House of Windows (26 page)

‘So … I have the best, most amazing plan for how you can spend your summer,’ Tim said as he and Nick sprawled in the deckchairs on the back lawn, listening to the distant sounds of Bill and Michael clearing up lunch in the kitchen.

Nick squinted across at Tim. ‘Did I do something horrid to you in a previous life?’

Tim growled. ‘You’re horrid to me in
this
life. Here I am, being
such
a good housemate, like the world has never seen before,’ a snort from Nick, ‘and you … you
mock
me! I should just refuse to tell you.’

‘My luck this year says you’re unlikely to remain silent.’

Tim threw up his hands, but lazily, as if it were too much effort with the sun soothing them both into a sleepy daze. ‘
Here
, you ungrateful wretch,’ he said, reaching under his chair to extract a glossy brochure. He tossed it on to Nick’s stomach.

‘Year 12 Summer School,’ Nick read. He sucked in a sharp breath. ‘You think I need to go on a summer-school course in case I flunk my exams.’ He bit the words out carefully, as if chewing ice.

Tim sat up with a groan. ‘
Seriously
, Nick? The thing you take from the brochure is that I expect you to fail your exams?’

‘Why else would you think I need to go to a summer school?’

‘Why am
I
going to a summer school?’

‘You’re not going: you’re teaching.’

‘
And
… Oh for God’s sake, Nick. Put the pieces together.’

Tim almost laughed at the expression on Nick’s face as his head shot round, his expression stunned but pleased and … There it was: the disappointment. The blinds coming down.

‘And we can skip the bit where you start up with the old “You don’t have to involve me just ’cos you feel sorry for me” spiel. Truth is we’re a helper down. Plus, as low man on the totem pole, we’ll be able to get you to do
all
the scut work, so don’t think you’ll get to spend the whole time panting after pretty girls or pretty boys or both, as you fancy. Anyway, while this might be a good opportunity to find out, mostly there’ll be a load of prep with the miserable bunch of miscreants I call my friends and—’

‘Is Ange going?’

Tim rolled his eyes. ‘Yup. It doesn’t pay much—’

‘We get
paid
?’

‘Well, I imagine you’ll get paid even less than we do, but yeah: we get paid, even though the courses are free to the
students. It’s for people from state schools who’re the first in their family to look at university or who’re in care or … You know, people who might not even have the opportunity to come and
see
Cambridge otherwise. I had a word and they could really do with an extra pair of hands on the Physics course, the Maths one and the STEP maths-entrance-exam-thingie one: they always have a current Maths student for that and they haven’t found anyone yet, so they’re being … receptive to your age. Anyway, it’s a bit of prep and then three sets of four days. None of the courses overlap so you won’t be overworked and since it kicks off in July, it won’t interfere with your exams. So what do you think?’

‘OK.’

‘Just
OK
? Just
OK
to my sheer brilliance?’

‘Everyone has their moments.’

‘When you are least expecting it,’ said Tim, ‘I will
get
you for that snerk.’

‘Snerk is not a word.’

‘Of course it is! You knew exactly what I meant by it.’

‘It’s still not a word. It’s certainly not a
noun
.’

‘No, it’s usually a verb. I snerk, you snerk, he/she/it snerketh.’

‘Of course it’s not going to be simple,’ Tim found himself muttering at the coffee machine an hour later. ‘It involves Derrans: why would I think it’d be simple?’

‘It is
very
kind of you, Tim,’ Michael was saying. ‘And I’ve got nothing against the idea in
principle
but … Well, it doesn’t seem quite fair that you should have to spend so much of your summer keeping an eye on Nick when you’re working—’

‘I wouldn’t have suggested it if I didn’t think it would be fun for
everyone
,’ Tim said, trying to keep his tone calm and even. ‘Ask Nick. He’ll tell you my best friend already likes him more than me: Ange treats him like her favourite stuffed toy whenever she’s here.’

‘That’s kindly put, Tim—’

Nick turned away to start loading the dishwasher.

‘I’m getting to know Tim quite well, Mike,’ Bill cut in, ‘and mostly he says what he means.’

Michael sighed, throwing up his hands. ‘Well, I can see I’m being outmanoeuvred. But this thing about Nick getting paid—’

‘We
all
get paid,’ Tim interrupted, trying to keep his voice level.

‘Well of course
you
do, Tim.’ Michael heaved a sigh. ‘I suppose I could always make a donation to the programme to even things out.’

‘Great,’ Tim hissed at Bill, letting the spluttering of the coffee machine cover the sound of his voice. ‘Now Nick’ll think I’ve invited him to get the money or that it’s basically a way for me to babysit him. That’ll do
wonders
for his self-esteem.’

