School's Out

It's you!' The voice booms in my ear. Surprised I jerk back hitting my head on the door sill. The slap on my back that follows lands with such a whack that it nearly sends me sprawling over the suit case that I've been trying to extricate from the cab. Then I'm grabbed, hauled into the outside world and engulfed in the beeriest of bear hugs. 

'Flick! Knew it was you.' 

'Flick'. There's a name I'd not been called in twenty years. I know it's him without even seeing his doughy face. The arms stiffen around me. A vaguely peppermint scent envelops me. It fails to mask the tang of ale and stale aftershave. The grip tightens. The tips of my toes scrape the pavement. I splutter a muffled greeting into my assailant's lapels, and I'm dropped.   

It's Harvey, Harv, the Harv-meister in all his 6 foot 6, 18 stone glory. He's grabs my hand,

pulling it as if I'm the last one-armed bandit in Vegas that hasn't paid out its jackpot. 

It's been fifteen years, a drunken reunion ending in the usual guff; filial declarations, promises to stay in touch that don't last the journey home. Since then we've piloted separate courses. I've

published papers, lectured and climbed the greasy academic pole, head of department now, respected by my peers, with a wife and the requisite two children, still pushing for that professorship. 

And here I am now, fifteen years older and wiser with big, bluff, blast from the past Harv, Harvey Wallace, party king, rugger-bugger. Shared a room, shared digs, briefly shared a girlfriend, shared a course and research, which he, in magnificent, glorious technicolour, spectacularly failed. Bombed out. Got the big fat zero. And... 

'Excuse me.' I turn. A petite Japanese female is standing two yards from us. 'Can I have your autograph, please?' She's holding out a large hard back with big embossed golden letters decorating the cover, 'The Pursuit of Light'. She flicks the book open to the fly leaf. There's a flattering portrait of the author, back lit, crooked smile on his face. 

'Of course, my dear.' Harvey releases my aching arm, takes the book and with a flourish

produces a pen from his jacket. 'Here?' He indicates the smiling picture. She nods demurely.

'To Aimi, please Dr Wallace.' 

'Aimi, may your love of beauty,’ she blushes, ‘be sated with this book in your pursuit of knowledge.' He bows and hands it back. She reddens. Mouthing thank you's she retreats to a huddle of friends which share her delight. 'Like to make it personal, play on her name you see, Aimi, ‘love of beauty’. Got to keep the punters happy.' He grins a great pudding-ny grin; ‘And it helps if they are cute.’ He gives me huge wink. With anyone but Harvey it would be ironic but that’s ‘they all love him’, Dr Harvey Wallace, media star, the face of history on TV. 

The last thing I want is this. It's been a long journey. Train was delayed (suicide). Rather than two hours to settle my nerves, I've barely got half an hour to check in, freshen up, get a grip and have a very strong, very long black coffee. What I don't need is Harvey. 

'Flick man, you need a coffee.' 

I do, just not with you. I need to get my head in the right place for my lecture this afternoon. So much rides on it.  Get it right and the professorship is mine. 

Harvey has me by the elbow and he's pulling me away from the curb.

‘Mate…’ it’s the cabbie

'My bags.' With one supple move Harvey wraps his spare hand round them. 'The cab fare...' Somehow in the same move a £20 note has been thrust into the cabbie's hand prompting a cheery 'Thanks mate.' We're halfway across the road before I can mutter thanks. 

'Think nothing of it Flick.' We dodge the oncoming traffic. 'I've learnt there are certain people it pays to keep sweet.' Harvey yanks me back as I step into the path of a motorbike courier, who decorously gives me the finger. 'Cabbies' being one. Keep 'em on side and it's amazing how it helps the reviews.'

He pulls me up the curb, scrapping my polished brogues, and into a tiny coffee shop. It's dark, all seventies wood cladding with leatherette booths down one side opposite an immaculate counter. A rotund gentleman with a white apron tied round his waste looks up. A smile spreads across his face like sun rise on a clear summer morning. 

'Dr Wallace' 

'Allessandro. Please it's Harvey.' The two fold into each like the batter for a chocolate marble cake. 

'It's a pleasure to see you Dr...' A sponge finger objects. '...Harvey,' (the finger subsides). 

'Caffe dobbio per favore Allesandro.' Harvey shoves me into a booth. The huff and chuff of the

espresso machine begins. 

'I like it here Flick.' 

'Please don't call me Flick, it's been a long time and it was never something I was particularly enamoured of.' I can still see the vice-chancellor's wife grappling with the football , teetering on the edge of the Pimm's pool. Keep-e-uppy was never my forte. 

'Cameraman on my thing about London brought me here.’ Harvey’s gazing round the room, oblivious to my plea. ‘Best espresso this side of Milan Flick and the lemon torte.' His lips pucker. 

My heart sinks, I'm going to get the full Monty, his entire TV opus, the four books, the two award nominations (never won), the whole shebang. I should be gearing up for this afternoon. 

The coffees arrive steaming. I take a sip. For a moment it's too hot to taste, then the flavour burns through. Stunning. 

'Allesandro, you excel yourself, even my friend Flick agrees. Man's a genius I swear. Here, looks as if you could do with a little extra.' Harvey's pudgy hands are holding a silver flask. Before I can stop him a golden liquid flows into my coffee. 'That'll lift you.' 

I take a slurp, 'Gordon Bennett Harv, that's half a distillery.' 

