Some Characters Appearing or Mentioned:

Mr Arthur Chalfont-Meade   A golfing enthusiast with a purple nose

Mr Jerry Quinton  The Mayor who is quietly inaudible

Mrs Gwen Quinton   The Mayoress and ex-Art student

Kent Martin   A seedy reporter guaranteed to quote wrongly.

Sergeant Carl Bachman (Carlo)   A newly promoted policeman who likes leather

Dr Percival Sinclair   An elderly don whose eyesight is no longer perfect

Philip Foxx   Captain of Rugby whose picture does him justice

Gervase Box   Captain of Boats perhaps underhung but made equal

Dr Eric Mays   Master of St Mark’s and renowned Biochemist.

Gwilym ap Rees   First Year Organ Scholar of elfin build

Anthony Duncan  A Fresh young Engineering student

Logan Henderson   A second Fresher with the answer to a mystery

            I still had plenty to do.  In my pigeon-hole the next day was a an invitation from Charles for ‘Dinner with a few friends for Mother at the Arundel House Hotel’- this was for Tuesday evening and no doubt there would be discussion of the cellars.  I assumed Mother would be taken round beforehand, if not, I doubted if the shock would be too great for her sensibilities when in a crowd.

            There was also a large envelope from James Tanner.  He had ticked the lectures in the lecture-list he wanted me to attend - a gentle suggestion as he put it - and also enclosed several pages of extra problems ‘to be looked at before our Monday tutorials, there will be others for the Thursdays’.  There was a short ‘thank-you’ note for the work I’d done on his manuscript which he hoped to digest in all good time and an invitation to tea at four o’clock in his room -  finally he suggested two books I might buy if funds allowed.  I went along to Heffers and found the books at something like sixty pounds each, plus three others I had seen as recommended reading, plus two lots of detective novels at ‘three for the price of two’ and parted with the best part of two hundred pounds.  Thank goodness for Uncle Francesco, I thought.  I’d better ask Fiona and Dina if they wanted to borrow any of the tomes.

            I spent some time on my return turning pages and uttering ‘Oh my God!’ at regular intervals as seemingly impenetrable lines of arcane symbols passed before my eyes.  I went back to the first of the two books he’d recommended and was soon engrossed in a really good exposition and the next hour passed as I scribbled down points and tried to expand some of the ‘It can be shown that...’ contractions.  Yes, ‘I could show that’, I thought as I set down several lines of a proof.  The practice from dealing with the Prof’s book was paying off.   I carried on.  So that and tea with him would really begin my Finals Year.

            He was smiling broadly as he opened the door to his spacious room with the familiar blackboards covered in his spidery but clear writing.  I glanced at the one nearest the door.  On it was the solution of one of the problems in his manuscript.  I grinned.   I had circumvented some of his lines by quoting a lemma I had remembered.  He saw me looking.  “I know, I know,” he said, “I tried an answer which I thought the majority would attempt.  That lemma you used is very useful in the right hands.” He laughed.  “But you came for tea, not more work.”  I held out three more pages.

            “I did these from the first chapter from the book you recommended,” I said, “More work for you to check.”

            Over a substantial feed of scones, jam and cream and good tea he wanted to know what I’d done over the summer vac.  He then said he and Paul had taken Jacob, with Barry as a backup, to a friend’s house in France.  He smiled and said Barry’s help wasn’t needed as Jacob was now walking so well - but Barry had enjoyed himself never the less.  The conversation then got round to the cellars.  He hadn’t yet seen all the work but said he’d been included in the party for the grand opening by the Mayor.  He was intrigued about the Lascelles connection because he’d been on the panel the day a mixed bunch of prospective students were interviewed, including Christopher Lascelles-Wright.  He said he knew the Wright part of the family as one of the Wrights had been a student with him.  The Lascelles bit must have come down the female line.  Something for the Ulvescott crowd to contemplate.  Anyway, he said he was looking forward to the opening on Wednesday.

            I came away with his grateful thanks and another set of problems to tackle.  All I did was work!  I enjoyed it though.

            I hadn’t been back long when there was a tentative tap on my outer door.  It was Raphael.  He was most apologetic about barging in, but he was grinning at the same time.  I invited him in and offered him a drink as he sat down but he refused.

            “Your brother was looking for you yesterday,” I went on, “Where did you get to?”

            “Gotta tell you,” he said, laughing, “Gabe’s never going to believe this but I went home with Brian.”  Oh yes, ‘Bulgy-Boy’.  “Great!  He’s a bonza lad.  Had some laughs.  Nice flat he’s got....”  OK, OK, get to the point.  “...He’s at that other Uni doing a Master’s in Electronics....”   Yes, yes! I’d heard that.  Clever boy!   But, Raph couldn’t contain himself.   “...We got it on...  I think I’m proper bloody bi.....”  He shook his head.  “....He bloody taught me a thing or two....”  He grinned.  “You’re right.  Not too bloody big but he knows how to use it!”

            “So?” I asked, “What plans?”

            He shook his head.  “Nah, nothing like that.  I think we’ll just get it on when we need.  Gotta get down to bloody work if I want to come here.”