‘What’s that?’ called Michael, turning from the sink.
‘Tim, I know Nick’s muttering bug is contagious, but try to hold firm against it.’

‘Bill and I are just plotting.’

‘What are you plotting?’ Nick asked. ‘
Why
are you plotting
together
?’

‘That’s for us to know and you to find out,’ Tim said, reaching out to flick his nose. Nick slapped his hand away with a growl. He gave Bill a suspicious look.

His godfather smiled. ‘Tim and I are united in our plans to keep you out of trouble. We were just saying maybe your dad’s donation should be contingent on you coming up with a really good idea for how to use the money. Then you can get some extra CV points
and
feel you’ve actually done something to bring that money in for the programme.’

‘Ah, Bill,’ moaned Tim. ‘You’re such a spoilsport. I could have strung the reveal out for
days
.’

‘Lovely as this series of in-jokes to which I’m not party is, I don’t see why I’m playing odd man out in my own home,’ Michael said testily. ‘Have it your way, Bill, and on your head be it. I give my blessing if Nick promises,’ he added, raising a hand in warning, ‘that when he tags along with Tim, he won’t be any trouble.’

‘You can’t make him promise that,’ Tim said, casting an infuriated look in Bill’s direction. ‘I might start to feel unloved if Nick wasn’t tormenting me.’

Senate House Lawn was awash with students sitting in loose clusters, all waiting for their exam results. The sun was out, the grass lush and cool, but there was nothing relaxed about the atmosphere. No one sprawled, sunbathing. Instead, they sat or reclined awkwardly on their elbows, pulling at the grass and snapping at each other, searching for things to talk about to distract themselves from the wait.

‘So two weeks from now, while I’m here fetching coffee and photocopying my backside off like all the other good little unpaid interns trying to make their CVs decent, you’re going to be lazing on the deck of a yacht and getting drunk? You’re such a waste of space, Frank,’ Susie said, wrinkling her nose in disgust.

‘Didn’t you want to work in London for the summer?’ Nick asked around a yawn.

‘That would have been great … apart from the fact that none of the internships covered travel expenses. Bad enough to have to work for six weeks and not get paid a penny, let alone spend over thirty quid a day on travel.’ She lifted her arms above her head in a languorous stretch. ‘We should go punting one day.’

‘Count me in for punting,’ Frank said, raising his hand.

‘I was talking to Nick. You won’t be here.’

‘I can arrange to be here for anything that might involve you in hotpants and a bikini top.’

‘How do you lurch between fancying me and just being incredibly vile and sexist in half a heartbeat?’ She flopped back on to the grass, draping an arm across her eyes. ‘I can’t believe the exams are over. I keep having nightmares about them. God, that Analysis I paper.’ She shuddered.

‘At least you were in the Corn Exchange with everyone else, rather than in our supervision room in College,’ Nick grumbled. ‘So many shades of weird and disconcerting.’

Frank laughed. ‘Seriously? That’ll teach you to get pneumonia instead of revising. Were they just keeping an eye to make sure you didn’t expire or is it ’cos of your age?’

‘In case of death,’ Nick said, while Susie extended her foot to kick Frank in the thigh.

‘Nice sympathy, Frank,’ she said.

‘Can’t you stop kicking me and go down to the Faculty Office for an update on our results?’ Frank asked. ‘You’re our Year Rep—’

‘Which is why I’ve already been down twice today, and
why I went twice yesterday, and twice the day before,’ Susie snapped. ‘Just sit there and brood in life-threatening boredom like everyone else.’

‘Couldn’t we flirt to pass the time? Then you could wound me to the soul with a cutting put-down when the results arrive.’

‘I could do that
now
,’ she said, ‘only I’m too stressed out to bother. Just shut up, Frank, and— Hang on. Who’s that?’

Across Senate House Lawn, clusters of heads turned as a harassed-looking man stopped to talk to one of the smart-suited custodians by the wrought-iron gates. The two came hurrying around the flagstone path.

‘Is this it? Oh God, this is it,’ someone was mumbling in the next group over. ‘Please,
please
let it not be a Third. Please, please,
please
.’

A crowd of students converged on the men as they halted by one of the glass-fronted message boards along the lower walls of Senate House. The custodian took out a key and swung open the front of one of the screens used to post exam results.

‘Board 8. It’s us! Maths!’ someone shouted.

The crowd swarmed forwards as the official pinned two flimsy A4 pages up inside the shallow box then strode off. There was a breathless hush as the custodian calmly locked the screen again. He turned as if on parade and marched through the parting crowd. As soon as he was gone, the students surged forwards in a scrum of pushing, frantic bodies.

