Death of an Old Goat Read Online Free

that the rather unprepossessing young man might represent any port. He therefore decided to advance half-way to meet him.
    â€˜Well, I don’t know, just possibly . . . I am visiting here, but . . . what college . . . er, what department ?’
    â€˜English.’
    â€˜Ah yes, well that is my . . . er . . . my subject .’
    â€˜So we were right, then. You must be Professor Belville-Smith.’
    â€˜Er, yes. We haven’t been introduced, but . . .’
    â€˜No. I suppose Professor Wickham is neglecting you as usual, is he?’
    The words struck a very real responsive chord.
    â€˜Yes. Yes, he is .’
    â€˜Thought so. You’re not the first, you know. Look, would you care to join us?’
    â€˜Yes, I will.’ And he gathered up his ill-co-ordinated body, and moved it to the next table. If his stomach was not to be well fed, he could at least give some vent to his grievance. ‘Yes, he is. I’ve never been so neglected in my life.’
    â€˜Professor Belville-Smith will have T-bone steak,’ said the spotty youth to the waitress. ‘And bring another bottle of Diwarra claret.’
    â€˜Right-ee-ho,’ said the waitress, apparently glad to seeher little flock happy.
    â€˜Diwarra claret,’ said Professor Belville-Smith faintly.
    â€˜It’ll go down,’ said the woman sitting opposite him.
    â€˜The T-bone is the only thing worth eating,’ said the boy. ‘You really shouldn’t have come here.’
    â€˜Except there’s nowhere else,’ said the girl, whose voice was rich in strangulated Australian diphthongs.
    Professor Belville-Smith was finding their conversation a source of bewilderment to him.
    â€˜Er . . . you are — ’ he paused, as a thought struck him — ‘not students. ’ He looked at them out of his watery eyes. ‘I hope I have not been at all indiscreet.’
    â€˜Relax,’ said the woman.
    â€˜We’re lecturers in Wickham’s department,’ said the boy. ‘I’m Bill Bascomb and this is Alice O’Brien.’
    Professor Belville-Smith sank back in relief. Of course the woman was a lecturer. He should have seen that. He’d come to know this type from Perth to Sydney. Whereas the women academics at Oxford had usually resigned themselves long ago to their lack of femininity, here they made efforts to be both academic and normal, an impossible combination. But the boy . . . he couldn’t quite place the boy.
    â€˜I’m just out from England,’ Bill Bascomb explained. ‘Only got here a couple of months ago.’
    â€˜Oxford perhaps?’ murmured Professor Belville-Smith.
    â€˜Balliol,’ said the boy.
    â€˜Ah yes,’ said the distinguished guest. ‘I don’t very often run across the young men from Balliol.’
    â€˜Do we have to hush our voices every time we mention the old college?’ said Alice O’Brien, in an irritated voice.
    â€˜Get lost,’ said Bill Bascomb.
    â€˜We thought Bobby would get rid of you as soon as decent tonight,’ said Alice O’Brien, turning to Professor Belville-Smith.
    â€˜Or even earlier,’ said Bill Bascomb.
    â€˜Party at the Turbervilles’ tonight,’ said Alice. ‘Son’s got a coming-of-age. Officially, that is. Mental age of ten, but nobody seems to notice.’
    â€˜Marvellous what money will do,’ said Bill.
    â€˜Five cars,’ said Alice. ‘And they use the Volksie as a hen-run.’
    Professor Belville-Smith felt that his bewilderment was not being lessened. He almost welcomed the return of the waitress, still intolerably cheery. She placed a dark bottle between her sturdy knees, and extracted the cork. She wiped around the rim with a greasy cloth, and slopped out a glassful. Then she looked into the particled depths of the glass.
    â€˜Cork,’ she said,