Confessions from an Escort Agency. Rosie Dixon
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‘That sounds much more like it,’ I say enthusiastically. ‘Is there anywhere round here I can change? I’m afraid I missed my train and had to get a lift down.’
The caretaker looks me up and down thoughtfully. ‘We don’t have a lot of facilities for ladies,’ he says. ‘The Admissions Board turned them down flat.’
‘They obviously didn’t like flat ladies,’ says Geoffrey. I blush furiously. I was dreading Geoffrey saying something like that. How could he so demean himself in this temple of erudition?
‘Ho, ho. Very jovial, sir,’ says the caretaker. ‘A joke, eh, sir? Ho, ho. We don’t have many of those these days.’
‘What are those people doing, leaning against the wall?’ asks Geoffrey.
‘Don’t rightly know, sir. They’re either protesting about the quality of the collége food or fasting for the third world.’
‘What’s the third world?’ I ask.
The caretaker shakes his head. ‘I don’t know, miss. But it’s a phrase much used in the college these days. Second only to “fascist pig” in popularity, I would say.’
‘You’re very tolerant,’ I say. ‘Why do you allow that man to stand out there with that rude sign?’
‘He’s the Dean, miss.’ I am so amazed that I can’t think of anything to say. The caretaker comes round his desk and picks up my suitcase. ‘Yes, miss. Times have changed. Still, I think you’ll find that Mr Ward-Virgins keeps up the old traditions.’ He leads the way out into the courtyard and Geoffrey and I follow him.
‘I could groove on your flesh, baby,’ says the Dean but I pretend not to hear him. I knew this kind of behaviour went on at redbrick universities but it is a terrible shock to find that the ‘city of dreaming spires’ is not free from taint. Why have people turned their backs on the old values? It is a question I look forward to discussing with the Hon. Ward-Virgins. We have taken a couple of steps across the court when a first floor window shoots up and a man vomits all over one of those lying below. There are loud cries of ‘Well done, Bertie!’ and ‘Best tonight!’ Needless to say they do not come from the courtyard.
‘That’s the gentleman himself,’ says the caretaker respectfully. ‘His family have been throwing up out of that window for hundreds of years.’
I try to catch a glimpse of the Hon. Ward-Virgins but he is hauled back into the room and the window comes down on the shouts of the rabble below like a guillotine.
‘What a disgusting thing to do,’ says Geoffrey.
Once again I feel a hot flush invading my cheeks. What can Geoffrey Wilkes know of the traditions of ancient Oxford colleges? Anyway, I can remember when he disgraced himself behind a roller at the Eastwood Tennis Club Summer Ball.
‘Geoffrey, please!’ I hiss. ‘If you’re going to behave like that we might as well say goodbye now. I can’t stand any more unpleasantness.’
To my surprise, Geoffrey stops in his tracks. ‘Very well,’ he says. ‘Goodbye. If this is what you want, you can have it. I’d rather go back to Chingford.’
‘West Woodford!’ I hiss. But he has turned on his heel and is marching across the grass.
‘My God!’ exclaims the caretaker. ‘He be walking across Founders Lawn!’
‘That’s bad?’ I say.
‘Nobody walks on Founder’s Lawn save old Ben Clutterbutt who cuts it and he wears ballet shoes.’
Oh dear! Geoffrey has clearly committed a terrible boob. ‘Geoffrey—’ I call out. But, too late. I hear a shout from above and look up to see one of the young men decorating the chapel with toilet paper pointing angrily at my accident-prone friend.
‘’Ware turf-scuffers!’ he shouts. ‘Scrag the blighter!’
‘That’s put the cat amongst the pigeons,’ gasps the ancient retainer by my side. ‘That be young Mr Bellchamber, President of the Boat Club. They’re celebrating in the traditional way because the eight rowed over today.’
‘Rowed over what?’ I ask. I mean, it could have been a weir or a waterfall, or anything, couldn’t it?
Before the caretaker can answer, a crowd of oarsmen appear and surround Geoffrey. I know they are oarsmen because they are all carrying oars with which they bang Geoffrey over the head – all except one little man who looks around for a stick.
‘Duck him!’
Geoffrey is picked up and carried shoulder high to one of the most beautifully carved fountains I have ever seen. It is all nymphs and dolphins and things with spouts of water coming out of their mouths – not other places as you see in some statues.
‘Do look, Geoffrey,’ I say. ‘Isn’t that lovely?’
I don’t know if Geoffrey hears me, and it would probably not have made a lot of difference if he had. He is not very interested in sculpture.
SPLASH!! Geoffrey disappears under the water and a cheer goes up.
‘Row him out, fellows!’ Immediately the oars are slotted in amongst the pieces of sculpture and used as bollocks – or whatever those things on the side of rowing boats are called. It is terribly clever how they do it. The water froths and bubbles and Geoffrey is swept backwards and forwards by the threshing oars until a concerted heave flips him out of the fountain and onto the cobbles. I suppose it is rather cruel but you have to admire the technique – just like a bullfight.
‘You bullying swine!!’ shouts Geoffrey.
The caretaker sucks in his breath. ‘No sporting instinct,’ he hisses contemptuously. ‘They were using the flats of the blades, too.’
I blush for Geoffrey but there is no opportunity to have words with him. Pursued by jabbing oars he runs from the college and into the deepening dusk. The caretaker shakes his head and bends down to adjust a blade of grass. The incident is clearly closed. We continue our journey in silence and have entered a smaller court when my guide stops outside a heavy wooden door.
‘This is the domestic bursar’s cloakroom,’ he says. ‘You can change in here. The lock’s not very good but don’t worry, I’ll keep watch.’
He is as good as his word and in fact, even puts his head round the door on a number of occasions to make sure that I am all right. I am touched by such consideration and do hope that I am not causing the good man too much inconvenience. At one stage, when I am changing my tights, he begins to groan in a most alarming manner and I notice that his right hand is shaking fit to break off. Fortunately the spasm soon passes and he accepts gratefully the glass of water I hand him. Less fortunately, he jerks most of it over the floor before he can convey it to his mouth.
While I put the finishing touches to my make-up it occurs to me that I have taken a lot for granted in imagining that I will find Penny at the Hon. Ward-Virgins’ party. On the other hand I am certain that someone will know of her whereabouts and the chance to see how a real gentleman lives is one that I am unable to resist. Just a glimpse will be enough.
The caretaker shows me to the bottom of Z Staircase and I leave him breathing deeply with his head resting against his arm, and go up the narrow flight of stone stairs. The noise that greets my ears suggests that a party is in full swing and my senses quicken in anticipation. The day has been so full of unpleasant incidents that I feel more than overdue for a little pleasure.
I reach the head of the stairs and am about to approach the door in front of me when it bursts open and a man staggers out holding a champagne bottle. He raises it to his lips, tilts the last drops on to his chin and then sinks slowly to his knees and rolls down the stairs.
‘Are you all right?’ I call after him, but he does not answer.
‘Another wench, by God!’ The man looking me up and down approvingly is wearing