‘A bit, I think. He teaches here, he does East Asian languages – you’ll meet him, you’ll see.’
‘You’ve never asked him about it?’
‘I’ve never tried,’ said Robin. ‘I... I don’t know what he would say.’ No, that wasn’t true. ‘I mean, I just don’t think he would answer.’
They’d known each other for less than a day at that point, yet Ramy could read Robin’s face well enough not to push the subject.
Ramy was far more open about his own background. He had spent the first thirteen years of his life in Calcutta, the older brother to three younger sisters in a family employed by a wealthy nabob named Sir Horace Wilson, and the next four in a Yorkshire countryside estate as a consequence of impressing Wilson, reading Greek and Latin, and trying not to claw out his eyes from boredom.
‘Lucky you got your education in London,’ Ramy said. ‘At least you had somewhere to go at the weekends. My whole adolescence was hills and moors, and not a single person under forty in sight. Did you ever see the King?’
This was another talent of Ramy’s: switching subjects so nimbly that Robin found himself struggling to keep up.
‘William? No, not really, he doesn’t come out in public much. Especially recently, what with the Factory Act and the Poor Law – the reformers were always rioting in the streets, it wouldn’t have been safe.’
‘Reformers,’ Ramy repeated jealously. ‘Lucky you. All that ever happened in Yorkshire was a marriage or two. Sometimes the hens got out, on a good day.’
‘I didn’t get to participate, though,’ Robin said. ‘My days were rather monotonous, to be honest. Endless studying – all in preparation for here.’
‘But we’re here now.’
‘Cheers to that.’ Robin settled back with a sigh. Ramy passed him a cup – he’d been mixing elderflower syrup with honey and water – and they clinked and drank.
From their vantage point at South Park they could look over the whole of the university, draped in a golden blanket at sunset. The light made Ramy’s eyes glow, made his skin shine like burnished bronze. Robin had the absurd impulse to place his hand against Ramy’s cheek; indeed, he’d half lifted up his arm before his mind caught up with his body.
Ramy glanced down at him. A curl of black hair fell in his eyes. Robin found it absurdly charming. ‘You all right?’
Robin leaned back on his elbows, turning his gaze to the city. Professor Lovell was right, he thought. This was the loveliest place on earth.
‘I’m all right,’ he said. ‘I’m just perfect.’
The other residents of Number 4, Magpie Lane filled in over the weekend. None of them were translation students. They introduced themselves as they moved in: Colin Thornhill, a wide-eyed and effusive solicitor-in-training who talked only in full paragraphs and about himself; Bill Jameson, an affable redhead studying to be a surgeon who seemed perpetually worried about how much things cost; and at the end of the hall, a pair of twin brothers, Edgar and Edward Sharp, who were second years nominally pursuing an education in the Classics but who, as they loudly proclaimed, were more ‘just interested in the social aspect until we come into our inheritances.’
On Saturday night, they congregated for drinks in the common room adjoining the shared kitchen. Bill, Colin, and the Sharps were all seated around the low table when Ramy and Robin walked in. They’d been told to come at nine, but the wine had clearly been flowing for a while – empty bottles littered the floor around them, and the Sharp brothers were slouched against each other, both visibly drunk.
Colin was holding forth on the differences between the student gowns. ‘You can tell everything about a man from his gown,’ he said importantly. He had a peculiar, overpronounced, suspiciously exaggerated accent that Robin couldn’t place but quite disliked. ‘The bachelor’s gown loops at the elbow and terminates at a point. The gentleman-commoner’s gown is silk and plaited at the sleeves. The commoner’s gown has no sleeves, and has plaits at the shoulder, and you can tell the servitors and the commoners apart because their gowns don’t have plaits, and their caps don’t have tassels—’
‘Good Lord,’ said Ramy as he sat down. ‘Has he been going on about this all this time?’
‘For ten minutes at least,’ Bill said.
‘Oh, but proper academic dress is of the utmost importance,’ Colin insisted. ‘It’s how we display our status as Oxford men. It’s considered one of the seven deadly sins to wear an ordinary tweed cap with a gown, or to use a walking stick with a gown. And I once heard of a fellow who, not knowing the kinds of gowns, told the tailor he was a scholar, so of course he needed a scholar’s gown, only to be laughed out of hall the next day when it transpired that he was not a scholar, for he’d won no scholarship, but merely a paying commoner—’
‘So what gowns do we wear?’ Ramy cut in. ‘Just so I know if we told our tailor the right thing.’
‘Depends,’ Colin said. ‘Are you a gentleman-commoner or a servitor? I pay tuition, but not everyone does – what’s your arrangement with the bursar?’
‘Don’t know,’ said Ramy. ‘Do you think the black robes will do? All I know is we got the black ones.’
Robin snorted. Colin’s eyes bulged slightly. ‘Yes, but the sleeves—’
‘Leave off him,’ Bill said, smiling. ‘Colin’s very concerned with status.’
‘They take gowns very seriously here,’ Colin said solemnly. ‘I read it in my guidebook. They won’t even let you into lectures if you’re not in the proper attire. So are you a gentleman-commoner or a servitor?’
‘They’re neither.’ Edward turned to Robin. ‘You’re Babblers, aren’t you? I heard all Babblers are on scholarships.’
‘Babblers?’ Robin repeated. It was the first time he’d heard the term.