Six to One

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I knocked softly on Professor Jollie’s door and turned the handle. There was no need to wait for an invite to enter. Colin Jollie didn’t operate like that. If he wasn’t available the door would be locked. Quite often it was half open.

 

Only this time there was a need. Facing me on the carpeted floor were the professor’s ample and naked buttocks rising and falling in time to his panting breath and the muffled moans of the woman concealed from my view. His gown had shifted up his back and was now enjoying the ride draped over his head. I think it was this as much as his concentration on the job in hand that led me to believe that he had not heard me come in.

 

Although watching his social activities was one hell of a shock the fact that he was active wasn’t.  His infamy had spread before him. Most students got to hear about Colin Jollie on their arrival. I first met him when he stole the top of my breadstick.

 

‘Can’t resist these,’ he said as he snapped it off while sidling between the tables in the refectory.

 

Finding myself in a more belligerent mood, I could have got up, walked towards his ample frame flowing over a chair on an adjacent table, told him in a loud voice not to be so bloody rude and neatly destroy the prospect of several friendships and one career. I wasn’t to know he was my philosophy professor.

 

‘Don’t get up tight about it,’ said a tousle haired girl sitting opposite. ‘He’s just a likeable rogue who’s nurtured the habit of being outrageous. And he’s a great lecturer.’

‘Thanks,’ I said to my benefactor. ‘My name’s Mike.’

‘Sue,’ she replied, ‘I’m in my second year. History of Art, Colin does bits like ‘the meaning of art’, ‘aesthetics’, you know the sort of thing.’

‘I’m doing PPE,’ I said.

‘Then you need him more than I do. No point getting poor honours over a breadstick.’

 

She was a little unkempt, but then who isn’t at uni, on the plain side of attractive with large laughing eyes. She wore a sloppy jumper, no makeup and a couple of plastic bangles. I was a mature student but realised, as my eyes wandered round, that the wisdom gained from that extra maturity had not taught me the need to dress down. Being an employee was no way to learn an undergraduate’s skills at presentation. I vowed to tear a few holes in my jacket.

 

I looked over to Professor Colin Jollie. A rotund figure, but not grotesquely so, he was holding the students round the table in thrall. Their faces were as one, stern, smiling, sardonic or in creases as each moment came and went, all perfectly orchestrated by the Professor. His shirt was riding out of his trousers and his thick black tightly curled hair shone with perspiration. All but one of the students were female. He had demonstrably won the  hearts and minds of the women who needed the company of likeable rogues.

 

I got to know Sue very well over the weeks. It wasn’t love on either part but it was fun. She called me a stuffed shirt but made me laugh and settled me down into the laid back routines of university life. Work, yes, but casually.

 

She was right about Colin Jollie. He was a mesmerising lecturer, an actor who invariably played to a packed theatre, and he was a rogue. Rumour had it that his first conquest was achieved in about two weeks, a mousy looking girl called Mandy. Others followed in irregular succession.

 

Bob Isaacs, doing French Literature, announced in the common room during the Spring term that he was organising a book on the possible runners. He wasn’t just in the in-crowd, he led the in-crowd. You didn’t get in without a nod from Bob Isaacs. Personally I wasn’t bothered. I enjoyed the periphery. I could observe better. But Bob and his cronies  knew the what and why of all things of importance including intelligent guesses at Professor Jollie’s future couplings as well as famous liaisons in the past, now set into folklore.

 

‘A couple of years back,’ said Bob while co-ordinating one particular evening’s entertainment, ‘he double booked himself. Arranged a tutorial for one student and, while providing non-professorial services, was interrupted by the next. Forgot the time and the lock to his door.’

 

He took a long swig from his beer to allow the ribald snippet to work its way round the minds of his cronies. Yes, okay, and round mine.

 

‘That was the nearest he got to being removed from office,’ he went on. ‘Survived by a combination of charm and brilliance, which the university wanted to keep, and fear of the press coverage on his removal, which was the last thing they wanted.’ 

 

There was no doubting the salacious fascination over the book. It was, of course, for male eyes only. Every page with a woman’s name on it was libellous. Very non-PC but what the hell, it was a good laugh. Students drooled pruriently over the possibilities as much in envy as in delight. It was when I had managed to get a read of it that the humour drained away. Sue was down there at six to one and there was a lot of betting at that price.

 

Sue was incensed. ‘Bloody nerve,’ she exclaimed while we were sharing a couple of beers one evening.

 

‘A lot of people think you could be up for it. I wonder why?’

‘How the hell would I know? I’d like to get the dick who put my name down. I’d chop it off.’

‘But you’re as conned by his charm and wit as much as the rest of them,’ I remarked. ‘I’ve seen your face.’

‘Heh! Don’t get all jealous on me. He might be able to charm the knickers off some, but that doesn’t mean I have to drop mine.’

 

I didn’t pursue the conversation but Sue and I saw a lot of each other over the next few weeks. Maybe it was a subconscious need to prove something. I suppose, if I’m honest, I wanted to hang on to what we had even though there was no evidence it would disappear. If she was with me she couldn’t be anywhere else. The trouble was that I was now well behind on an essay that was due before we left for Easter. ‘Discuss the view that truth is irrelevant to literature’ was the title and had to be with Professor Jollie by 1st April. 

 

I pondered over the issues. On the basis that truth is relevant to life and that life is reflected in literature, I spent a crowded few days broadly disagreeing with the title and walked over to Professor Jollie’s office to leave it with him before the final booze up and home in the morning.

 

And it was then that I discovered the next time he’d forgotten to lock his door. The trouble was that, with the heaving exhibition taking up most of the floor, I couldn’t see how I could leave my essay anywhere. There was little point in announcing my presence. I wasn’t sure I could have handled the implications. So making myself comfortable in his armchair and enjoying the show or stepping over the entwined legs to leave my envelope with treasured essay on his desk were both options that had to be dismissed.  Leaving it on the floor and retreating was seriously considered in spite of the danger that any one of the four gyrating legs might have kicked it into some dusty corner until after the deadline.

 

Then two events occurred simultaneously. Professor Jollie seemed to sense the presence of a third party in the room. His movements ceased and his body froze slightly. And I did the same. I had recognised the shins and thighs spread either side of him like the stripped fins of a beached whale.

 

In that second I knew what to do. Sod the course, Who gives a shit about truth in literature when you can’t get it out of friends? Sod the moments in one’s life when discretion should override valour. If I was going to be the April Fool, there was one way Colin Jollie and his tart of a partner would be certain the fool had watched their consummation. As the Professor obligingly eased himself out I moved forward and planted the envelope in his arse.  He yelled, clenched his cheeks together and, with essay firmly gripped, drove violently home. As I slipped out of the door, I heard a multitude of disharmonious sounds at two distinct frequencies. They could have been screams of pain, shock or orgasm, maybe all three. I never waited to find out.

 

Okay, so I won six quid but, compared to truth, what sort of compensation is that?