Jeffrey Archer - Paths Of Glory

“When is your interview for Cambridge?” he eventually asked.

“A week on Thursday, Father.”

“Then I’ll let you know my decision a week on Friday.”

A LTHOUGH G UY WOKEhis friend on time, George still managed to be late for breakfast. He blamed having to shave, a skill he hadn’t yet mastered.

“Aren’t you meant to be attending an interview at Cambridge today?” inquired his housemaster after George had helped himself to a second portion of porridge.

“Yes, sir,” said George.

“And if I recall correctly,” added Mr. Irving, glancing at his watch, “your train for London is due to leave in less than half an hour. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the other candidates were already waiting on the platform.”

“Under-nourished and having missed your words of wisdom,” said George with a grin.

“I don’t think so,” said Mr. Irving. “I addressed them during early breakfast, as I felt it was essential they weren’t late for their interviews. If you think I’m a stickler for punctuality, Mallory, just wait until you meet Mr. Benson.”

George pushed his bowl of porridge across to Guy, stood slowly, and ambled out of the dining room as if he didn’t have a care in the world, then bolted across the quad and into college house as if he were trying to win an Olympic dash. He took the stairs three at a time to the top floor. That’s when he remembered he hadn’t packed an overnight case. But when he burst into his study he was delighted to find his little leather suitcase already strapped up and placed by the door. Guy must have anticipated that he would once again leave everything to the last minute.

“Thank you, Guy,” said George out loud, hoping that his friend was enjoying a well-earned second bowl of porridge. He grabbed the suitcase, bounded down the steps two at a time, and ran back across the quad, only stopping when he reached the porter’s lodge. “Where’s the college hansom, Simkins?” he asked desperately.

“Left about fifteen minutes ago, sir.”

“Damn,” muttered George, before dashing out into the street and heading in the direction of the station, confident he could still make his train.

He raced down the street with an uneasy feeling he’d left something behind, but whatever it was, he certainly didn’t have time to go back and retrieve it. As he rounded the corner onto Station Hill, he saw a thick line of gray smoke belching into the air. Was the train coming in, or pulling out? He picked up the pace, charging past a startled ticket collector and onto the platform, only to see the guard waving his green flag, climbing the steps into the rear carriage, and slamming the door behind him.

George sprinted after the train as it began to move off, and they both reached the end of the platform at the same time. The guard gave him a sympathetic smile as the train gathered speed before disappearing in a cloud of smoke.

“Damn,” George repeated as he turned to find the ticket collector bearing down on him. Once the man had caught his breath, he demanded, “May I see your ticket, sir?”

That was when George remembered what he’d forgotten.

He dumped his suitcase on the platform, opened it, and made a show of rummaging among his clothes as if he was looking for his ticket, which he knew was on the table by the side of his bed.

“What time’s the next train to London?” he asked casually.

“On the hour, every hour,” came back the immediate reply. “But you’ll still need a ticket.”

“Damn,” said George for a third time, aware that he couldn’t afford to miss the next train. “I must have left my ticket back at college,” he added helplessly.

“Then you’ll have to purchase another one,” said the ticket collector helpfully.

George felt desperation setting in. Did he have any money with him? He began searching the pockets of his suit, and was relieved to find the half crown his mother had given him at Christmas. He’d wondered where it had got to. He followed the ticket collector meekly back to the booking office, where he purchased a third-class return ticket from Winchester to Cambridge, at a cost of one shilling and sixpence. He had often wondered why trains didn’t have a second class, but felt this was not the time to ask. Once the collector had punched his ticket, George returned to the platform and bought a copy of The Times from the newspaper seller, parting with another penny. He settled down on an uncomfortable slatted wooden bench and opened it to find out what was happening in the world.

The Prime Minister, Arthur Balfour, was hailing the new entente cordiale recently signed by Britain and France. In the future, relations with France could only improve, he promised the British people. George turned the page and began to read an article about Theodore Roosevelt, recently inaugurated for a second term as President of the United States. By the time the nine o’clock train for London came steaming in, George was studying the classified advertisements on the front page, which offered everything from hair lotion to top hats.

He was relieved the train was on time, and even more so when it pulled into Waterloo a few minutes early. He jumped out of his carriage, ran down the platform, and onto the road. For the first time in his life he hailed a hansom cab, rather than wait around for the next tram to King’s Cross-an extravagance his father would have disapproved of, but Papa’s anger would have been far more acute had George missed his interview with Mr. Benson and therefore failed to be offered a place at Cambridge.

“King’s Cross,” said George as he climbed into the hansom. The driver flicked his whip and the tired old gray began a slow plod across London. George checked his watch every few minutes, but still felt confident that he would be on time for his three o’clock appointment with the senior tutor of Magdalene College.

After he was dropped off at King’s Cross, George discovered that the next train to Cambridge was due to leave in fifteen minutes. He relaxed for the first time that day. However, what he hadn’t anticipated was that it would stop at every station from Finsbury Park to Stevenage, so by the time the train finally puffed into Cambridge, the station clock showed 2:37 P.M.

George was first off the train, and once his ticket had been punched he went off in search of another hansom cab, but there was none to be found. He began to run up the road, following the signs to the city center, but without the slightest idea in which direction he should be going. He stopped to ask several passers-by if they could direct him to Magdalene College, with no success until he came across a young man wearing a short black gown and a mortar board, who was able to give him clear directions. After thanking him, George set off again, now searching for a bridge over the river Cam. He was running flat out across the bridge as a clock in the distance chimed three times. He smiled with relief. He wasn’t going to be more than a couple of minutes late.

At the far side of the bridge he came to a halt outside a massive black oak double door. He turned the handle and pushed, but it didn’t budge. He rapped the knocker twice, and waited for some time, but no one answered his call. He checked his watch: 3:04 P.M. He banged on the door again, but still no one responded. Surely they would not deny him entry when he was only a couple of minutes late?

He hammered on the door a third time, and didn’t stop until he heard a key turning in the lock. The door creaked open to reveal a short, stooping man in a long black coat, wearing a bowler hat. “The college is closed, sir,” was all he said.