            There was a second knock at the door.  It was Alistair.  After introductions he said he wanted to show me what he’d done over the weekend.  I nodded to Raph and he followed us out and round to the entrance to the cellars.  Damien was still there putting a few finishing touches to the end wall of the first cellar.  I was amazed.  There were a number of statues already set up with very clear notes on who they were.  St Columba and St Columcille, I saw, plus three rather striking Virgin Marys and some empty glass cases dotted around.  He waved a paint brush at us as Alistair led us into the brightly lit middle room.  Oh my God!  The first thing that struck me was the large painting of Toad having his balls lifted by... ...Yes, Ivo/Adam, complete with the scar of one and the mole of the other.

            “Thought I’d do that one first to see how it would look,” he said as he stood back with a satisfied look on his face.

            Yes, it was good.  Frankie’s face would be in the glossies again, but not for wearing Uncle Francesco’s garments!  And what would the Foreign Office say once they found that one of their newest recruits was a composite and displayed with a semi hard-on and judging the weight of an adolescent’s testicles.  I turned and gasped.  There was an unmistakable Charles cavorting complete with tambourine and me with hands raised viewing a comely youth next to him.  The comely youth was Tris.

            Raph was speechless.  He stood with mouth agape almost and let out a strangled ‘Fucking Hell!’ when he espied the mightily tumescent figure, torso somewhat craftily enhanced with large muscles, with his brother’s distinctive features.

            “That’s all I’ve managed to do so far, but I should be able to finish off more before I knock off tonight..., ” said Alistair indicating other figures with his brush, “...Then I’ll try the Satyrs tomorrow.”  He laughed.  “I’ll take notice of your suggestion about shagginess.”  He was very happy.  “It’s amazing,” he said, “I found it much easier than I thought.  There are still bits of legs and things to be highlighted but I don’t think I’ll get everything quite finished for the grand opening, there’s more I could do.”  At the mention of ‘things’ Raph guffawed.

            “Bloody Hell!  You’ve given Gabe more than he’s got!”  He realised what he’d said and snorted.  “Seen the fucker plenty of times when we’ve had to share a room at Gran’s.”  He looked at Alistair.  “Any room for me?”

            Alistair laughed.  “I think I may have got enough to go around here at the moment.  Damien might want a model for a monk, though!  But, get Mark to take your photo and if there’s one left over... ...Can’t promise anything.”

            We had a quick look in the third room and saw that some of the models of the artefacts were already in the glass cases.  I noticed that the empty scroll now displayed the name of the second monastery so things were almost ready.  Wednesday was D-Day, as it were!  No, not Dick-Day!  What would the Mayor and his Lady make of it?  And the televison cameras would be there, too.  I then imagined the first students filing in and the rumpus as they emerged and told their pals when the Thursday opening started for them.

            Dinner on Tuesday evening was delightful.  Mother was her usual coruscating self - ably matched by her flamboyant son.  Between them they kept the waiters running in the restaurant and Oliver and I were the two rather junior members of the group which was made up of the Chaplain and his wife, the Dean, whose wife was otherwise engaged, the Bursar and his wife, and lo and behold, Mrs Chalfont-Meade accompanied by a rather purple-nosed husband and a couple of bachelor dons who seemed to be on every committee from the notices in the Porter’s Lodge.  Charles was certainly making sure on which side his bread was buttered!

            Still, the way the drink flowed with the food meant all were quite happy and content and there was a buzz of excitement for the ‘happenings of the morrow’ as Charles constantly referred to them.

            Wednesday morning I was up bright and early and with Gabe and Josh, Oliver and I did our usual run.  Freshers had started to arrive the day before and many of the old hands were appearing during the morning and manning all the stalls set up for the various Clubs and Societies.  I wandered out about ten o’clock.   No Tris this year, but I saw a side-kick of his already togged up in basket-ball gear by his stall.  Fiona and Dina were putting out leaflets on their two stalls, Debating and Hockey this year, and I got a big hug and kiss from both.  I told them James Tanner had said how good their comments had been on his manuscript and he would give them some extra tutorials if they liked.  ‘They would like’ was the instant reply.

            After a good look around and avoiding Charles who, with both Jason and Liam in tow, was dealing with every query possible from worried looking newbies, I went back to my set, where Oliver was practising his oboe, and, after accompanying him on a couple of pieces, changed into my best suit and slung on my undergraduate gown.

            Oliver laughed as I emerged from the bedroom.  “Let’s have a look and see if your Mother would approve.”  I gave him my best imitation of a Toad sneer and he picked off a stray thread from my shoulder.  “You’ll do.  Don’t forget to bow to the Lady Mayoress and don’t talk with your mouth full.”  He laughed again and dodged as I aimed a low blow at him.  “Missed!”

            The lunch was being served in the Master’s House in his dining room which was big enough for the twenty or so people assembled.  I was being introduced to the Mayor by the Master when Charles ushered in Mother resplendent in a black suit and a string of pearls that must have cost a fortune.  The Master turned and gathered them into the group around the Mayor and Vice-Chancellor.  Charles left them to it and joined me.

            “My dear,” he said raising both hands palms outward, “I am exhausted.  At least Mother is being entertained royally.” He flapped a hand.  “Figuratively, I mean, although I hear there may be further interest in that quarter in the not too distant future.”  He peered around and satisfied that all seemed to be assembled turned his attention back to me.  “I hope last night’s little gathering was not too boring.  Poor Mr Chalfont-Meade did have a little turn but we must put that down to the heat.” 

