to help one another settle them elegantly. As Nick looked, one short girl simply bundled the trailing lower half into her arms and stood cradling it like a baby.
‘Alphabetical order!’ shouted a dashing man in an extremely smart suit. ‘Matriculating students into alphabetical order.’
There was much pushing and shoving and odd bits of standing on the grass as the crowd slowly resolved into a line running down from the double doors to the dining hall, along the chapel wall, then into the middle of the courtyard. The whole crowd was shuffling from foot to foot in an awkward dance to combat the cold.
‘Gown!’ the man in the suit shouted, pointing. Nick and everyone around him turned to watch a tall boy with startlingly orange hair quail like a cartoon character. A moment later, he scuttled off towards North Court.
‘No one in Hall without a gown! And quiet!’
A hush fell. Nick squeezed to the edge of the cluster of students around him to peer out across the courtyard. The scene didn’t look real, didn’t feel real. All these people towering above him, boys in suits, girls in evening wear, everyone begowned. Even the taller students didn’t seem to fit the gowns: strange things with great batwing sleeves and so much pleating of the voluminous fabric around the shoulders that they looked to have eighties shoulder pads. There was a stiff scratchy semicircle of a collar that was clearlymeant to fit around the neck but gaped on almost everyone so that the heavy fabric pulled the gowns awkwardly backwards. Nick had assumed that gowns would be like Hogwarts robes: black hooded dressing gowns, not round tablecloths folded in half and pinched together at the sides for sleeves.
‘God, I feel like a prat,’ someone muttered, flapping his gown sleeves. ‘It’s like a poncy version of super-hero dress-up. So much for the solemn occasion.’
A wash of laughter ebbed through the crowd.
‘Matriculating students, quiet!’ shouted the man in the suit.
‘Cold. Bored. Cold,’ mumbled a girl to Nick’s left, blowing miserably on her hands.
Then finally they were moving. Waiters stood at the front of the dining hall, directing them along the benches to the left. Three long tables marched down the length of the room, each set on either side with long benches of wood so dark it looked black. At the far end, on a low wooden platform, a further table sat across the width of the hall, this one set with chairs.
Filing along the line of benches without treading on your own or someone else’s gown was clearly an art. Several people ended up in impromptu embraces as they fell on to each other. When the shuffling in Nick’s line stopped, they all collapsed gratefully on to the benches. The table was set with enough silverware and crystal for a week.
‘Bollocks,’ said the boy to Nick’s right. ‘We’re not meant to know which fork to use, are we?’
‘Was it in the Induction pack?’ asked the girl who’d flirted with Tim on the College Tour.
‘Start from the outside and move inwards,’ said Frank, his tone adding an unspoken you uncultured morons.
The walls were gleamingly white, decorated in intricate plasterwork shaped into faux Corinthian columns, the capitals tipped in gold.
‘Oh, look,’ said Frank, pointing at the portraits hanging above them. ‘I think I see dead people.’
Chapter 6
(Michaelmas Term × Week 2 [≈ third week of October])
Pushing through the glass-and-wood-slatted door into the corridor that led to the music room, Nick found Susie sitting on one of the padded benches on the right. She looked up with a smile that faltered when she realised who it was. ‘Oh. Hi, Nick.’
Her face brightened when the door opened behind him, knocking into his backpack, and Frank stepped through.
‘Hello, hello, are those my students I hear?’ A door had opened halfway down on the left. ‘I’m Dr Davis. Come in, come in.’
The room was small, cramped, bare: a meeting room rather than an
‘Alphabetical order!’ shouted a dashing man in an extremely smart suit. ‘Matriculating students into alphabetical order.’
There was much pushing and shoving and odd bits of standing on the grass as the crowd slowly resolved into a line running down from the double doors to the dining hall, along the chapel wall, then into the middle of the courtyard. The whole crowd was shuffling from foot to foot in an awkward dance to combat the cold.
‘Gown!’ the man in the suit shouted, pointing. Nick and everyone around him turned to watch a tall boy with startlingly orange hair quail like a cartoon character. A moment later, he scuttled off towards North Court.
‘No one in Hall without a gown! And quiet!’
A hush fell. Nick squeezed to the edge of the cluster of students around him to peer out across the courtyard. The scene didn’t look real, didn’t feel real. All these people towering above him, boys in suits, girls in evening wear, everyone begowned. Even the taller students didn’t seem to fit the gowns: strange things with great batwing sleeves and so much pleating of the voluminous fabric around the shoulders that they looked to have eighties shoulder pads. There was a stiff scratchy semicircle of a collar that was clearlymeant to fit around the neck but gaped on almost everyone so that the heavy fabric pulled the gowns awkwardly backwards. Nick had assumed that gowns would be like Hogwarts robes: black hooded dressing gowns, not round tablecloths folded in half and pinched together at the sides for sleeves.
‘God, I feel like a prat,’ someone muttered, flapping his gown sleeves. ‘It’s like a poncy version of super-hero dress-up. So much for the solemn occasion.’
A wash of laughter ebbed through the crowd.
‘Matriculating students, quiet!’ shouted the man in the suit.
‘Cold. Bored. Cold,’ mumbled a girl to Nick’s left, blowing miserably on her hands.
Then finally they were moving. Waiters stood at the front of the dining hall, directing them along the benches to the left. Three long tables marched down the length of the room, each set on either side with long benches of wood so dark it looked black. At the far end, on a low wooden platform, a further table sat across the width of the hall, this one set with chairs.
Filing along the line of benches without treading on your own or someone else’s gown was clearly an art. Several people ended up in impromptu embraces as they fell on to each other. When the shuffling in Nick’s line stopped, they all collapsed gratefully on to the benches. The table was set with enough silverware and crystal for a week.
‘Bollocks,’ said the boy to Nick’s right. ‘We’re not meant to know which fork to use, are we?’
‘Was it in the Induction pack?’ asked the girl who’d flirted with Tim on the College Tour.
‘Start from the outside and move inwards,’ said Frank, his tone adding an unspoken you uncultured morons.
The walls were gleamingly white, decorated in intricate plasterwork shaped into faux Corinthian columns, the capitals tipped in gold.
‘Oh, look,’ said Frank, pointing at the portraits hanging above them. ‘I think I see dead people.’
Chapter 6
(Michaelmas Term × Week 2 [≈ third week of October])
Pushing through the glass-and-wood-slatted door into the corridor that led to the music room, Nick found Susie sitting on one of the padded benches on the right. She looked up with a smile that faltered when she realised who it was. ‘Oh. Hi, Nick.’
Her face brightened when the door opened behind him, knocking into his backpack, and Frank stepped through.
‘Hello, hello, are those my students I hear?’ A door had opened halfway down on the left. ‘I’m Dr Davis. Come in, come in.’
The room was small, cramped, bare: a meeting room rather than an
Similar Books
