Adam Mars-Jones - Cedilla

If John Cromer’s tutor makes an exception in his case, undergraduates will start expecting tutorial visits in the pub. Or in the bath.

Let them eat Weetabix, I say.

My tutor’s name was Graëme Beamish. He didn’t actually use the diæresis in the spelling of his name, but I felt it was required, to indicate that he was pronounced Graham rather than Grime. I supplied the symbol in my mind, out of typographical courtesy.

When I was finally admitted to his presence I explained about the bill and the worries it had caused. His response was drily chafing in a way that I discovered over time was characteristic of him, but was certainly a little disconcerting on first exposure. ‘This seems rather a poor augury of our relationship, John, if I’m to be expected to intervene in every little dispute your family has with tradesmen. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt on this occasion, as long as you can assure me that you will notify me before you undertake any further structural alterations to the fabric of the college.’

In retrospect I think he was ill at ease with the rôle of tutor, actually rather shy in his dealings with people, and protected himself with a sort of performance. He took on the character of academic in a comedy some years out of date. It wasn’t that he was old — probably not far into his thirties. Perhaps he felt that he would lack authority as a don unless he was actively, indefatigably donnish.

After he had got his little tease out of the way his advice was clear and helpful. ‘Tell your father that this bill is not , repeat not to be paid. The problem will be induced to go away. Mr Gates our splendid Bursar will see to that, though it is to be admitted that he knows nothing of this as yet. Leave it to me to break the news to him.’ As I came to learn over time, ‘splendid’ was Graëme Beamish’s unvarying adjective for officers of the college and the university, and possibly for every person on earth. Like a word in classical Chinese its actual meaning in any single case had to be inferred from context and intonation.

I reported back to Dad that the bill was to be ignored. On clear nights, though, when the psychic acoustics were good, I felt I could hear between chimes of the Catholic Clock a high scratchy noise which carried on the wind all the way from Bourne End, and represented Dad’s heroic efforts to wrestle with his nature and history. What a struggle it must have cost him, to disregard a clear demand from an established authority! His hand must have ached for his pen and his chequebook. Without Dr Beamish’s countermanding order, he would never have ignored a bill, however unjust.

A few days after my interview with Graëme Beamish, a college porter knocked on my door and asked when it would be convenient for the Bursar to pay a call on me. This seemed a worrying development. Mohammed was coming to the mountain — quite possibly with a vengeance. I had contested a demand for payment, and now an inflamed Bursar was seeking me out in my warren to demand redress.

Ninety-two little snips in my gown

I was certain the threatened visit was about the blasted ceiling rail. I imagined I would be summonsed to some sort of disciplinary hearing of an ancient and intensely ritualised type — the Cambridge equivalent of a court-martial or a consistory court, a tribunal fiscal-academic, conducted in Latin or Norman French. No doubt the Bursar was required to attend in person to pass my doom upon me. On the day of reckoning the massed bursars of the university would make their way from their colleges to the Senate House, wearing full academic dress, carrying slide-rules in their left hands and red marker-pens in their right, with black caps or enormous bird-masks on their heads. Possibly Aldous Huxley’s The Devils of Loudun , which I had read not long before, contributed to this rather hysterical imagery. It had certainly given me nightmares.

In the ancient heart of the university I would have my Post Office pass-book formally impounded, my wheelchair sold from under me. The Vice-Chancellor himself would draw near, to make ninety-two little snips in my gown with a tiny pair of inlaid shears. Academic gowns didn’t have to be worn on a daily basis, but perhaps I would be issued with one for this single occasion, for a proper pantomime of disgrace.

Of course nothing of the sort happened. Mr Gates the Bursar had come on a different errand. The ritual that concerned him wasn’t arraignment by bailiffs in regalia but matriculation, which seemed to be a sort of initiation ceremony for undergraduates. He said, ‘I hear tell that you’re not planning to attend matriculation … which would be a great pity.’ I wondered how he knew. Perhaps I had failed to return some vital chit.

‘Do you mind if I ask why not? I’m sure we can help you with any problems.’ His voice was hoarse and rasping, oddly tender. He seemed genuinely preöccupied with his unreal ceremony, though it was even less plausible than the one I had dreamed up. As a Downing bursar he had inherited the stigma of a scandalous absconding. Through his voice the disgraced office seemed to plead to be trusted again.

As he talked his eyes ranged over the room, but I had the impression that he wasn’t spying on me but rather the reverse. It was as if his eyeballs had been greased. This must have been his practice when mingling with the student body. By keeping his gaze on the move, not stopping to register any one thing, he was hoping to avoid the known horrors of undergraduate life. In this way he was able to absent himself from such sights as forgotten coffee mugs with lids of fur, resembling accidental exhibits of surrealist art. He could walk right past the extra-terrestrial’s lost sock camouflaged as an oozing prophylactic.

I was taken aback, but did my best to rally. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘it states quite clearly that matriculands — is that the word? — must wear black shoes. It says in fact that there are no exceptions to this rule.’ I imagine there had been trouble in recent years with undergraduates expressing their contempt for the Establishment by turning up in blue suède shoes or Wellington boots, or perhaps barefoot.

I had only the dimmest idea about what matriculation actually was, but that was clearly not the point. The Bursar was nodding gravely, so I went on: ‘But you see, I have only the one pair of shoes, which are brown. There they are, see?’ His eyes slid past my feet as I wiggled them faintly. ‘And I can’t just pop into a shoe shop and pick up another pair. They take months to make.’ I didn’t give him all the details, the numbered lasts, the annual entitlement. ‘It seems simpler not to go.’

‘Oh, don’t give up hope,’ said Mr Gates. ‘Do please attend. I can’t say matriculation, though an ancient ceremony, is a very thrilling event in the life of an undergraduate — certainly it pales beside a “demo” or a “sit-in”. But it is an academic milestone you have earned, so please attend. It doesn’t exactly mark your birth as a student member of the university. Your academic christening, perhaps. We shall wet a great many babies’ heads! But even so, yours would be sadly missed. So please attend. Pay no attention to trivial regulations. These rules were made to be broken.’

Which was a lovely thing to hear. It would be even lovelier if there was a list of the rules that were like that — which ones you could blow away with a single puff of breath, which ones would turn and sink their teeth into you.

I know we’re all supposed to adore the big-hearted small-mindedness of British life — the professor’s forbidden dog in his college rooms, for instance, classified by indulgent authority as ‘cat’. I suppose it’s easier to enjoy such things if you can be confident they will work in your favour.