            I would have added ‘and  the quantity of alcohol he imbibed’.  ‘Little turn’!  I had judged that the old boy was as pissed as a newt before the dinner began and steadily downed several glasses before he staggered unsteadily out.  Luckily Mrs Henson saw him stumble into the arms of one of the waiters and quickly guided him to the nearest chair.

            Charles was still talking.   “At least the Chaplain’s wife was the stalwart she always is and saw he was in difficulties.  I was rather perturbed that Mrs C-M steadfastly ignored the whole little drama but she must have witnessed such things before, but she did have the other two old gentlemen to look after.”

            In fact that was the last we saw of Mr C-M until we all rose to go to our respective homes.  By then he had migrated to an armchair where he had obviously snored the rest of the evening away.  Judging also from the colour of his nose there must have been a long history of ‘little turns’.

            Lunch was then served and I sat between Mrs Henson and Miss Anstruther-Lamb.  We had a lively, academic of course, conversation about the relative merits of Shostakovitch and Prokoviev as both ladies played in the strings sections of the University Orchestra and we’d had a valiant attempt at pieces by both composers at one of the concerts last year.  I was rather in awe of the Philosophy don but, as Gabe had said she was ‘a lively old bird’ and reminded me very much of my Grandmother - that is, the musical one, not the skinflint in Italy.  Still, I did love the penny-pinching old girl, and when Mrs Henson asked about my vacation I told them the tale of the three disparate amounts of money to their amusement.

            It was then time for the Grand Opening.  Before we went across the Mayor said he was most privileged to be asked to preside - I don’t think he realised he would be snipping a ribbon to open not only a display of religious artefacts but also a blatant homosexual masterpiece.

            There were a few cheers from students, whether ribald or not it was difficult to tell, as the party, led by Jason arrayed in the full ceremonial dress of a College Porter, went  across the path to the side gate and the ticket booth.  The Mayor said a few more, largely inaudible, words into a microphone held by the television reporter waiting there, then cut the dark red ribbon across the door.  I looked at Nat who was almost splitting his sides with silent laughter as the solemn party filed through and down the steps.  There was a general hum of enthusiastic academic talk and discussion as people inspected the first big cellar with the rich decoration and the statues and glass-cased artefacts now fully displayed.  I saw the television camera being panned around as Jenny Masterton was describing various exhibits to the reporter and Damien was saying something about his paintings.  I managed to edge near the door to the second cellar as the Mayor and his wife with the Vice-Chancellor accompanied by Mother, were ushered through by Nat Temple and Alistair.

            I was there when the Lady Mayoress shrieked and let out peals of hysterical laughter as she turned to an equally shrieking Mother and, I swear, gave each other ‘high fives’!  I was there when the Vice-Chancellor guffawed and the rest of the party filed through accompanying their, and the cameraman’s, progress with their own shouts and was in front of Miss Anstruther-Lamb when she grabbed me and yelled in my ear “Who chose the one to have your face?  Big boy!!”  I blushed.  She thumped my back.  “I’ve got four brothers and that beats the lot!!”  My perception of middle-aged lady Philosophy dons changed at that moment and my opinion rose several more notches....  “And that’s dear Gabriel,” she yelled in my ear above the hubbub.  “Oh my ears and whiskers!” came her next statement amidst a great chortle, “And there’s Charles!  I didn’t know he had musical pretensions.”  She pointed at the tambourine and, luckily, not at the monstrous erection lower down.  “Someone’s had a jolly time!  Tell me more!”  I just wondered what the cameraman was thinking as he moved around the room and people made space for him but still the sound level in the room was at an extra high level.  I saw Alistair talking to the television reporter but couldn’t hear what he was saying

            At that moment I was aware of someone else shoving me.  I turned.  It was the scruffy reporter.  “Oh, it’s you,” he said in a hoarse raised voice, “This is a turn up for the book.  Gotta get a picture!”  He fumbled in a pocket of the shabby mac he was wearing which showed he wasn’t an invited guest.  He withdrew a small digital camera.

            “You can’t take photographs!” I protested.

            “Fuck off, matey, I’m the Press!”  He raised the camera and pointed it directly at the depiction of Frankie’s pendulous bollocks.

            I looked at Dr Anstruther-Lamb.  She looked at me.  We both recognised the danger.  I noted the television camera was pointing the other way.  I slapped hard on the reporter’s wrist.  He dropped his camera.  In a swift movement Miss Anstruther-Lamb put her foot down hard.

            “You fucking old cow!” the reporter yelled.  She smiled sweetly and trod on the gadget again.  At that moment the burly figure of Sergeant Carl Bachman appeared.  Yes, he’d whispered on Saturday he was being promoted and here he was in full uniform.

            “Hello, Carl,” Miss Anstruther-Lamb smiled, even more sweetly, at him, “This gentlemen has had an unfortunate accident we assume and should be helped from the room to make his report.”

            Carl had assessed the situation immediately.  No doubt already following the intruder. “Yes, ma’am, at once.”  The reporter was seized by an arm and before he could protest was propelled briskly out of the room through the throng who seemed more interested in their concentration on the details of the paintings than in the slight fracas taking place in their midst.  The television camera was still pointing away as Alistair pointed at the Satyrs.

