Eva Ibbotson - The Morning Gift

All around Ruth, the others sat equally rapt. Sam had laid down his pen; few of the students took more than an occasional note because to miss even one word was unthinkable — and anyway they knew that afterwards they would read and read and even, somehow, make the necessary journeys… that they would become part of the adventure that was unfolding up there on the dais. Only Verena still wrote with her gold-nibbed pen on her vellum pad — wrote and wrote and wrote.

Halfway through, pausing for a moment, raking his hair in a characteristic gesture of which he was unaware, Quin found himself looking once more directly at Ruth. She had given up her Chu Chundra attitude and was leaning forward, one finger held sideways across her mouth in what he remembered as her listening attitude. The pigtail, too, had given up anonymity: a loop had escaped over her collar like a bracelet of Scythian gold.

Then he found his word and the lecture continued.

At exactly five minutes to the hour, he began on the recapitulation, laid the unravelled controversy once more before them — and was done.

He had not taken more than a few steps before he was surrounded. Old students came to welcome him back, new ones to greet him. The red-faced colonel reminded him that they had met in Simla, shy housewives hovered.

Verena waited quietly, not wishing to be lost in the crowd. Only when the Professor finally made his way to the door did she intercept him with a few powerful strides and gave him news which she knew must please him.

‘I am,’ she said, ‘Verena Plackett!’

‘What do you mean, you’ve admitted her?’

Dr Felton sighed. He’d been so pleased to see the Professor a couple of hours ago. Somerville’s arrival lifted the spirits of everyone in the department; the breeze of cheerfulness and enterprise he brought was almost tangible, yet now Felton rose, as if in respect to Quin’s rank, and wondered what was supposed to be the matter.

‘I’ve told you… sir,’ he began — and Quin frowned, for the ‘sir’ meant that he had put Roger down harder than he had intended. ‘University College gave her place to someone and they rang round to see if anyone could have her. I thought we might squeeze her in and I knew you were in favour of taking refugees wherever possible.’

‘Not this one. She must go.’

‘But why? She’s an excellent student. You may think that being pretty and having all that hair and talking to the sheep —’

‘Talking to the sheep? What sheep?’

‘It was sent down by the Cambridge Research Institute and now they don’t want it back.’ He explained, trying to work out why the Prof, who had come in in the morning in the best of tempers, was now so stuffy and irascible. ‘It’s lonely and Ruth recites poetry to it. Goethe mostly. There’s one called “The Wanderer’s Night Song” it likes particularly, only it sounds different in German, of course.’ And catching sight of the Professor’s face: ‘But what I’m saying is that though she’s original and… and, well, emotional, she’s very good at her work. Her dissections are excellent, and her experimental technique.’

‘I dare say, but you’ll have to get her transferred.’

‘I can’t. There isn’t anywhere. UC tried all sorts of places before they came to us. And honestly I don’t understand what all this is about,’ said Roger, abandoning respect. ‘The whole of London is riddled with refugees you’ve found work for — what about the old monster you wished on the library of the Geographical Society — Professor Zinlinsky who looks up the skirts of all the girls? And your aunt called in when she was here for the Chelsea Flower Show and she says it’s just as bad in Northumberland — some opera singer of yours trying to milk cows — and now you try and turn out one of the most promising students we’ve had. Of course it’s early days, but both Elke and I think she has a chance of beating Verena Plackett in the exams. She’s the only one who’s got a hope.’

‘Who’s Verena Plackett?’

‘The VC’s daughter. Didn’t she come and thank you for your excellent lecture?’

‘Yes, she did,’ said Quin briefly. ‘Look, I’m sorry but I’m not prepared to argue about this. I’m sure O’Malley will take her down in Tonbridge. He owes me a favour.’

‘For God’s sake, that’s an hour on the train. She’s saving for Heini’s piano and —’

‘Oh she is, is she? I mean, who the devil is Heini?’

‘He’s her boyfriend; he’s on his way from Budapest and I don’t mind telling you that I think he ought to get his own piano; she doesn’t have any lunch because of him, and —’

‘My God, Roger, don’t tell me you’ve fallen for the girl.’

He had seriously hurt Felton’s feelings. Roger’s spectacle frames darkened, he scowled. ‘I have never in my life got mixed up with a student and I never will; you ought to know that. Even if I wasn’t married, I wouldn’t. I have the lowest possible opinion of people who use their position to mess about with undergraduates.’

‘Yes, I do know it; I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. But you see I knew the Bergers pretty well when I was in Vienna; I stayed with them one summer when Ruth was a child. It’s entirely unsuitable that she should be in my class.’

Felton’s brow cleared. ‘Oh, if that’s all… Good heavens, who cares about that?’

‘I do.’

‘I suppose you think you might mark her up in exams, but I shouldn’t have thought there was much likelihood of that,’ said Felton bitterly. ‘You probably won’t even be here when it’s time to do the marking.’

‘All right, you have a point. However —’

‘She’s good for us,’ said Felton, speaking with more emotion than Quin had heard in him. ‘She’s so grateful to be allowed to study, she reminds the others of what a privilege it is to be at university. You know how cynical these youngsters can get, how they grumble. We too, I suppose, and suddenly here’s someone who looks down a microscope as though God had just lowered a slide of paramecium down from heaven. And she’s helping that poor little aspirin girl who always fails everything.’

‘Exactly how long has Miss Berger been here?’ asked Quin, whose ill temper seemed to be worsening with every minute.

‘A week. But what has that to do with anything? You know perfectly well that one can tell the first time someone picks up a pipette whether they’re going to be any good.’

‘Nevertheless, she’s leaving,’ said Quin, tight-lipped.

‘Then you tell her,’ said Dr Felton, defying his superior for the first time in his life.

‘I will,’ said Quin, his face like thunder. At the door, he turned, remembering something he needed. ‘Can you let me have the figures for last year’s admissions as soon as possible? The VC wants them.’

Felton nodded. ‘I’ve almost done them. They’ll be ready for you this evening — I swear by Mozart’s head.’ Quin spun round. ‘What did you say?’ Roger blushed. ‘Nothing. Just a figure of speech.’

The room occupied by the Professor of Vertebrate Zoology was on the second floor and looked out over the walnut tree to the façade of the Vice Chancellor’s Lodge and the arch with its glimpse of the river. The pieces of a partly assembled plesiosaur lay jumbled in a sand tray; the skull of an infant mastodon held down a pile of reprints. By the window, wearing a printed wool scarf left behind by his Aunt Frances, stood a life-sized model of Daphne, a female hominid from Java presented to Quin by the Oriental Exploration Society. The single, long-stemmed red rose in a vase on his desk had been placed there by his secretary, Hazel, an untroubling, middle-aged and happily married lady who could have run the department perfectly well without the interference of her superiors, and frequently did.