Rupert Mountjoy - The Intimate Memoirs of an Edwardian Dandy, vol.II

It was time for us to take our leave but Chrissie assured me that she would send round a note about where I should meet her and Salman on Friday night. After kissing the two girls goodbye I walked back briskly to my college, making a mental note as I looked at my watch that I would need to employ a social secretary if invitations were to keep flowing so freely into my diary. When I reached my rooms I jotted down my immediate engagements-this evening I had planned to see Beth Randall after dinner and take her for a walk and perhaps visit one of the quaint old Oxford inns frequented (though much frowned upon) by students of the University. Tomorrow I had to attend two lectures and write a long essay which had to be given in the next morning, but time would be at a premium as I had already accepted Professor Webb's invitation to his soiree. I had some reading to do as well but the weekend was already filling up for on Friday I was to dine with Salman and Chrissie, whilst on Saturday night I would squire Gillian to the party at the Oxford Playhouse. I gnawed my lip in a gesture of irritation as I suddenly remembered that on Saturday afternoon I was due to play soccer for Balliol against Merton College and I really should fit in at least a couple of hours of training before the match.

Of course, I could always cut a lecture or two, but at his specific request, I had promised my godfather. Major Fulham, that I would never allow this to happen during my first year and since my earliest years I have always maintained that a promise is a promise-and especially when you have just been handed a cheque for fifty pounds 'to be spent on enjoying yourself, my boy; your father can look after the college fees and your account at Blackwell's bookshop'! This left Sunday as the only day free to work and though my family have never been strict observers of the Sabbath, I knew full well that if the Saturday party turned out to be the kind of affair I hopefully expected, I would be in no fit state to study the day afterwards! Still, these were pleasant problems to solve and I resolved to lighten my load by postponing my tryst with Beth until the following week and instead making a start on my essay after dinner, even though Frank and Barry would do their best to inveigle me into playing a few rubbers of bridge. I would be very tempted as I much enjoyed the game, but however hard it would be, their blandishments would have to be resisted, I said to myself as I made my way downstairs to spend half an hour reading the newspapers in the library before going into the dining hall. In the library I picked up a copy of The Times and coincidentally one of the first reports to catch my eye was a review of A Nice Little Stroll Does You Good. Under the heading 'A Jolly Evening Well Spent,' the critic had written: 'As several friends in the profession have told me about the rousing reception A Nice Little Stroll Does You Good has been given in the provincial theatres before opening in two weeks' time in London, I ventured out to Oxford to see Mr. Louis Segal's latest musical comedy for myself, and am pleased to report that this latest offering is about as good and as clever as any play in this genre. The songs are jolly and the story, though of the sort we have seen more often than not, is at least well paced and, though relying on mishaps and misunderstandings for its dramatic effects, all ends happily with the hero and heroine reaping their rewards and the villains getting their just deserts. It is conceived as a downright, rollicking, noisy comedy and the humour and praiseworthy characterisations evinced by the principals, Mr. Michael Bailey, Mr. Frederick Shackleton and Miss Deborah Paxford undoubtedly caught the imagination of the audience. They are abetted by one of the prettiest chorus lines, whose shapely forms are clothed perhaps in too scanty a fashion for the older generation, but all can act and sing as well as they can dance. From first to last, all on stage appear to revel in the fun and the company complied with repeated requests for encores without displaying any symptom of weariness.' Then and there I decided to check with Gillian as to whether she already possessed tickets for Saturday night, because after such a review the playgoers of Oxford and the surrounding villages would flock to see the show. I scribbled a note and found a young college servant who for sixpence was willing to deliver the message that evening and (so long as Gillian was at home) wait and bring back her reply. The gong sounded as I gave the lad my note and made him repeat the address I had just given him (for the matter was important and I did not want my note to go astray) and Frank Folkestone ambled up and accompanied me into the dining-hall. 'Hello there, old boy, I haven't seen much of you since Len Letchmore regaled us with his lewd tale about his uncle and the chorus girl. 'Talking of chorus girls,' he added, 'how about coming along with me to see the show at the Playhouse one night?

I've spoken to a few chaps who have already seen it and they all say that it's great fun with some cracking chorus girls. Do you know that Malcolm Ross, the fellow from Winchester who rowed for Oxford in the Boat Race this year-well, he went backstage with a bunch of flowers and a note for one of the girls and she accepted his invitation to dine at Carlo's Restaurant after the performance the following evening,' 'You think she sang for her supper?* I said with a grin.

'I don't honestly know, but the newspapers say the chorus line is well worth watching especially as some of the costumes are rather naughty,' said Frank with undisguised relish. 'So how about it, old boy?'

Trying hard not to sound conceited, I explained to Frank (and to Barry Jacobs who had just joined us) that I already had an invitation to meet the cast on Saturday night at a private party after the show, but that if I could smuggle my pals in, I'd let them know as soon as possible. 'Gosh, you're a fast worker, Rupert,' said Frank admiringly. Talk about being quick off the mark. If this gathering is anything like the theatrical revels I've read about in the Jenny Everleigh books, it's just as well you're playing football before and not after the party!' 'Yes, especially as I'm playing with you in the team on Saturday afternoon and Esme Dyotte is coming to watch the game. I want to be on the winning side, Rupert, so be a good chap and keep your mind off your cock and on the match until we've beaten Merton by at least six goals!' Frank shook his head in warning.

'You'll be lucky if you manage to scrape a draw, Barry. Merton plan to field four Corinthians in their line-up.' 'Gosh, we'll have a real fight on our hands,' said Barry gloomily. It jolly well serves me right for wanting to show off in front of Esme'.' 'Cheer up, old lad-at least you aren't playing in goal so she won't have to see you bending down every ten minutes to pick the ball out of the net,' said Frank, though perhaps not surprisingly these words of comfort elicited only a glare from Barry. 'I think I'll take up golf instead,' he muttered. 'At least I can only let myself down on the course. Still, I'm sure that win or lose Esme will keep to our arrangement on Sunday.

She can't see me after the match because she's going with your friend Beth Randall to see The Taming Of The Shrew at the New Theatre on Saturday night along with some other girls. But I'm planning to take her out to Standlake for luncheon on Sunday.' 'I didn't know there were any public houses serving meals on Sunday round there, though it's a pretty part of the county,' I commented. 'You're right, Rupert, there aren't any but Mr. and Mrs. Greenacre, some old friends of my parents, live there and yesterday Mr. Greenacre called and asked me to join them for lunch on Sunday. He said that I should bring a friend if I would like to, so I've asked Esme.' 'And has she accepted?' asked Frank. 'I'm waiting for her reply as I only left a message at her rooms this morning. I wrote to her after what happened at Doctor Blayers' party, and I do hope that she will come to Standlake with me. To be frank, I'm a bit worried as I went over the top a bit when I wrote to her.' 'Oh, don't worry at all about that,' I said with all the assurance of an eighteen-year-old man of the world. I don't think you can over-flatter a woman. Remember what Ovid said: Quae dant, quaeque negant, gaudent tamen esse roatae.'