            Dr Anstruther-Lamb kicked the mangled remains of the camera to the side of the room.  “Poor man,” she said, giving me a conspiratorial smile, “I fear his little temper may cause us a few difficulties but he has been denied any pictorial evidence.”

            “Carl?” I asked.

            She nodded.  “He was at the other place with a nephew of mine.”  She smiled again.  “Come to tea tomorrow with Gabriel.  My room.  Four o’clock.  I must hear more.”

            My estimation of middle-aged female Philosophy dons reached a very high level.

            Gradually the party moved on into the third cellar.  I was captivated by the enlarged coloured photographs of three of the pages from my book and the wonderful central pages of the St Guthlac’s Psalter were sensational.  The models of the relics were just like the originals and there was the replica of the gold coin, too, with a clear, concise description.  Crispin Palfrey was now talking to the camera.   “You must be very proud of your discovery,” Miss Anstruther-Lamb whispered in my ear.  I blushed again.  ‘My discovery’!

            The pair of us made our way back.  As we got to the first room, more or less empty of visitors, she chuckled.  “I think I spied Carl depicted there, too.  He’s very happy now with David.  Your friend Tristan was most successful in his examinations I noted.”

            I must have looked gobsmacked.

            “My dear,” she said gently, “In a College like this most things are known.  It’s what keeps the place going.  It was regrettable no one had spotted the descent into evil of that poor boy last year.  It was even more regrettable that you had to be mixed up with his machinations especially as it has turned out about your family relationship with Simon.  I had high hopes for a change of spirit in him over the years but it was not to be.  He is actually a sad loss to the College but your cousin should be a more than adequate replacement.”

            “Adam a Fellow?”  I asked.

            She smiled again.  “To be announced shortly so a little secret between us.  He is already highly regarded and his articles on the Prior of Sempringham and his early life are in the press.”  I said nothing.  She must know what ‘early life’ meant’.  I assumed having four brothers gave her knowledge of boys’ habits.  We reached the steps leading up to the outside world.  “James tells me you have that spark as well.  An undergraduate publication is always a useful step.”  She preceded me up the stairs.  At the top she turned.  “Thank you for your company.  Until tomorrow.”  She strode off up the passageway towards the town, her scarlet gown billowing behind her.

            Wow!  I had much to think about but my attention was drawn to the knot of interested voyeurs watching some sort of one-sided altercation by the Porter’s Lodge.  It was the reporter ranting at an impassive Sergeant Bachman.  As I moved closer he spotted me.  “There’s the little shit who did it!”  As I was at least four inches taller than him I resented the ‘little’.  Carl looked over at me and his stance made me stop and wait.  “Ain’t you going to arrest him?” came the plaintive shout, “And that old bag?”

            Carl said something to him very quietly and with a defiant stare at me the reporter strode off through the main College gateway.  The knot of viewers dispersed and I went over to Carl.

            “Nasty piece of work, that one,” he said.  “Don’t worry.  He said his camera was destroyed.  I said he would have to prove it and he was trespassing anyway and that shut him up.  Must see Baa-Baa’s auntie and check she’s OK.”

            “She’s OK,” I said, “Didn’t turn a hair even when he swore at her.  She’s a character.  You know her well?  And who’s Baa-Baa?”

            He laughed.  “Baa-Baa Lamb, of course.  What else do you think he’d be called?  He’s her nephew.  Great guy.”  He became serious.  “That turd swore at her?”  I nodded.  “I’ll have the bugger some day, so help me!  Trouble is, he gets stories published.”

            “Incorrectly though.”  I thought of the hilarity the discovery story had caused.

            “Doesn’t matter.  He got a couple of our chaps disciplined because of something he found out.  Turned out some snout had tipped him off and gave him the wrong gen but it still got our blokes into trouble.  Mr B was not pleased but couldn’t do anything about it.  Pleads freedom of the press whenever there’s questions.”

            I congratulated him on his promotion.  He smiled.  “Davy’s so pleased and he’s passed his final nursing exams, too.  Bit of a celebration next Saturday all being well!”

            “It’s Freshers’ night out,” I said.

            He laughed.  “All the more the merrier.  See you there!”

            I went back to the stair down to the cellar.  The assistant Porter was keeping guard and grinned when he saw me again.  “Bit noisy down there,” he commented, “Haven’t seen it yet.  Jase says it’s a bit ripe.”

            “Only the middle part,” I said, trying to keep a straight face.  I would have words with Jason.

            The members of the party were beginning to break up the gathering as some were back inspecting the statues but there was still an air of excitement.  I came face to face with Mother who was laughing with the Lady Mayoress.

            “Mark,” she said with a hand gesture so like her son’s usual signal of unalloyed joy, “It’s too wonderful for words.  Gwen thinks it’s marvellous as well.  She was at Art College with me and I haven’t seen her for yonks....”

            “....Keep the years out of it, Maggie,” the Lady Mayoress said, “Too long ago now.”  She looked at me.  “You discovered the code I hear.  Congratulations.”  She chuckled.  “I’ve got two teenage sons who’ll be dying for a peep...”

            “...At the statues?” I asked with a grin.

            She laughed.  “...What do you think!  I can’t wait to hear how Jerry describes those paintings to them.  Good job they’ll be at school or they’d be first in the queue on Monday.”

