The Morning Gift

Lady Plackett was annoyed. Since her husband had assumed his new position as Vice Chancellor of Thameside, she had taken a great deal of trouble planning suitable occasions at which the staff would be received. Their predecessor, Lord Charlefont, had been lackadaisical in the extreme and the position of the Lodge, marked off only by its Doric columns and Virginia creeper from the Arts Block which ran along the river, lent itself to the kind of haphazard coming and going which she had no intention of permitting. She had already had a Private notice put on the flagged path which led from the main courtyard to their front door, and instructed the college servants to erect a chain-link fence to keep their part of the river terrace free from students who seemed to think they had a right to sit there and eat their sandwiches.

To insist on one’s privacy was essential, as it was essential to restore the high moral tone of the university; students holding hands or embracing could not, of course, be tolerated. But Lady Plackett also meant to give . . . to enrich college life with her hospitality and make the Lodge a place where good conversation and good breeding could be relied upon. To do this, however, she had to separate the sheep from the goats and find out what material was to hand, and to this end she had planned a series of organized entertainments for the beginning of term. First the professors to sherry, properly labelled, of course, with their names and departments, for unlabelled gatherings were never satisfactory – then the lecturers to fruit juice . . . and lastly, in batches of twenty or so, the students to play paper and pencil games.

Now ticking off the labels on safety pins against the names of the senior staff, she found opposite Professor Somerville’s name the words: ‘Unable to attend’.

‘He’s up in Scotland,’ said Sir Desmond. A pale man with pince-nez, he had the kind of face it is impossible to recall within five minutes of seeing it, and owed his appointment to the fact that all the other candidates for the Vice Chancellorship had enough personality to acquire enemies. ‘Apparently the Foreign Office tried to enrol him for some secret work in Whitehall – code breaking or some such thing. Somerville thought it would mean sitting in a bunker all through the war so he went up to try and get himself into the navy.’

‘Well I hope you mean to have a word with him,’ said Lady Plackett. She was taller than her husband, with a long back, a long face and the close-set navy-blue eyes which characterized the Croft-Ellises. Having done several Seasons without, so to speak, a matrimonial nibble, Lady Plackett had accepted the son of an undistinguished chartered accountant and set herself to advancing his career. It had not been easy. Desmond, when she met him, did not even know that Cholmondely was pronounced Chumley, but she had persevered and now, after twenty-five years, she could honestly say that she was no longer ashamed to take him home to Rutland.

‘No, dear, I don’t think that would be wise,’ said Sir Desmond mildly. ‘We need Professor Somerville rather more than he needs us.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He’s a very eminent man; they’re constantly offering him positions abroad and Cambridge has been trying to get him back ever since he left. Charlefont had quite a job persuading him to take the Chair and Somerville took it on condition he could get leave for his journeys. The college has done pretty well out of him – there’s always money for Palaeontology because of his distinction and the field course he runs at his place in Northumberland is supposed to be the highlight of the year.’

‘Northumberland?’ said Lady Plackett sharply. ‘Whereabouts in Northumberland?’

Sir Desmond frowned. ‘I can’t remember the name. Bow something, I think.’

‘Not . . .’ She had flushed with excitement. ‘Not Bowmont?’

‘That’s right. That’s what it was.’

‘Bow something’ indeed! Not for the first time, Lady Plackett felt the loneliness of those who marry beneath them. ‘You mean he’s that Somerville? Quinton Somerville – the owner of Bowmont? Old Basher’s grandson?’

Sir Desmond said his name was Quinton, certainly, and asked what was so unusual about Bowmont, but this was a question it was impossible to answer. Those who moved in the right circles knew why Bowmont was special, and to those who didn’t one couldn’t explain. ‘I know his aunt,’ said Lady Plackett. ‘Well, slightly. I shall write to her.’ And eagerly to her husband who was leafing through the book of staff addresses: ‘He isn’t married yet, is he?’

Sir Desmond looked for the M opposite married members of staff, found it absent and said so.