Not a Penny More, Not a Penny Less

“Well, sir, I mean Chancellor, I came to see my horse Rosalie run in the King George and Elizabeth Stakes.”

Stephen was now standing behind Harvey and made signs to the Chancellor that Harvey’s horse had won the race. Harold Macmillan, as game as ever and never one to miss a trick, replied:

“Well, you must have been very pleased with the result, Mr. Metcalfe.”

“Well, sir, I guess I was lucky.”

“You don’t look to me the type of man who depends on luck.”

Stephen took his career firmly in both hands.

“I am trying to interest Mr. Metcalfe in supporting some research we are doing at Oxford, Chancellor.”

“What a good idea.” No one knew better than Harold Macmillan, after seven years of leading a political party, how to use flattery on such occasions. “Keep in touch, young man. Boston was it, Mr. Metcalfe? Do give my regards to the Kennedys.”

Macmillan swept off, resplendent in his academic dress. Harvey stood dumbfounded.

“What a great man. What an occasion. I feel I’m part of history. I just wish I deserved to be here.”

Having completed his task, Stephen was determined to escape before any mistakes could be made. He knew Harold Macmillan would shake hands with and talk to over a thousand people that day and the chances of his remembering Harvey were minimal. In any case, it would not much matter if he did. Harvey was, after all, a genuine benefactor of Harvard.

“We ought to leave before the senior members, Mr. Metcalfe.”

“Of course, Rod. You’re the boss.”

“I think that would be courtesy.”

Once they were out on the street Harvey glanced at his large Jaeger le Coultre watch. It was 2:30 P.M.

“Excellent,” said Stephen, who was running three minutes late for the next rendezvous. “We have just over an hour before the Garden Party. Why don’t we take a look at one or two of the colleges.”

They walked slowly up past Brasenose College and Stephen explained that the name really meant “brass nose” and that the famous original brass nose, a sanctuary knocker of the thirteenth century, was still mounted in the hall. A hundred yards further on, Stephen directed Harvey to the right.

“He’s turned right, Robin, and he’s heading toward Lincoln College,” said James, well hidden in the entrance of Jesus College.

“Fine,” said Robin and checked his two sons. Aged seven and nine, they stood awkwardly, in unfamiliar Eton suits, ready to play their part as pages, unable to understand what Daddy was up to.

“Are you both ready?”

“Yes, Daddy,” they replied in unison.

Stephen continued walking slowly toward Lincoln, and they were no more than a few paces away when Robin appeared from the main entrance of the college in the official dress of the Vice-Chancellor, bands, collar, white tie and all. He looked fifteen years older and as much like Mr. Habakkuk as possible. Perhaps not quite so bald, thought Stephen.

“Would you like to be presented to the Vice-Chancellor?” asked Stephen.

“That would be something,” said Harvey.

“Good afternoon, Vice-Chancellor, may I introduce Mr. Harvey Metcalfe.”

Robin doffed his academic cap and bowed. Stephen returned the compliment in like manner. Robin spoke before Stephen could continue:

“Not the benefactor of Harvard University?”

Harvey blushed and smiled at the two little boys who were holding the Vice-Chancellor’s train. Robin continued:

“This is a pleasure, Mr. Metcalfe. I do hope you are enjoying your visit to Oxford. Mind you, it’s not everybody who’s fortunate enough to be shown around by a Nobel Laureate.”

“I’ve enjoyed it immensely, Vice-Chancellor, and I’d like to feel I could help this university in some way.”