            Mother held onto my arm.  “Gather up as many of the lads and bring them to the Arundel for dinner tonight.  I must find Charles to give him instructions.”  She turned to the Lady Mayoress.  “You, Jerry and the boys as well, Gwen?”  The Lady Mayoress nodded and waved and disappeared back into the second room.

            “Gwen’s a character,” said Mother watching her go, “It’s her fault though I had Charles!”  She laughed.  “She was doling out the drinks that night and Aldo kindly offered to see me home.”  She smiled at me.  “I’m glad, though.  It’s turned out alright in the long run.  Must go.  See you tonight.”  She turned too and followed in Gwen’s direction.

            I was button-holed by one of the elderly dons who wanted me to read the inscription by the side of one of the saints which he couldn’t quite see as he’d forgotten his reading glasses.  I did so and he chuckled.  “There were stories still around when I was a student here about how your set was haunted.  Someone had a seance there just after the War and said it was a nun who’d been found with one of the monks and walled up somewhere.  Little did they know what rubbish that was.  But, I suppose that could have happened as well.”  He laughed.  “I doubt it, though.” He was in a reminiscent mood.  “I remember your father coming here and playing when he was a boy.  Family tradition’s strong here.  My father and grandfather were here, too.  I hear your brother’s the new Pennefather.  That’s good.  That family recital you gave last year was just perfect.”

            I said I would be giving a recital later in the term and planned to share it with Oliver Jensen.  “Know his grandfather,” he said.

            Yes, family meant much to St Mark’s I had decided.  That and deep friendships.  My reverie was shattered by Charles materialising by our side.  “Ah, Dr Sinclair, I was so glad you could attend.  I do hope the new bath and shower in your set is an improvement on the old one.  We are trying to upgrade amenities as and when finances permit.”  He didn’t wait for a reply.  “Mother would like you to join us this evening at the Arundel if you are free of any other commitment.  Drinks at seven-thirty.”  As the old boy had nodded agreement Charles went on with left hand raised and thumb against his third finger.  “I will arrange a taxi for seven-twenty-five.”  The old don thanked him and wandered off to another part of the room.  “Good!” announced Charles sotto voce, “Dr Sinclair has proved to be very astute as far as the Finance Committee is concerned.  We shall be grateful for his acumen I am sure.”

            I forbore from commenting as most of the party from the inner rooms came through laughing and two large figures gave Charles a thumb’s up.

            He saluted their greeting then turned to me.  “I am afraid the Captain of Rugby and Captain of Boats are somewhat disappointed they have not been considered as suitable models for the friezes.  I attempted to point out that those involved intimately with the discovery were offered first choice and all had accepted.  I think life may be a little difficult if accommodations are not arrived at.  I have counted the figures remaining to be completed and there are two in rather poor condition at the edges of the revels which might have been left in the fragmentary condition in which they now appear.”  He looked at me almost pleadingly.  “Would you permit a more drastic reconstruction so they are revealed as pristine as the others?”

            With overstated genitalia and muscular development as well no doubt, I thought.  Better to allow it than have Members of either Club adding their own enhancements at the behest of their leading lights.

            “We must leave it to Alistair.”  I had a thought.  “That very blurred one at the left edge is holding a long staff  I think.  Alistair could make that into an oar, perhaps.  And the other one has what looks like a round jar looped round his wrist.”  I smiled.  “A little adjustment to an ovoid shape...”

            He clapped his hands.  “...Mark that is a brilliant ploy.  We should be free of any depredations for the future with those small changes.  Oh frabjous day!  Callooh!  Callay!  Alistair where are you?”  He virtually skipped off.

            I was left wondering why Lewis Carroll had so many useful phrases.   But, of course, Charles was as large as life and twice as natural!

            I nodded dutifully as the Master came through with the Vice-Chancellor and the rest of the guests.  Mother winked as she passed.  Charles followed with Alistair who was grinning.  “You agree?” he asked.  I nodded.  “Should get it all finished by the weekend and if it’s like today there’ll be more than a little interest.  The telly bloke said a report should be on Anglia at six and they’re offering it to ITN as well.   The Times is coming tomorrow and want a couple of pictures.”

            “The more the merrier,” said Charles.  I could almost see the money bags revolving round his head.  I didn’t mention the fracas with the scruffy reporter.  Perhaps later.

            I went across to the Students’ Bar just before six with Oliver.  Gabe and Josh were already there, standing at the back well away from the television screen.  There were hoots from the assembled students as soon as St Mark’s was mentioned and a rush by the drinkers to be nearer.   Oh God!  We were then on full display for a full six minutes.  It was fairly quiet for the first room and there were appreciative murmurs as the walls with Damien’s artistry were shown and the camera panned around the statues and cases with Jenny Masterton supplying the commentary.  However, the loudest hoots and whistles were reserved for the second room and the slow panning across the courting couples and the tambourine wielding dancers.  There were gasps when the camera lingered for a moment on Frankie and the ball handling Ivo/Adam.  There were cheers when the first shaggy-faced Satyr appeared and a howl when a rather quicker pan of the other big frieze ended the interviews in that room.  I don’t think anyone heard a word of what was then said, even when the camera had moved through to the treasures room.  There was a great buzz going on as Oliver, Gabriel, Josh and I stealthily removed ourselves before anyone recognised us.  “Fuck me bandy with a wombat’s pecker!” was Gabe’s only comment as we went back to our sets to get ready for the evening.

