Mr Nice. Говард Маркс

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ was still coming easily to me, and the interview presented me with no worries. My mind was more concerned with visiting Soho, a place Albert had discussed at length with me on several occasions.

      After a four-hour train journey terminating at Paddington, I bought a tourist map, caught a tube to the Strand, and dealt with my interview at King’s College. The questions had proved to be straightforward. I worked out which underground stations were close to Soho Square and killed time so as to arrive there by nightfall. I walked down Frith Street and Greek Street. I couldn’t believe it. The place really was like Albert had said. There were strip-clubs and prostitutes everywhere. I had never seen either before. I saw the clubs and bars I had read about in the Melody Maker and the New Musical Express: the Two I’s, the Marquee, the Flamingo, and Ronnie Scott’s. Then the sexiest girl I had ever seen asked if I wanted to spend some time with her. I explained I didn’t have much money. She said not to worry. I told her my name was Deke Rivers (the name of the character Elvis played in Loving You). Through Wardour Street I accompanied her to St Anne’s Court, and we went into a flat named Lulu. I gave her everything I had – two pounds and eight shillings. She gave me just a little bit of what she had, but it was more than enough. I walked to Hyde Park, then to Paddington. After a couple of hours’ passenger-spotting, I caught the two o’clock ‘milk train’ back to Bridgend. I had lots to tell my friends.

      King’s College accepted me on the understanding I would get good enough ‘A’ levels. I’d make sure I’d get them. I couldn’t wait to get back to Soho. I got Grade A in each subject. Herbert John Davies, headmaster of Garw Grammar School, had other ideas. It was an overwhelming surprise when he took me aside one day and said that he wanted me to sit the Oxford University Entrance Scholarship Examination. It had been at least eight years since anyone from the Garw Grammar School had attempted to get into Oxford. He had been successful and was, in fact, the headmaster’s son, John Davies, who read Physics at Balliol College. The headmaster suggested that I try to do precisely that. I had not actually heard of Balliol. The headmaster suggested that I read Anthony Sampson’s Anatomy of Britain in order both to learn something of Balliol and to increase my general knowledge. The section dealing with Balliol was very impressive and intimidating. The list of Balliol men included far too many Prime Ministers, Kings, and eminent academics to warrant my even conceiving of being admitted. Still, what was there to lose? If I failed I could always get a place at King’s College, London, and go to see Lulu.

      Sometime during the autumn of 1963 I sat two examination papers sent from Oxford to the grammar school. One was on physics, which was no problem, and another was a general paper, which was virtually incomprehensible. One of the questions was: ‘Is a copy of The Times more useful than a Thucydides or a Gibbon?’ I had heard of neither Thucydides nor Gibbon and had never seen a copy of The Times. This question remained unanswered, as did most of them. In answer to one of the questions, I did attempt to write some justification of why pop singers earned more than hospital ward sisters, based on the fact that pop singers had no minimum wage guarantee, but I doubt if it was convincing.

      Preparing for the preliminary interview at Balliol was a nerve-racking experience. My hair was extremely long, larded with Brylcreem, and combed in a Teddy Boy style with a quiff over my forehead. My parents insisted it be cut, and I reluctantly complied. I had, at last, finished reading Anatomy of Britain, and, again at the advice of my headmaster, was struggling with Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea. At that point, the only works of classical or contemporary literature that I’d read, unless one counts those of Leslie Charteris and Edgar Wallace, were Oliver Twist and Julius Caesar, both of which had been included in my ‘O’ level English literature syllabus, and Lady Chatterley’s Lover, which had not. In physics I had not read anything outside the ‘S’ level curriculum and was dreading being asked about relativity or quantum mechanics, which to this day I cannot fully understand.

      The Old Man and the Sea was abandoned when the Bridgend to Oxford train reached Cardiff, and I settled down in the buffet carriage to drink numerous cans of beer. We had to change trains at Didcot. I sat opposite a man holding a pair of handcuffs, and I saw Oxford’s dreaming spires for the first time.

      A couple of hours later I was in Balliol College waiting outside the interview room. Also waiting was another interviewee. I put out my hand.

      ‘Hello. My name’s Howard.’

      He looked puzzled and put his hand in mine as if he expected me to kiss it.

      ‘Which school are you from?’ he asked.

      ‘Garw.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘Garw.’

      ‘Where’s that?’

      ‘Between Cardiff and Swansea. Not far from Bridgend.’

      ‘I’m sorry. I don’t understand you.’

      ‘Glamorgan,’ I answered.

      ‘Oh, Wales!’ he said disdainfully.

      ‘Which school are you from?’ I asked.

      ‘Eton,’ he said, looking down at the floor.

      ‘Where’s that?’ I couldn’t resist asking.

      ‘The school! Eton. The school!’

      ‘Yeah, I’ve heard of it, but where is it?’

      ‘Windsor.’

      The Etonian was the first to be interviewed, and I pressed my ear against the doorframe to hear his long, articulate recital of various sporting accomplishments. I felt apprehensive. Despite being a keen rugby fan, I had not participated in any physical exercise or sports since I was twelve years old, when I was mistakenly picked to play as a second-row forward for the school ‘B’ team. Any confidence I had in handling this interview disappeared.

      After about twenty minutes the door opened, the Etonian exited, and the doorframe was filled with the imposing figure of the Ancient Greek historian Russell Meiggs. He had magnificent shoulder-length greying hair, and I now regretted acquiescing in my parents’ insistence on my visiting the barber before I left Wales. Russell Meiggs made me feel completely at ease, and we talked at length about Welsh coal mines, the national rugby team, and the Eisteddfod. I made him laugh on a number of occasions, and the interview was over in no time. The physics interview was a much more sombre affair, and I quickly realised that I could not joke my way through this one. Luckily, the questions were all based on the ‘A’ level curriculum. Overnight accommodation had been secured at a bed-and-breakfast in Walton Street, where I had deposited my suitcase after arriving at Oxford railway station. My straight suit was hurriedly exchanged for my Teddy Boy outfit, and I dashed into the nearest public house to drink myself stupid.

      A couple of months later, I was again summoned to Balliol. This time the reason was to sit a number of Entrance Scholarship examinations. These were spread over a period of a few days, and we were expected to reside in the College. I had explained in full detail to my parents the nature of Russell Meiggs’s hairstyle, but to no avail: the mandatory haircut was again imposed.

      On arrival at Balliol, I joined the other candidates, who were gathered in the Junior Common Room. The Etonian was nowhere to be seen. I felt shy and inhibited. Each attempt I made at conversation was greeted with mocking laughter aimed at СКАЧАТЬ