‘Would you like to be presented to the Vice-Chancellor?’ asked Stephen.
‘That would be something,’ said Harvey.
‘Good afternoon, Vice-Chancellor, may I introduce Mr Harvey Metcalfe.’
Robin doffed his academic cap and bowed. Stephen returned the compliment in like manner. Robin spoke before Stephen could continue:
‘Not the benefactor of Harvard University?’
Harvey blushed and smiled at the two little boys who were holding the Vice-Chancellor’s train. Robin continued:
‘This is a pleasure, Mr Metcalfe. I do hope you are enjoying your visit to Oxford. Mind you, it’s not everybody who’s fortunate enough to be shown around by a Nobel Laureate.’
‘I’ve enjoyed it immensely, Vice-Chancellor, and I’d like to feel I could help this university in some way.’
‘Well, that is excellent news.’
‘Look, gentlemen, I’m staying here at the Randolph Hotel. It would be my great pleasure if you could all have tea with me later this afternoon.’
Robin and Stephen were thrown for a moment. He’d done it again — the unexpected. Surely the man realized that on the day of Encaenia the Vice-Chancellor did not have a moment free to attend private tea parties.
Robin recovered first.
‘I’m afraid that would be difficult. One has so many responsibilities on a day like this, you understand. Perhaps you could join me in my rooms at the Clarendon Building? That would give us a chance to have a more private discussion?’
Stephen immediately picked up the lead:
‘How kind of you, Vice-Chancellor. Will 4.30 be convenient?’
‘Yes, yes, that will be fine, Professor.’
Robin tried not to look as if he wanted to run a mile. Although they had only been standing there for about five minutes, to him it seemed a lifetime. He had not objected to being a journalist, or an American surgeon, but he genuinely hated being a Vice-Chancellor. Surely someone would appear at any moment and recognize him for the fraud he was. Thank God most of the undergraduates had gone home the week before. He began to feel even worse when a tourist started taking photos of him.
Now Harvey had turned all their plans upside down. Stephen could only think of Jean-Pierre and of James, the finest string to their dramatic bow, loitering uselessly in fancy dress behind the tea tent at the Garden Party in the grounds of Trinity College, waiting for them.
‘Perhaps it might be wise, Vice-Chancellor, if we were to invite the Registrar and the Secretary of the University Chest to join us?’
‘First-class idea, Professor. I’ll ask them to be there. It isn’t every day we’re visited by such a distinguished philanthropist. I must take my leave of you now, sir, and proceed to my Garden Party. An honor to have made your acquaintance, Mr Metcalfe, and I look forward to seeing you again at 4.30.’
They shook hands warmly, and Stephen guided Harvey toward Exeter College while Robin darted back into the little room in Lincoln that had been arranged for him. He sank heavily into a seat.
‘Are you all right, Daddy?’ asked his elder son, William.
‘Yes, I’m fine.’
‘Do we get the ice cream and Coca-Cola you promised us if we didn’t say a word?’
‘You certainly do,’ said Robin.
Robin slipped off all the paraphernalia — the gown, hood, bow tie and bands — and placed them back in a suitcase. He returned to the street just in time to watch the real Vice-Chancellor, Mr Habakkuk, leave Jesus College on the opposite side of the road, obviously making his way toward the Garden Party. Robin glanced at his watch. If they had run five minutes late the whole plan would have struck disaster.
Meanwhile, Stephen had done a full circle and was now heading toward Shepherd & Woodward, the tailor’s shop which supplies academic dress for the university. He was, however, preoccupied with the thought of getting a message through to James. Stephen and Harvey came to a halt in front of the shop window.
‘What magnificent robes.’
‘That’s the gown of a Doctor of Letters. Would you like to try it on and see how you look?’
‘That would be great. But would they allow it?’ said Harvey.
‘I’m sure they won’t object.’
They entered the shop, Stephen still in his full academic dress as a Doctor of Philosophy.
‘My distinguished guest would like to see the gown of a Doctor of Letters.’
‘Certainly, sir,’ said the young assistant, who was not going to argue with a Fellow of the University.
He vanished to the back of the shop and returned with a magnificent red gown with gray facing and a black, floppy velvet cap. Stephen forged on, brazen-faced.
‘Why don’t you try them on, Mr Metcalfe? Let’s see what you would look like as an academic.’
The assistant was somewhat surprised. He wished Mr Venables would return from his lunch break.
‘Would you care to come through to the fitting room, sir?’
Harvey disappeared. Stephen slipped out onto the road.
‘James, can you hear me? Oh hell, for God’s sake answer, James.’
‘Cool down, old fellow. I’m having a deuce of a time putting on this ridiculous gown, and in any case, our rendezvous isn’t for another seventeen minutes.’
‘Cancel it.’
‘Cancel it?’
‘Yes, and tell Jean-Pierre as well. Both of you report to Robin and meet up as quickly as possible. He will fill you in on the new plans.’
‘New plans. Is everything all right, Stephen?’
‘Yes, better than I could have hoped for.’
Stephen clicked off his speaker and rushed back into the tailor’s shop.
Harvey reappeared as a Doctor of Letters; a more unlikely sight Stephen had not seen for many years.
‘You look magnificent.’
‘What do they cost?’
‘About £100, I think.’
‘No, no. How much would I have to give...?’
‘I have no idea. You would have to discuss that with the Vice-Chancellor after the Garden Party.’
Harvey took a long look at himself in the mirror, and then returned to the dressing room while Stephen thanked the assistant, asked him to wrap up the gown and cap and send them to the Clarendon building to be left with the porter in the name of Sir John Betjeman. He paid cash. The assistant looked even more bewildered.
‘Yes, sir.’
He was not sure what to do, except continue praying for Mr Venables’s arrival. His prayers were answered some ten minutes later, but by then Stephen and Harvey were well on their way to Trinity College and the Garden Party.
‘Mr Venables, I’ve just been asked to send the full D. Litt. dress to Sir John Betjeman at the Clarendon Building.’
‘Strange. We kitted him out for this morning’s ceremony weeks ago. I wonder why he wants a second outfit.’
‘He paid cash.’
‘Well, send it around to the Clarendon, but be sure it’s in his name.’
When Stephen and Harvey arrived at Trinity College shortly after 3.30, the elegant green lawns, the croquet hoops having been removed, were already crowded with over a thousand people. The members of the university wore an odd hybrid dress: best lounge suits or silk dresses topped with gowns, hoods and caps. Cups of tea and crates of strawberries and cucumber sandwiches were disappearing rapidly.
‘What a swell party this is,’ said Harvey unintentionally mimicking Frank Sinatra. ‘You certainly do things in style here, Professor.’
‘Yes, the Garden Party is always rather fun. It’s the main social event of the university year, which as I explained, is just ending. Half the senior members here will be snatching an afternoon off from reading examination scripts. Exams for the final-year undergraduates have only just ended.’