            The conservatory at the Arundel that evening was quite crowded to say the least.  I sat next to the Captain of Boats who said he’d seen the telecast and was then more than mollified when I said all was arranged.  I said all Alistair needed was a photograph.  “Of that?” he queried, looking rather horrified.

            “No, just your head.  Leave the rest to Alistair.  I’m sure honours will be even.”

            He looked quite relieved and downed most of his pint of lager in one go.  I was left wondering.

            It was one of those happy evenings only interrupted by my mobile chirrupping as I came back from the lav about half past ten.  It was Frankie.  He was ecstatic.  “Just seen my bollocks on the box!” he announced without ado.  “Yowks!” or some similar sound came next.  “You’re not as well-hung as that one with your face.  You wait till Mum sees you, you’ll get an earful!  Dad’s not home yet so we recorded the News in case.  Gotta see it again.  Might try to download me and the Thugs and use it as my wallpaper.”  There was a slight scuffle.  “OK, Mum, you can speak to him!”  I think Mum was wrestling the phone from him.

            “I just heard what the little ruffian said...,” Mum was trying hard not to laugh.  “....I suppose we won’t hear the last of it.  I expect I should say I’m ashamed of you all displaying yourselves like that.  What’s the world coming to, etc., etc.,  but...”  I heard Frankie shouting in the background.  “...Give over, Francis, or you’ll be sent to bed, big as you are, for saying rude words!”  Not an idle threat.  “As I was saying.  I expect Charles is pleased.  The money will be rolling in.  Give my love to all.  Tris was round earlier looking a bit morose.  Give him a ring to cheer him up.  Bye!”

            Short and sweet.  I could imagine Frankie at school tomorrow being congratulated.  Oh, er!  What if the Head Beak saw the News?  Would he recognise one of his Prefects having a touching moment?  Would he recognise two of his past pupils, also Prefects in their time, eying each other and displaying the evidence of certain wanton desires?  Would he comment on this to his Staff or even call on Frankie to explain matters?  My phone chirruped its Bachian phrase again.  It was Tris.

            “Hello, gorgeous..,” He began to giggle.  “...That chap’s done wonders, eh?  You were only on for about two seconds but it’s etched on my brain.  I shall think of that tonight.  You still there?”

            I was sniffing.  I was missing Tris.  Just hearing his voice.  “I love you,” I managed to croak.  There was a further silence.  I cleared my throat.  “Sorry, Tris, I just miss you so much.  Lots to tell you.   Please come on Friday there’s Freshers’ Night at the Club on Saturday and more celebrations.  You’ll be there?”

            “Of course!  I’ll buy you a present.  Just had a cheque from the Foundation.  Tell me what you want when I see you!”

            “That’s your spending money!” I said.

            “Yeah, spending on you, you big hunk.  Love you.  Bye!”

            I sensed he was near tears, too.  Would it always be like this?  Separated a couple of days and feeling bereft?  I went back and joined the throng.  The Captain of Boats had a large whisky ready for me and a great smile on his honest, honey and roses, nineteen year-old English face.  Watch it, darling, I thought, I’m spoken for!  No!  I imagined he was just grateful he wasn’t going to be upstaged by a putative bigger-dicked Captain of Rugby.

            After the convivial evening of the previous day both Oliver and I slept in.  It was past eight o’clock when I crept out of bed to go for a much-needed pee.  Oliver was still snoring softly, I noted in D major, in the other bed.  Pee over I showered and then went back to the bedroom and donned cargoes and a St Mark’s sweatshirt.  The snoring had dropped a semitone.  I brewed up coffee and got the breakfast things ready and took in a mug to Oliver and wafted it under his nose.  He woke and smiled.  That did it.  A silent tear ran down my cheek.  He nodded.  He understood.

            “You’re missing Tris, aren’t you?  I’m not a good substitute am I?”  He smiled again.  “Put that mug down.”  I put it on the little table between the two beds.  “Come here.”  He put up his arms and held me to him.  “I miss Zack, too.  Let’s have a pact.  When one of us is sad let’s just say ‘Hold’, eh?” I felt his slightly bristly chin against my cheek as he nuzzled me.  “Bit like your cousins and their ‘Pax’.  Just a moment or two and we’ll feel better.  OK?”

            I stretched up away from him.   I felt better already.  His friendship meant so much to me, too.  Yes, family and friendships.

            I smiled down at him.  “You’ve worked wonders.  I needed just that.  That’s all.  You say ‘Hold’ and I’ll know.”

            His smile told me all.  “I needed that, too, and I’m better now.”

            We had breakfast and then settled down to some work before venturing out to stare at the Freshers - Oliver grinned and said there might be a bit of fresh talent about.  I said he could come and help me interview the new members of the choir and find out if the new organ scholar was around.  That said I busied myself with a couple of the problems James Tanner had given me.  At eleven I needed more coffee so went to the kitchen and made a couple of mugs.  I took one through to Oliver who was writing something on music manuscript paper.

            “What’s that?” I asked, waiting for him to finish filling in a bar and noting the neat penmanship spanning four staves at a time.

