Stanton walked through the arches of the magnificent old gate and into Great Court. That certainly hadn’t changed. It was still ‘great’ by any standards: the chapel on his right and the fountain to his left. The same gravelled paths that had been trod by centuries of undergraduates. A non-stop stream of bright, optimistic young spirits that stretched back for five hundred years. Spirits for whom even sadness and sorrow were living, vibrant things, the stuff of poetry and song. Burning passion, impatient ambition, unrequited love. Not like the sorrows that come later.
Failure. Disillusionment. Regret.
He passed the entrance to the chapel and thought about the names on the memorial to the Great War inside. Sometimes, as a young student, he had sat alone in the darkening evening and read them. All those young men, cut down at their beginning. He’d felt so sad for them then. Now he envied them; they died at the high tide of life. When the sun was rising.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
Lucky bastards.
3
‘I WAS SO very sorry to hear about your terrible loss, Hugh,’ Professor McCluskey said, pouring tea from the same china pot she had used during Stanton’s student days, ‘and I thought since neither of us has anyone to spend Christmas Eve with, we might as well spend it together.’
Stanton accepted the proffered steaming cup but declined to return the warm smile that accompanied it.
‘I’m not really interested in Christmas, professor,’ he replied. ‘Christmas doesn’t mean anything to me any more.’
‘Christmas means the birth of our Saviour,’ McCluskey remarked. ‘That means something, surely.’
‘The bastard never saved me.’
‘Perhaps he hasn’t finished with you yet.’
Stanton looked at his old professor long and hard. There were few people he respected more but there were limits.
‘I really hope you didn’t get me here to suggest I take comfort in religion,’ he growled.
‘Not in the slightest,’ McCluskey replied. ‘I don’t think religion should be comfortable. That’s where it all went wrong for the Anglicans, trying to be comfortable. Deep down people want fire and brimstone. They want a violent vengeful God who tells them what to do and smites them if they don’t do it. That’s why the Prophet Mohammed’s doing so well these days. I’ve occasionally thought about switching myself. At least Allah’s got a bit of fire in his belly. But you see I could never give up the turps. Speaking of which, drop of brandy? You’ve had a chilly ride.’
It was scarcely eight thirty in the morning and Stanton was about to refuse but McCluskey didn’t wait for a reply before reaching down for the bottle of cognac that was standing on the floor between her swollen ankles. She snorted at the large picture of a diseased liver that government statute required the bottle to display, then slopped a substantial shot into each teacup. ‘Quite frankly, when it comes to comfort I’ll take booze over faith every time.’
‘I don’t need booze. I’ve had plenty of booze. It doesn’t help.’
‘Still, since it’s Christmas. Cheers!’ The professor chinked her teacup against Stanton’s and, having blown loudly on the surface of its contents, drank deep, sighing with satisfaction.
‘All right, prof,’ Stanton said, ‘what’s all this about? Your email said you needed to see me urgently. Why?’
‘You’ve been in Scotland, haven’t you?’ McCluskey asked, ignoring Stanton’s question. ‘I spoke to your colonel.’
‘How the hell does he know where I am? He chucked me out.’
‘They keep tabs on you. Still think you might go blabbing about all your thrilling clandestine missions. You could make a lot of money.’
‘I don’t want to make a lot of money. I never did. They ought to know that. And anyway, even if the bastard does know where I am, what’s he doing telling you? I thought the Regiment was supposed to be discreet.’
‘Your colonel was a Trinity man. That sort of thing still counts for something even now.’
Hugh nodded. Of course it did. Even now. With the country torn apart by every kind of division society could produce, sectarian, religious, racial, sexual and financial, those ancient ties still bound. You had to be born to it to get it, and Stanton’s mother had driven a bus. Cambridge on an army sponsorship had been the first time he’d become aware of the shadowy workings of the Old Boy network and it still took him by surprise.
‘All right then, what do you want?’ he asked. ‘Why did you go looking for me?’
‘Getting there, Hugh, getting there,’ McCluskey replied with that touch of steel in the soft tone that had cowed so many generations of undergraduates. ‘But I’d prefer to come at it in my own way and my own time.’
Stanton bit his lip. Some things never changed. McCluskey was still the professor and he was still the student. You never grew out of that relationship, no matter what happened in later life. McCluskey had taught students who went on to become cabinet ministers, ambassadors and in his case a decorated soldier and celebrity adventurer. But they’d all be eighteen again sitting on that ancient Queen Anne chair with those wild, bloodshot eyes drilling into them from beneath the great tangled eyebrows. McCluskey’s Hedges they were called, now painted a quite ridiculous jet black. Stanton wondered why if she could be bothered to paint them she didn’t also trim them a bit. He took a sip of his tea. Even through the taste of cognac he recognized the leaf McCluskey always served. English Breakfast infused with strawberry. He hadn’t tasted it in fifteen years.
‘I’ve been in the Highlands,’ he conceded. ‘Up in the remote north-west. In a tent on the hills above Loch Maree.’
‘Chilly.’
‘A bit.’
‘Scourging and purging, eh?’
‘I just thought some serious physical discomfort might be a distraction.’
‘Which of course it wasn’t.’
‘No.’
‘Bloody stupid idea.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘If you’re going to mope about, you might as well do it with the heating on.’
‘I suppose I was kind of hoping I might die of hunger or exposure.’
‘Goodness gracious! Really? Then why don’t you just shoot yourself?’
‘I don’t believe in suicide.’
‘Ahh. In case there’s an afterlife. I understand. So you thought if you pitted yourself against the elements, Mother Nature might do the job for you and dispatch you to oblivion without a stain on your conscience?’
‘Yes, I suppose that’s what I had in mind.’
‘But unfortunately you’re “Guts” Stanton. The man nothing can kill. Too much edible lichen on the rocks. Still some sea trout beneath the ice for you to impale with a sharpened biro. Enough twigs and heather to weave a life-preserving windbreak. We all loved your shows here at College, Hugh. Terribly proud. Undergrads are always asking about you. I tell them you used to catch rats with your bare hands during lectures and eat them raw.’
‘I caught one rat,’ Stanton replied, ‘and I certainly didn’t eat it. That probably would have killed me.’
‘Well, you can’t help your legend growing. Guts Versus Guts. Brilliant show. I downloaded all of it. Even paid for it. Well, it was for charity.’
Stanton winced. Guts Versus Guts had been a good enough idea for a title. None of this Man against the Wild stuff, that was just bullshit. In Stanton’s experience Man was never against the Wild because the Wild didn’t care if you lived or died. When man tested himself against Nature that was exactly what he was doing, testing himself. Which was why Stanton had given his little video hobby the title that he had. But it had been stupid to use his old army nickname. It was all very well for your mates to say you were one crazy, fearless motherfucker and name you ‘Guts’, but it was just showing off to use the name in the title of a webcast.