'Flick, you needed it. Nervous about this afternoon?' 

'Oh man, yes.' I lurch into an explanation. As I'm speaking, Harv's hides his pudgy face behind his raised cup. It slowly dawns. He knows why I'm here, the conference, the lecture, the

professorship. He knows. 

'Flick, it's so good to be sharing a platform with you. It's been so long, 'bout time I returned to the academic fold. Allessandro, another two. I'm surprised you didn't realise it was me. I know it was you, right before me. You better be a good warm up act.' 

He knows and he's presenting. The name beneath me on the programme, I hadn't cared to look, who followed me wasn't important. I want to escape. 

'Look, I've got to go. I need...' 

'...Time. Yes, Flick, your seminars were as dry as a parched man's throat after he'd walked 20 miles under the Arabian sun. Here, this'll lubricate you.'

Two more cups of coffee arrive, Harv sloshes another quart into the cup. I try to get up. He grabs my arm. 'Look it's only Frobisher and he's an awful bore. He'll drone on about his boggy little peat men, and if that don't make your brain soggy, I don't know what will. We'll sneak in for the grub eh? Just like old times?’ 

I slump back in my seat and take a large swig of coffee. (Do you swig coffee? You do with this amount alcohol in it.) 

'You see, and I know this won't apply to you Flick but I don't feel I'm recognised, a prophet in his own town and all that jazz. And I know, some, but not you, think I'm some Johnny-come-lately, with all the historic nouse of a wart hog.' he pauses fractionally, waiting for my interruption. I say nothing. 'I want to show, to prove what I owe to you the historical brotherhood.' I stifle a yawn.

Harv was never the most academic of us. He had stick-ability and the undoubted skill of being able to précis others and then present with flair. I was surprised he staid on, post grad and all. He seemed set for a banker's rather than scholar's life. But something clicked with Dr Abbot – Anglo Saxon history came to life, until the day it went pear shaped; up for the same research grant Harv went to pieces and précis became plagiarism. My star rose. He burned and fell without trace. 

It was a couple of years after that drunken reunion that he reappeared. Some late-night TV discussion programme. My wife called me from the shower. Even without my glasses I recognised the cream puff lips, cherry red dots of enthusiasm blooming on his cheeks. It was Harvey. He was talking about a recently found manuscript. He'd lost none of his ability to talk tosh with authority and panache. And that was it, a 10 minute slot on some tea time programme as the tame historian, then wandering through the hills pointing out the obvious and from there his own TV series – a run through Anglo Saxon Britain, (a straight rip off of Abbot's course), early mediaeval Europe, then, for some outlandish reason, the Industrial Revolution. He could do no wrong, critically feted, just without an original thought in his head judging by the arm’s length of researchers that filled the credits at the end of each programme. 

And all the time - why him, not me? 

'Food!' Harv declares 

Escape I think. 

'To the conference?' 

'Flick you don't want that cardboard ahead of your most important lecture. Trust me. I know this splendid little Indian. 

It must have been the alcohol. I went without arguing. 

The sweat is pouring off me. I don't feel well. It's been a long time since I've had a curry that hot. Somehow Harv managed to con me into eating the hottest thing on the menu. I’m regretting it. You know that John Hurt scene in Alien? Well, that’s me.

Harv's face has sagged, he's gone all maudlin: 'I'll never be the academic you are. I know I'm seen as some cheap shyster, whilst you, you’re pure academic snow.  I'm like the slush at the side of the road.' He drains his fourth pint of lager. I'd given up on my third. My head is now spinning. 'But this is my moment. I've done it Flick. Digby 63. I've done it.' 

I go cold. 

'I've found the link.' 

My heart beats faster. 

'I've proved that it was the Northumbrian scribes that went to Europe in the seventh century, not the other way around.' 

My eyes dilate. Anger’s welling up. I want to reach across the table and grab him, and punch his lights out. But nothing seems to work. 

Harv lurches and stands. He sways. 

'Harvey, that's my work. That's my manuscript. Digby 63 is my life's work. It's my lecture. I've proved it not you. It will get me the professorship.' 

'Who presents first gets the glory Flick.'

Through my haze I know that Harvey has suddenly become very sober. I try to stand but

neither of my legs seem connected to me. I slump backwards.

'I'm sorry Flick but, well, you've been a bit too transparent with your work.' Harv is toasting me with the last of his lager.

'But I'm on first,' I gurgle.

'In your state you're going nowhere.' He smiles gleefully, plonks three large notes on the table. 'That should cover it Flick, get yourself a coffee. Toast me as take the glory.' 

'Don't call me Flick, please...' 

Afterwards I learnt that Harvey had strode into the hall, grabbed Frobisher and explained I was

indisposed and kindly offered to fill me slot as well as his. He had climbed on to the platform and

surveyed the assembled academic throng and with all the grace of a swan he'd pirouetted round the

lectern and plummeted, falling face forward over the tables. Like a table soccer figure, he spins and tumbled rigidly to the floor. 

From the restaurant the last I can remember, with my head down the toilet, lecture, professorship, career plus lunch all down the pan, is the banshee wail of the ambulance. 

It makes the press the following day. Harvey's 'exhaustion' due to all the hard work on his up and coming programme: but not to worry Britain's favourite historian will be back. 

Needless to say, his next show is a stellar hit; and the accompanying book is a smash for

Professor Harvey Wallace.