            “It’s nothing much,” he said rather nonchalantly, “I think I’ll do the main composition option and I need a portfolio of pieces.  It’s a string quartet I’ve been thinking about over the summer.  Thought I’d better get it down before I lose track of it.”  He pushed the sheets towards me.  “It’s a bit complicated and I have to think hard before I write anything.”

            “I’m not disturbing you?”  I thought of the disastrous visit from ‘the man from Porlock’.

            “No,” he said, “I’ve got to a point where the first violin takes off and that’s quite clear in my head.”

            I looked closer.  It certainly was complex.  The four parts seemed to skitter hither and thither, changes of tempo and bar length and a good few extra accidentals even within the single page I was looking at.

            “Can you write it straight down like that?” I asked.  Composition had always been a mystery to me.  I’d read of how Mendelssohn wrote his works straight out, of how Rimsky-Korsakov drew all his bar-lines first and then filled them in with ‘Sheherazade’ and the blind and crippled Delius dictating note by note his late works to the young Eric Fenby.  Now, here I was witnessing Oliver seemingly effortlessly doing likewise.  “What does it sound like?”  The nasty thought that one could easily write what looked like music without being able to hear it, play it, or whatever.

            “I’ve always heard things in my head,” he explained, “Then my music teacher at school showed me how to write things down.  The things I’ve written just get more complicated.”  He opened a drawer on the desk.  “I was going to give you this for your birthday but would you like it now?”

           I took the little bundle of manuscript paper in a brown paper cover.  There was a title.  A very simple title.  ‘Prelude’.  Under that, ‘for Mark’.  I opened the cover and there was the title again and below it the familiar run of  three staves of organ music.  Staves which started out with few notes then as the bars went on the music got denser and more complicated.  I tried to imagine it in my head.  I certainly couldn’t do that as well as Oliver obviously could.  I grasped at notes and then smiled.  From the first notes based on a familiar chord the music took those notes and gradually worked up to a tremendous climax on the fourth page and then fell to a stillness over two more densely packed pages.

            “It’s the Tristan chord again,” I said.

            He nodded.  “I put it for you but it’s for Tristan as well.  I heard it in my head after that night with you two and my Zack.  He’s there as well.”  He pointed at a passage where repeated A’s abounded.  “Angus Alexander,” he said.

            “It looks difficult to play,” I said eying a particular pedal passage under thick rhythmic chords.  “And where did you learn to write for organ?”

            He shrugged his shoulders.  “I used to turn the pages at school for the music master.  He showed me what composers did.  You’ll try it?”

            As he sat there I put the manuscript down and put my arms rounds his shoulders.  “Oliver, that’s the nicest thing I think anyone’s ever given me.  It’s ours isn’t it?  The four of us?  I’ll learn it and I’ll play it when we give our recital.  And Zack and Tristan will have to be there.”

            I picked up the folder and went straight to the Chapel.  I saw a queue of rather excited students round the other end of the quad where the entrance to the cellars was.  Yes.  Opening time for the Freshers and others was eleven o’clock.  But, I was more interested in trying out Oliver’s gift.  As I played the opening page as well as I could just sight-reading it I realised Oliver also had a gift.  That of being a creative musician.  I played that first page several times building up with different registrations until I felt it was flowing through my fingers.  My feet joined in and those strange, haunting harmonies established the mood, the second page gradually became even more complex, three strands of melody were combined and overlaid with intricate figuration like a latter-day Reger, or even Tippett.  I would have to work hard to conquer this piece.

            I went on to get an idea of the whole.  I set up just a simple registration to get the feel of what followed. The next two pages took the themes and scattered then and joined them, those A’s dominated one very fast and rather scary sequence which I did scant justice to on that first play through.  I played it again adding stops I thought would give it body and substance.  The horrendous pedal passage surmounted by the urgent, off-beat chords culminated in a chord of such lush harmony I just held onto it.  I knew exactly what that represented.  The climb down after that was tortuous but the stillness under a final A, on the soft flute stops I reduced to, had me gripped in the same way as with that favourite Alain piece.  Oh, Oliver, what a gift!

            I was quite emotionally drained as I turned off the blower motor and went down the stairs.  I didn’t want to play anything else.  Three figures were sitting at the back of the Chapel.  Oliver, Ben, now in his Second Year, and a small, almost elfin lad.  Ben was the first to get up.

            “That’s a piece and a half!” he said enthusiastically, “Oliver’s told me.  I want to learn it, too.”  He turned to the other lad sitting there.  “Gwilym, this is Mark Foster.”  The lad stood up.

            “Mark, Ben’s told me all about you.  Pleased to met you.”

            We shook hands.  Yes, with a name like that and the accent, yes, he was Welsh.  I sat with them and I showed the other two Oliver’s manuscript.  Oh, what a difference Gwilym was to that poor deluded creature who had caused such mayhem.

            “Oliver and I are to give a recital this term in November and I’ll play it at the beginning.  A Prelude!  OK, Oliver?”

            He looked a bit shy, but also proud as he nodded.  “Please.”

            I looked at Gwilym who seemed hardly big enough to reach the pedals let alone stretch to play all three manuals of our organ.  I was put in my place.

