words.
“Not that we weren’t punctiliously polite to him, of course. And, actually, nowadays it’s all right. I mean, even ten years back I’d have had to be very discreet with someone like that…you know, suggesting that the Shorelands Estate in Fethering was maybe not quite where they should be looking…maybe they could find something more suitable in Brighton. But now half of the people on the Shorelands Estate are of dusky hue.” Ewan Urquhart let out a bark of laughter. “Soon I would imagine the Residents’ Committee there will be worrying about white people moving in next door to them!”
Ted Crisp guffawed too readily at this for Jude’s liking. But she and Carole were distracted by the appearance through the door of a girl who was undoubtedly Hamish’s anticipated sister. In her the ginger tendency of her father and brother was transformed into a mane of pale golden hair and their thickset bodies had been fined down into a slender voluptuousness. Her pale skin was flushed red, presumably by the February cold. She wore a Barbour over jeans and big fleece-topped boots. There was no doubt from the expression that took over Ewan Urquhart’s face that she was the apple of her father’s eye.
“So what’s kept you, Soph?” he asked, as he enveloped her in a large hug. “I didn’t think you had classes as late as this.”
“No,” she said lightly. “Had to do some work in the library.” Her voice had been trained at the female equivalent of Charterhouse.
“Well, I’m not sure I approve of all this book-learning for women. Women are only really good for three things. Cooking and cleaning are two of them…and…” Hamish and Ted Crisp joined him in a chortle of male complicity. He had spoken in an over-inflated tone of self-parody, but deep down he clearly believed in what he was saying.
“Anyway, your timing’s good in one respect. Your brother’s just bought you a drink.”
“Oh, thank you, Hamish.” She took a grateful swig of the gin and tonic.
“No prob, Soph.”
“And shall I tell you why the drinks are on him tonight?” Without waiting for a prompt, Ewan Urquhart once again recounted the tale of his son’s ineptitude. At the end the girl gave her brother a little hug and said, “You are an idiot.” Her tone was the affectionate one that might be used to an over-eager puppy.
“So what have they taught you today?” asked Ewan, sharing his next observation with Ted Crisp. “Have to be doing a constant cost analysis on this higher education lark, you know. The amount they get charged for tuition fees these days, you want to know where the money’s going.”
“Yes,” the landlord commiserated, “I’ve heard about it. The debts these kids come away from university with, all those student loans, they’re never going to get out of the red, are they?”
“Well, at least young Sophia doesn’t have that problem.” He pronounced the second two syllables of her name like ‘fire’. Then, with a tap to his back pocket in the vague proximity of his wallet, he explained, “Muggins here’s footing the bills for everything. So come on, what did they teach you today?”
“We had a class on Eisenstein, and then some work-shopping in the Drama Studio. It’s for this show we’re doing.”
“Huh, play-acting,” her father snorted. “Not my idea of hard work. You know what my daughter’s studying, Ted? Drama and Film Studies. They seem to be able to do degree courses in anything these days. Media Studies, Dance, Pop Music, Fashion, you name it. Probably be doing degrees in bloody Shopping before too long. Wasn’t like that in my day…”
“Why, what did you study at university then, Ewan?”
For the first time the estate agent looked discomfited by Ted’s question. “Oh,” he replied, quickly recovering, “didn’t go down the university route myself. Got out into the real world, got down to some real work. I’m sure you’d agree that’s the best way to go about things, wouldn’t you?”
“Dunno,” the landlord replied. “It’s not what I did. I went to university.”
“Really?” The surprise of the eavesdropping Carole and Jude was as great as that of Ewan Urquhart.
“Well, of course,” Ewan continued defensively, “I studied later. You know, got my ARICS qualifications… eventually.” The recollection was clearly not a happy one, so he moved swiftly on. “What did you study then?”
“Nuclear Physics.”
“Good Lord. So you have a degree in Nuclear Physics, do you, Ted?”
“Well, no, I don’t actually. I left halfway through my second year. I was starting to spend more of my time doing stand-up than on my studies, so I thought I’d give it a go professionally.”
“And did it work out?”
“Ewan, do you have to ask?” Ted Crisp’s large gesture, encompassing the whole of the Crown and Anchor, was sufficient reply.
“Anyway, Soph, I wonder if what you learnt today is ever going to prove of any use to you…”
The girl shrugged easily. “Who knows, Daddy? Some people say that education shouldn’t be about direct application of skills to commercial challenges, that it should be about training and broadening the mind.”
“What a load of poppycock. It’s not a broad mind that’s going to help you succeed in the marketplace, it’s applied skills. Isn’t that true, Hamish?”
“Certainly is, Dad.”
The set-up was perfect. With a guffaw, his father responded, “And maybe, when you get some applied skills, you’ll have a chance of succeeding in the marketplace too!”
Shamefacedly, Hamish Urquhart rode the laughter. Carole and Jude exchanged looks and decided it was time to be getting back home.
? Blood at the Bookies ?
Fourteen
The next morning, the Thursday, Carole drove Jude in her neat Renault up to Clincham College. They had tried ringing, but the woman who answered the phone said she wasn’t allowed to give out any details about the students. Maybe an in-person approach would prove more productive.
The entrance to the campus was flanked by boards thanking local companies and other institutions for their sponsorship, giving the impression of a business park rather than a seat of learning. As the Renault nosed its way up the drive towards the visitors’ car park, they passed a few students, looking impossibly young and clutching armfuls of books and folders. In warmer weather they might have been drifting more lethargically, but the brisk February air kept them on the move.
The main building of Clincham College had always been an educational institution, though it had undergone various metamorphoses before its recent attainment of university status. Originally built by a late Victorian philanthropist as ‘an academy for the furtherance of Christian knowledge’, the humourless tall grey edifice had at various times been a boys’ prep school, a girls’ public school and an outpost of a minor American university, peddling expensive degrees to students mostly from the Middle and Far East. Before its recent elevation it had for some years been a technical college. Now, as the biggest board at the entrance proudly proclaimed, it was ‘The University of Clincham’.
The portico through which Carole and Jude made their way to the Reception area was elaborate and imposing, though it presented that quality of tired shabbiness which infects all educational establishments. The modern lettering of the various signs attached to the tall pillars was at odds with the period of their design.
Inside, more students were draped around the central hall, talking in groups or on their mobile phones. Their manner was loud and over-dramatic, trying to assert their personalities in their new supposed maturity.
Carole and Jude followed the signs to Reception, a glassed-off area with a counter, at which sat a daunting woman in a black business suit. Behind her in the office area stood a tall man reading through a stapled set of spreadsheets.
“Good morning,” said the woman, following some script that had been imposed on her. “Welcome to Clincham College.”
“Hello, my name’s Carole Seddon, and I wonder whether you could help me?”
“That’s what I’m here to do,” said the woman, though her manner belied the welcome in her words.
“We’re trying to make contact with someone who we believe may have been a student here.”
