciously allowed him to pay. It was the very
least
I would let him do.

I shouted in his ear: “I doubt the editor would let me expense mojitos. I’m lucky if he lets me expense bribes.”

He looked at me oddly.

“Joke. We’re not like that any more. I’m as honest as the next guy sifting the bins.”

Still nothing.

“Look, I’m trying my best here,” I said. “You could at least smile politely, I’m not very good at spotting when I’m being patronised.”

He got his change and nodded at the barman. “Shall we find somewhere quiet?”

“My place?”

“Don’t be so nervous, Mr Geraghty.”

“I don’t like it when people call me Mr Geraghty. They either want my money or my da, and I haven’t seen either for several years.”

The crowds had us trapped at the bar. I held up my glass and began to squeeze through and around, apologising and smiling and placing my free hand wherever I felt it would make most difference. Seb trailed behind mutely, but I was getting used to that. We made it outside through Checkpoint Charlene and parked ourselves under the heat lamps where we could talk — if not privately then at least without yelling.

I placed my mojito on one of the high chrome tables and went to grab my notebook from my bag. Seb stopped me with a soft hand on my arm.

“Please, Mr Geraghty. Or Conor, if you prefer. This is off the record.” The hand remained a fraction longer than necessary. Game on, I thought.

“Off the record doesn’t mean I have to commit everything to memory. I’ll need to write stuff down, even if I don’t, you know, take down your particulars. At least, not yet.” I gave him a grin and put the notebook on a dry part of the table.

“I must insist. Nothing in writing, or I walk away.”

“How about if I write in code, like pig latin or polari or esperanto or something?” I flipped open the notebook. “I don’t actually know esperanto, which might be a bit of a stumbling block, but I’m a quick learner.”

Seb’s eyes dropped and, briefly, I saw a reaction: disappointment. “Then I have made a mistake. Enjoy your mojitos.”

He made to leave. I grabbed his arm. “Listen, Seb, if that’s actually your name, I’m a journalist. I might be a crappy one but it’s my job and part of that is to write shit down, otherwise it fades away, replaced with a memory of a nice arse or something. And funnily enough my editor
really, really
hates arse poetry. So it’s either the notepad or
once upon a time
. Write shit down or make shit up, what do you want?”

Seb stopped, and considered, and his arm relaxed a little. “If not off the record, then, perhaps, off duty? A chat about many things, about why we are both here. Think of us as new friends, getting to know one another. For the moment.”

Hello. Promising.

He met my eyes. “Please.”

I held on for a second and then let go of his arm and put the notebook away. “Fine, have it your way. You bought me a mojito, I’m off duty for this round at least.”

“Thank you.”

There was a brief silence.

“So, you come here often?” I said.

Finally, he smiled. A true smile with some eye crinkle, a bit of tension loosened.

“That’s better. You have a decent smile. I’m not nervous, I’m Irish. If there’s a gap I fill it. Not that sort of gap. Not always, anyways. Are you going to say anything or do I have to talk all night?”

Seb quietly and deliberately sucked hard on the straw in his mojito. The ice shimmered and shifted and I saw him begin to relax as the alcohol bit and worked its magic. I took a long draw of my own, and struggled to keep my stupid mouth zipped. Rule one: STFU.

“I confess I was unsure,” he began hesitantly, “whether it would be you at the Union or your editor Mr Burnett.”

“Geoff doesn’t do Friday nights. Or any nights. We’re not that sort of paper. We’re barely any sort of paper.”