            “Nice little organ here, “ he said, “Plenty of variety but the one I play at the Chapel at home is much bigger.  Four manuals.”  He laughed.  “Ten in the congregation and that monster looming above them.  Some coalmine owner bought it in 1889 and the trust fund keeps it going.”

            “Like the Pennefather here,” I said, trying to save face, “Keeps me and the Chapel in a life of luxury!”

            “And lucky me, too,” said Ben, “Found a new microwave in my kitchen with a note from ‘you know who’ saying it was from the Fund...”

            We were interrupted by the outer door clanging and ‘you know who’ coming in followed by Jason and Liam and eight assorted Freshers, five female and three male. Oh, Lordy!, Lordy!  I’d quite forgot!  Twelve o’clock and the new choir members.

            “...My dears,” Charles began without breaking step, “I found a little gaggle of lost souls, not daring to interrupt such fine sounds from within...  I was able to set minds at rest that you would not delay the arrangements for first sitting at lunch.”

            Oh, Hell’s bells!  I’d quite forgotten that, too.  First day and because of the numbers involved settling in  it had been decreed that A’s to M’s would eat first at lunch-time at 12.15 and the rest of the alphabet, Roman, Greek, or Cyrillic, ‘would be accommodated at 1.30' as Charles’ note, signed ‘Assistant Bursar/Research Fellow’ had announced.  He swept out, hands indicating ‘they’re all yours’, followed dutifully by his two acolytes.

            I apologised and introduced my fellow organists and Oliver, who was taking over the duties of Choir Warden, as we now called the poor bugger who had the unenviable duty of sorting out choir lists and duties.  Actually, Adam had set up a very good programme on his computer for Ivo which he’d passed on and this only needed the insertion of names and dates and all was fairly simple.  Oliver, dear lad, had copies ready and handed them out.

            Ben said he and Gwilym would be preparing the choir for a recital at the beginning of November and for the Christmas Concert and said that I and Oliver would be doing the other recital.  He said he’d run through the hymns for the first service on Sunday and that would be very informal, just undergraduate gowns, fittings for surplices etc. would follow.  Cripes!  That meant not too much conviviality at the Club on Saturday.  “.....And I have to remind you...,” Ben went on, “...The Freshers’ pub crawl on Saturday doesn’t mean absences on Sunday!”  He looked at Gwilym.  “We’ll try ‘All Hail the Power’ and ‘The Church’s One Foundation’.   Just those two and it won’t take long so you won’t miss lunch if your name fits the scheme. OK?”

            Gwilym went off to the organ loft and I followed him.  He was very methodical.  And, he could play very well.  I was surprised how he seemingly stretched to get to the top Swell manual and also to play the pedals at the same time.  The run through was to Ben’s satisfaction and three of the singers scooted off to join the first sitting queue.  We stood and chatted to the others and, if course, the topic of the tower death came up and then the cellars.  Ben cleverly steered away any discussion of what happened with Drew and they were soon hearing more about the ‘show in the cellars’ as Ben called it.  As the three of us would miss lunch in Hall as we were all in the A to M’s when the new choir members went off I suggested I took them out to lunch and we strolled along and found seats in a restaurant in Bridge Street.  I explained to Gwilym about Uncle Francesco and I was spending the money ‘earned’ during my holiday.  It turned out his father was a Professor of Italian at one of the Welsh Universities and Gwilym knew much of Italy well.

            So term started.   I kept out of the way of the Freshers and the returning hordes.  I was intrigued that though a constant stream were going into the cellars and tended to come out to yell (male) and screech (female) comments to their confreres still in the queue I could hear nothing from below when in my main room.  I opened the wall panelling and door and went into the passageway and when I got to the new door at the top of the steps then I could hear the general guffaws and shrieks.  All was blessedly soundproof once the ‘Gambe’ door and panelling were shut.   I met Jason as I came from the Chapel when I’d been in for a short practice and he said the students were very excited about the cellars and, especially....  He let the words hang.

            I met up with Gabe in the afternoon and we went along to Miss Anstruther-Lamb’s room for tea.  She was delightful and obviously had a soft spot for Gabe who managed a whole hour of conversation without a single swear word.  We heard all sorts of anecdotes about the College and she was an ardent supporter of Charles and his plans.  “Good head, if a bit impetuous,” was her judgement.  Mine, too!

            Friday morning our little group had done our early morning run and at about eight o’clock Oliver and I were sitting mulling over plans for the day with about our fourth cup of tea when there was a discreet tap on my outer door.  It was Liam with two newspapers and the usual cheeky grin.

            “Mr Tomkins sent these across,” he said thrusting the papers at me.  “Want the good news or the bad news first?”  The grin broadened even more.  “Might be good news and even better than good news depending on how you look at it!”

            “Come in, you cheeky hound,” I said, “That was quite a philosophical statement.  Learning fast?”  I got a slight Toad-like sneer.  “Would you like some tea or coffee as I’m sure other duties can wait.”

            “Thanks,” he said, the grin reappearing,”Tea, please.  Busy day today.  It’s Jase’s college day so I’m....”

            “...in charge?” I asked.

            “Not quite, but Mr Charles likes to have someone around to check...”

            “..Inadequacies?”  I asked, as we reached the kitchen where Oliver was sitting.  I handed him the papers.

            Liam was laughing as I poured him a mug of tea.  He looked at Oliver.  “You’d better read the Times first.  Page eight.”