Freshers

Michaelmas Term, 1970

'Could you possibly point me towards the geological centre?'

'Of what? The earth, Suffolk, or this particular building? I am afraid you'll have to humour an old man and be more specific.'

'I'm awfully sorry, but I meant the Geology Centre. I'm late, you see.'

'Sadly, I have no idea where that is, but from my own miserable scratchings at an education, I believe geology is quite a patient mistress and will wait for you.'

'I think it must be in Earth Sciences.'

'I am afraid I am no wiser. I am not a member of staff here.'

'Just visiting, are you?'

'Actually, I am the Visitor,' said Mr Albert Campion, 'though hopefully the title comes with as few responsibilities as it does privileges. I suspect we are both freshers at this shiny new institution, are we not?'

The freckle-faced and slightly chubby bespectacled girl shook a mass of long red hair and examined the thin bespectacled white-haired gentleman she had waylaid as if he had only just come into focus.

'Well, I'm a fresher, but aren't you rather old to be one?'

Mr Campion was amused; not so much by the girl's forthrightness and powers of observation, but by the way her voice rose to a higher pitch at the end of each sentence. It was as if she spoke only in questions, albeit non-aggressive ones, but it was not an affectation, it was an accent, and for a moment Campion could not place it.

'One is never too old to learn,' said Campion gently, 'but it could be argued that I have left it a little late. Still, that is my problem. I suspect yours is more pressing.'

'Yes, it is. I'm late already and I want to sign up for the Geology Society before I meet my tutor at eleven o'clock to make a good impression and it's already ten past.'

'Am I to deduce that the Geology Society is recruiting as part of Freshers' Week?' Mr Campion probed, and the jolly redhead nodded enthusiastically. 'And that they're doing this in the Geology Centre which is in the School of Earth Sciences?'

'You're catching on,' said the girl, with the modern teenager's grasp of quiet sarcasm.

'That's exactly what my tutors at university used to say, although never often enough, nor quite so sincerely. Still, I think I may be able to point you in the right direction.'

The girl's eyes widened behind the lenses of her red plastic 'cat's-eye' frame glasses, which even Mr Campion thought were rather on the fuddy-duddy side for one so young. He suspected that his wife, who had a liberal attitude to modern fashion – to most things, in fact – would describe the girl's dress sense as 'cheerfully accidental', but he felt in no position to offer an opinion on the combination of lime- green ski pants tucked into knee-high leather boots with a bright red turtleneck top under a rather shabby sheepskin waistcoat.

'We are presently in the Administration block on the third floor, I believe.'

'I know that,' said the girl, her eyebrows rising in exasperation. 'I've spent the last two hours negotiating my rent with the Accommodation Office. That was hard yakka, I can tell you.'

'New Zealand!' exclaimed Mr Campion, with more force than he intended, and immediately felt guilty at the way the girl rocked back on her heels. 'I've just placed your accent. You're a Kiwi, aren't you?'

'Kiwi and proud, and thank you for not calling me an Aussie.'

'My dear, I am old and often confused, but never that reckless. Now, as I was saying, we are in what is colloquially known as "Admin" – a building which is, for reasons best known to the architect and he alone, shaped like a bridge. Somewhere, three floors below us, an unceasing flow of students run like a river from the schools of study to the university library in their quest for knowledge. Now one curiosity of this building – as you may gather, I've been exploring – is that all the windows in it are in the offices which line these interminable corridors, and those windows remain the very private property of the occupants of those offices. From inside the building, crawling along its intestines, so to speak, there is absolutely no view out on to the real world, otherwise I could get my bearings and instantly point you towards your destination.'

Now the girl tilted her head on one side and studied the old man with intense curiosity.

'You're a bit of a dag, aren't you?' she said with sincerity. 'Or you think you are.'

Mr Campion smiled and raised a finger to make his point.

'Now there are two meanings to "dag": one refers to the rather unpleasant bits of wool dangling from a sheep's rear end; the other is an affectionate Antipodean term for a wag who does not take himself too seriously. I'd like to think you were employing the second interpretation.'

'You got that right,' said the girl with a quiver of a smile.

'Good. I'm delighted to have made an impression on a real live student. You're the first one I've met, as it happens, and so I really should introduce myself. My name is Albert Campion.'

He offered a hand and the girl hitched up the rucksack on her back before shaking it.

'I'm Beverley Gunn-Lewis and that's Gunn with two ns.'

'My, that's an impressive moniker. I suspect you have a nickname or two.'

'Mostly people call me "Bev",' said the girl without a trace of irony, 'and though I'd love to stay and chat, I really am running late.'

'Ah, yes, the Geology Society,' said Campion. 'You mustn't keep them waiting, so what I suggest is that we follow the fire drill.'

'But there isn't a fire.'

'Thankfully not, and I do not intend to start one; but I have noticed these very helpful signs saying "Fire Exit", with an arrow pointing the way dotted along this corridor at strategic points. They will, I very much hope, lead us to a stairwell and certainly not a lift shaft, as the lifts should not be working during my imaginary inferno. In that stairwell we should find a notice, prominently displayed, informing us of the location of our nearest Fire Assembly Point, which, if my sense of direction has not deserted me, will be located on the ground floor in Piazza 3, as it is called. It is there that numerous student bodies, political organizations, revolutionary and otherwise, societies and glee clubs have erected a market of stalls from which to dispense their wares and recruit members. I saw them setting up earlier. It's a positive...