however, never found.
A benign smile began working its way on to Bromley’s face, but a glance at Susan made the Head of Studies rein it in. This was Cambridge; the First Years you patronized today could be decidedly caustic about you tomorrow when they wrote their memoirs – as Nobel laureates. ‘Indeed, Miss Hamilton,’ the don confined himself to murmuring, ‘indeed.’
When Susan was interviewed by James Russet, the Master of the College, he insisted she try out for rowing; she might even get to row for Cambridge in the boat race, he said encouragingly. Susan hadn’t even known that women participated in the celebrated event.
‘I am not much of a sportswoman,’ she protested.
She was telling the truth; her sports instructors at school had despaired over her lack of coordination.
‘I’m sure you will do just fine,’ Russet insisted. ‘With your build and height, you’re bound to be a natural. Anyway, all the races in the Michaelmas term are for the First Years.’
Susan couldn’t quite argue against his observation on her build; she was five feet eleven inches tall and weighed eleven stone. She decided to give it a go and then, quite certain that she wouldn’t be asked to pursue the sport further, get back to her books.
Her visit to the Boathouse changed all that. After a few hesitant attempts at getting her balance right, Susan proved to be a natural, taking out a scull and bringing it back without capsizing on her very first attempt on the water. The captain of the women’s team, who was taking a look at all the tryouts, marked her name on the clipboard she was carrying.
‘Susan Hamilton, mathmo – did I get that right?’ she asked.
‘I don’t really know if I want to participate in this,’ Susan protested.
‘Six o’clock tomorrow morning,’ the captain snapped back, evidently paying no attention to her protests.
And so it was that Susan found herself training on the river and at the gym with the rest of the ‘boaties’. She wanted to practise on single sculls, but they had put her down for double sculls, along with Jill Ambrey, another fresher from her college who was in NatSci or Natural Sciences. The practice sessions were gruelling and Susan’s body ached constantly, but she enjoyed the discipline of the schedules and the crisp air against her face as they skimmed the water. It was a sport where grace and raw power were intrinsically linked, where for the duration of her time on the water, her mind focused on nothing but herself and her mate, moving in unison on the slide, their oars gliding and dipping and pulling water savagely, yet with controlled grace. In Cambridge, where rowing champions were demigods, it earned Susan social acceptability, which she had never previously enjoyed with her peers. She also realized that with her improved musculature, she was making young men’s heads turn more frequently.
On Saturday evening, as they finished practice, Jill turned and asked her, ‘So what are you planning to do?’
‘Get back to my room. Study a bit, I guess.’
‘There was a notice on the board about a get-together organized for the First Years at The Mill.’
Susan tried to get out of it, but Jill persisted until she had managed to convince her to go. It was there that she would meet David Sage, another freshman from Darwin College, who was studying Modern and Medieval Languages. David was from a government school in Chelsea. He had a ruddy, earnest face and was about two inches shorter than Susan. Both were there alone and equally inept at joining the raucous crowd in the centre of the pub. The two stood against the bar and Susan began a conversation, simply because she didn’t want anyone to notice how ill at ease she was in those surroundings.
‘What language are you taking?’ she asked David.
‘Italian,’ he replied, not looking at her directly.
‘ Realmente ?’ she said, turning to him with a smile. ‘My mother is Italian.’
‘Italian?’ he asked
A benign smile began working its way on to Bromley’s face, but a glance at Susan made the Head of Studies rein it in. This was Cambridge; the First Years you patronized today could be decidedly caustic about you tomorrow when they wrote their memoirs – as Nobel laureates. ‘Indeed, Miss Hamilton,’ the don confined himself to murmuring, ‘indeed.’
When Susan was interviewed by James Russet, the Master of the College, he insisted she try out for rowing; she might even get to row for Cambridge in the boat race, he said encouragingly. Susan hadn’t even known that women participated in the celebrated event.
‘I am not much of a sportswoman,’ she protested.
She was telling the truth; her sports instructors at school had despaired over her lack of coordination.
‘I’m sure you will do just fine,’ Russet insisted. ‘With your build and height, you’re bound to be a natural. Anyway, all the races in the Michaelmas term are for the First Years.’
Susan couldn’t quite argue against his observation on her build; she was five feet eleven inches tall and weighed eleven stone. She decided to give it a go and then, quite certain that she wouldn’t be asked to pursue the sport further, get back to her books.
Her visit to the Boathouse changed all that. After a few hesitant attempts at getting her balance right, Susan proved to be a natural, taking out a scull and bringing it back without capsizing on her very first attempt on the water. The captain of the women’s team, who was taking a look at all the tryouts, marked her name on the clipboard she was carrying.
‘Susan Hamilton, mathmo – did I get that right?’ she asked.
‘I don’t really know if I want to participate in this,’ Susan protested.
‘Six o’clock tomorrow morning,’ the captain snapped back, evidently paying no attention to her protests.
And so it was that Susan found herself training on the river and at the gym with the rest of the ‘boaties’. She wanted to practise on single sculls, but they had put her down for double sculls, along with Jill Ambrey, another fresher from her college who was in NatSci or Natural Sciences. The practice sessions were gruelling and Susan’s body ached constantly, but she enjoyed the discipline of the schedules and the crisp air against her face as they skimmed the water. It was a sport where grace and raw power were intrinsically linked, where for the duration of her time on the water, her mind focused on nothing but herself and her mate, moving in unison on the slide, their oars gliding and dipping and pulling water savagely, yet with controlled grace. In Cambridge, where rowing champions were demigods, it earned Susan social acceptability, which she had never previously enjoyed with her peers. She also realized that with her improved musculature, she was making young men’s heads turn more frequently.
On Saturday evening, as they finished practice, Jill turned and asked her, ‘So what are you planning to do?’
‘Get back to my room. Study a bit, I guess.’
‘There was a notice on the board about a get-together organized for the First Years at The Mill.’
Susan tried to get out of it, but Jill persisted until she had managed to convince her to go. It was there that she would meet David Sage, another freshman from Darwin College, who was studying Modern and Medieval Languages. David was from a government school in Chelsea. He had a ruddy, earnest face and was about two inches shorter than Susan. Both were there alone and equally inept at joining the raucous crowd in the centre of the pub. The two stood against the bar and Susan began a conversation, simply because she didn’t want anyone to notice how ill at ease she was in those surroundings.
‘What language are you taking?’ she asked David.
‘Italian,’ he replied, not looking at her directly.
‘ Realmente ?’ she said, turning to him with a smile. ‘My mother is Italian.’
‘Italian?’ he asked
Similar Books