Nick hung back where the others had left their bags.

A whoop, a shout of joy. Two boys pushed through the left-hand side of the crowd, high-fiving as they raced off towards the gates.

More happy calls. A chorus of groans.

A group of six pushed out of the crowd, two members elated, three looking pleased and one crestfallen. Nick watched a girl who was beaming so hard her cheeks must have hurt put her arm about the girl who looked like she was going to cry. Slowly the crowd around the boards thinned.

‘Nick! What are you doing? Don’t you want to know?’ Frank asked, swaggering over.

‘Didn’t you look for me?’

‘That’d be telling,’ he called over his shoulder, tapping his nose.

Taking a deep breath, Nick walked slowly over to Board 8. The remains of the crowd frayed around him, students spilling away, chattering happily or slinking miserably with eyes averted.

When he reached the board, there was almost no one in the way. He stepped up to the glass, felt someone clap him on the back and thought for a second that he was going to throw up. Acid rose into his throat. He braced a hand against the wooden frame around the glass and focused his eyes on the pieces of paper pinned up inside.

It took him a moment to figure out how everything was organised. He’d known that results were called class lists, but he hadn’t realised this meant they were divided
into actual lists of who’d achieved which class mark. ‘Mathematics Tripos, Part 1A’ read the title across the top of the first page. Underneath it simply said ‘Class I’. Below that were three shallow columns of names, followed by italicised initials for each student’s college. The Class II.1 students were below, stretching down the rest of the page. He started there.

D … Da … De … No Derran.

He took a shuddering breath, let his eyes move across to the second sheet and the equally long list of II.2s.

D … De … No Derran.

A Third? He swallowed. Let his eyes drop to the bottom of the page and the shallow columns there.

No Derran.

He let his eyes close. He couldn’t have got an unclassed pass: an
Ordinary
. He’d struggled less than he’d expected in the exam, more than he’d hoped, but it couldn’t have been
that
bad.

He let his eyes drift back to the II.1s. Surely his name
had
to be there, unless … He looked up to the Firsts.

And there it was.

He heard himself make a noise that sounded more like pain suddenly relieved than joy, halfway between a sob and a whimper.

‘Boo!’ whispered a voice in his ear.

He started with a yelp. Susie was standing behind him, grinning. ‘I’m starting to realise you’re all noise and hot air, you know,’ he snapped at her, rubbing at his ear.

‘Oh,
please
. I’m all
character
and
style
. Frank’s the noise and hot air. I only got a II.1, but next year I’m getting a First, and then I am
so
going to give you a run for your money for Senior Wrangler in our final year.’

‘What’s a Wrangler?’

Susie held up a hand. ‘Stop. Right. There. Do not say another word. How can you not know this?’ She shook her head. ‘
Wranglers
are the students who get Firsts in their final year. Whoever gets the highest mark is Senior Wrangler, then it’s Second Wrangler, Third Wrangler … I don’t honestly know how many Wrangler places there are. I guess all the way through the Firsts. The worst mark of the whole year used to be called – and, apparently,
given
– a wooden spoon. But just so you know, the Senior Wrangler spot is
mine
, mini-genius or not.’

‘We’ve
had
this conversation, Susie. I’m not actually a genius.’

‘Yeah, yeah. Pot-ay-to, pot-ah-to. At a certain point, minus the loony-tunes
Beautiful Mind
-style geniuses, we’re all somewhere out there beyond the third standard deviation. So unless you’re going to say that there are categories of genius and you’re upset you’re not at the very top of the pile, just admit that there are a whole bunch of us here who are, give or take, as near as geniuses compared with everyone else.’ She shrugged. ‘Who’s going to argue?
You’re
not, are you?’

‘With you in this mood?’

Susie grinned at him. ‘Come on. Time to celebrate. I guess
I should feel sorry about the fact that half my friends are sulking or crying, but they
mocked
me when I had a meltdown in First Term so I’m finding myself all out of sympathy. We all got what we deserved and you can’t say fairer than that. It’s their own fault for being daft thespy types too busy mucking around backstage at the ADC theatre or prancing around pretending they’re the new comedy stars of Footlights to do any studying until ten minutes before the exams.’ She shrugged, then grinned. ‘
I
worked my socks off after the world’s worst start to a Cambridge career so now I deserve to eat ice cream with happy people, even if they do include Frank,’ she sighed as he came jogging over to join them.

They bickered their way down the pavement to the ice-cream trolley, then wandered down to King’s, passing Brent on the cobbles outside the Great Gate. Brent flipped them the finger, practically snarling as his eyes met Nick’s.

Frank craned back over his shoulder to watch him stalk away. ‘Was that aimed at me?’ he asked. ‘Because I’m not sure I even know who that is.’

