Black Chalk

They had met Jack a few days earlier and the customary introduction had included the information that Jack was studying history. A couple of mathematicians arm in arm had passed them by where they stood in the shadow of the college tower. She in severe skirt, he in severe sweater. Michaelmas term wasn’t even yet under way and already they had found love. Jack began to joke about how he imagined mathematicians might have sex, nasally reciting the instructions for the missionary position in terms of computer subroutines such as, ‘Thirty, insert penis. Forty, withdraw penis. Fifty, go to thirty.’ And when he finished the skit he said, ‘Because I have every right to judge, of course. Historians have always been known as the sex bombs of higher education. Maybe that should be our motto – historians, the scholars who put the stud into study.’

Jolyon thought self-mockery was perhaps the best of Jack’s redeeming features. At least while laughing at the world Jack knew himself to be very much a cog in the grand comedy of life. And Jack was always happy to exaggerate his own flaws and shortcomings if he thought his own distortion might entertain those around him.

Now the three of them were standing together in the crowded university examination halls, students chattering, stirring the air with excitement and dispute. Around the edges of the hall were arranged a number of stalls side by side.

‘Oh please, we just have to go and speak to those laughing boys!’ said Jack.

They were at the Freshers’ Fair, an event run to showcase for the new students the diverse multitude of thrilling societies they could join – newspapers to write for, sports clubs to join, debating groups to conquer. There were societies for aspiring actors, tiddlywinks players, communists, morris dancers, Francophiles, genealogists, knitters, hunt saboteurs, homosexuals, lesbians, chocoholics . . . There actually existed an agricultural society offering students the opportunity to plough for the university. Jack, being interested only in approaching stalls representing the sorts of societies he would never join, had asked them how one could possibly plough for the university. Did the university require farmhands? Was there a university flock and did they supply wool to the radical knitters three stalls down? Did they own an abattoir? Could a cash-strapped student earn extra money slaughtering ungulates for his university?

It was really very simple, they responded, pitying Jack with their looks and tone. Regional and national ploughing contests took place and if you proved yourself a good enough plougher then you could plough for the university.

Ploughing contests. Of course! Jack had slapped his head, apologised for his ignorance and made his exit.

The nomenclature of each society invariably concluded with the word Soc. So there was Drama Soc, Footy Soc, Tennis Soc and Weather Soc. Psi Soc was stationed in one corner, and not far away, their eyes filled with hatred for Psi Soc, were the representatives of Physics Soc. There were two socs for players of Dungeons & Dragons. Jack interrogated both to establish their differences which transpired to be that while one group favoured dressing up as wizards and orcs to act out their fantasy lives in the local countryside and caves, the other group insisted that games remained confined to the snugs of ancient pubs or cosy college rooms. Each soc utterly abhorred the other.

Meanwhile, Jack’s latest target was locked in his sights. He stood with his hand to his mouth, pointing at a sign that read ‘Sock Soc’. Above the sign was strung, between two broom handles, a blue nylon washing line. And fastened to the line, using old-style wooden clothes pegs, hung a large collection of different varieties and colours of socks.

Jack started striding purposefully toward Sock Soc’s stall. ‘Look at these two laughing boys,’ he said over his shoulder, ‘Tweedledum and Tweedle-fucking-dee.’

In fact, the two representatives of Sock Soc appeared only slightly overweight and wore name tags, one reading ‘William’ and the other ‘Warren’. The name tags were designed in a sock shape with the names curling unevenly around the heels.

Upon arriving at the stall Jack leaned his elbows on the counter. ‘Please, my friends, tell me everything I need to know about Sock Soc. I find it such a fascinating proposition,’ he said. ‘The name . . . it’s . . . it’s ingenious.’

‘Sock Soc is a society for the discerning socker,’ said William.

‘We don’t, however, meet regularly,’ said Warren.

‘The meetings are rather . . . ad sock,’ giggled William.

‘When we do gather, we like to discuss philosophical matters.’

‘By which Warren means we engage in . . . sock-ratic dialogue!’

‘I am the president of Sock Soc.’

‘But I am the true power behind the throne,’ said Warren.

‘Some people have called it . . .’ (now they spoke in unison) ‘ . . . a sock-puppet regime.’