‘It was for me,’ Nick mumbled just loud enough to be heard.

‘Really?’ said Susie with interest. ‘
Tell
.’

Nick hunched his shoulders. ‘He’s captain of the Men’s Third boat: I was their cox for a few months, only there was an incident and … Anyway, I quit. I heard they had a bad time at the bumps, so I guess they sort of blame me.’

‘Rowed over, did they?’ asked Frank, nodding knowledgeably.

‘Wooden-spooned it,’ Nick said.

Susie snorted. ‘People take that stuff seriously?’

‘People take a lot sillier Cambridge things far more seriously than that,’ Nick said testily.

‘Well, that’s true enough,’ she conceded. ‘Let’s go through here,’ she said, gesturing to the little gate on the right of King’s bridge, leading the way down into the thick cool grass in its shadow. On the river, groups of tourists punted by guides in waistcoats and straw boaters glided serenely past, while smaller punts, propelled by the tourists themselves, collided with the bank, other punts, the bridge. A group of Japanese tourists in smart suits were sculling furiously with a single oar to where their punt pole was stuck upstream in the mud. On the far side, a woman wheeled a bike with a wicker basket along the raw orange clay of the riverside path.

Susie flopped back into the grass with a sigh. ‘So, you going to any of the May Balls, Nick?’ she asked around a yawn.

‘Not allowed.’

‘Why— Oh, all the free booze,’ Frank said. ‘That sucks.’

‘I bet they’ll be open to being talked round in our last year and by then you can save up enough to go to every ball you can get into,’ Susie said.

‘Hey, we could do a May Ball Crawl. One ball a night,’ Frank suggested. ‘Anyway, that’s two years away. The big question is “What are we doing for Suicide Sunday?”’

‘You leave me and Nick out of it,’ Susie snapped at him. ‘Just ignore him,’ she said, seeing the sick look on Nick’s face. ‘It’s just moronic back-to-front Cambridge-speak, like the fact that May Week is actually two weeks in June. Suicide Sunday is seventy-two hours or something where people just drink solidly without sleeping or sobering up. The dimmest of them – Frank will probably be one – get carted off in ambulances to have their alcohol poisoning dealt with at Addenbrooke’s. It’s pathetic: a bunch of people who don’t know how to have fun thinking that getting drunk enough must count for something. On that delightful note, I’m off to Cherry Hinton to report in to my family about my results before they send a search party down to College and make me rethink the wisdom of going to Uni in my home town.’

Nick’s new phone chirped as they climbed back up to the path. He hung back to answer, waving them on ahead.

‘So have they been posted yet?’ Tim asked.

‘Yeah, hang on a sec! Bye!’ he yelled after the others.

‘You with friends? I can bother you later—’

‘No, they’re heading off.’

‘So …’

‘So …’ Nick echoed.

‘You really want to play that game? Well, in that case, I guess you don’t want this treat I got to celebrate with.’

‘What treat?’ Someone tapped him on the shoulder. Nick whirled to find Tim grinning down at him.

‘And …’

‘I got a First.’

‘Duh, of
course
you got a First.’ Tim wrapped an arm around Nick’s shoulders, steering him away from King’s and down KP towards Senate House Passage. ‘Who said you were going to get a First?
Me
. Who
insisted
on it?
Me
. You know, when you get a First again next year you get book tokens and a chance to autograph the College book of scholars. It is entirely overrated, but kind of nice all the same. In any case, you can now officially call yourself a Cambridge Scholar.’

It brought Nick up short for a moment, frowning. Then he laughed.

‘What was that about?’

‘Just something Professor Gosswin wrote. In the book she gave me. A prediction, I guess.’ He shook his head. ‘So what’s the treat you bought for
this
year?’

Tim rolled his eyes to the sky. ‘You see what I have to put up with, here? I have no idea what you’ve done to deserve me.’

Nick sighed. ‘I must have been
awful
.’

Tim cuffed the back of his head as they slammed through the p’lodge doors into College, then ran across Front Court and through the double doors into the corridor between the buttery and dining hall, bursting out the other side.

‘Right,’ Tim said, as they settled on the wall over the river. He set his bag down between them and produced two plastic champagne flutes with a flourish, then a mini-bottle of
spumante
. He popped the cork to a cheer from a passing punt. ‘Here we go. A toast to Mr Derran’s first First.’

Nick grinned as the glasses came together with a dull crunching noise.

‘Maybe less with the toasting and more with the drinking before these things split,’ Tim said. He nudged Nick’s shoulder. ‘Proud of you.’

Nick nudged him back. ‘You were waiting for me, weren’t you?’