They had both been christened William, and they had both applied to study mathematics at Oxenford University, but that’s where the similarities ended.

It was a chilly February day and Bill Jordan shivered on the top deck of the No.61 bus from Wellsbury to Oxenford. He wore a thick coat, a scarf and gloves; but the heating on the bus was very inadequate, and Bill was frozen. He was very grateful when the bus eventually pulled into the Oxenford bus terminal. He grabbed his suitcase from the rack, jumped off the bus, and marched off in the direction of Bedford College. He had been to Oxenford before and knew the way. It was a good fifteen minutes walk, more when carrying a heavy suitcase, but Bill was glad of the exercise to warm him.

While Bill made his way to Bedford College, a slick silver-coloured Rolls Royce pulled up outside St. Bede’s College. William Falconer-Jones sat in the back seat next to his father. They waited for the chauffeur, Lyon, to open their doors before they alighted from the vehicle and made their way through the front gate of St. Bede’s. Lyon followed, carrying a heavy suitcase in each hand.

“Good morning, Sir. Can I help you?” asked the porter.

“Good morning. I’m Sir James Falconer-Jones, and this is my son, William. He’s here for an interview to study mathematics.”

The porter ran his finger down a list. “Ah yes, William, your room is number 31. One of the better rooms. If you’ll follow me please, Sirs.” The porter led the way. Lyon followed, struggling to keep up under the weight of the suitcases.

“This is the door, Sir.” The porter indicated a door with the name ‘Mark Greenfield’ on the outside, turned the key in the lock, and pushed the door open. He motioned for the other three to go inside, and then followed.

“There’s a heater there, Sir.” He pointed to a three-bar electric heater sitting in the grate of a disused chimney. “And there’s an electric kettle for you to make yourself some tea. I hope that you will be comfortable, Sir. Here is your information package. If there’s anything else you need, please don’t hesitate to ask.” The porter handed William an envelope, and left.

Lyon unpacked William’s things, folding them neatly and placing them into some empty drawers, while William and Sir James chatted over a cup of tea.

“We’ll be going now,” said Sir James a few minutes later. “Good luck, son. We’ll come to pick you up on Thursday. Come Lyon, let’s be going. He shook his son’s hand and they left William in the solitude of the room.

It was a very large room, and it was not empty. Most of the cupboards and drawers were full of personal items, and the shelves were crammed full of books – some novels, and a large number of books on Law. Mr. Mark Greenfield was evidently a student of Law. Since Hilary Term wasn’t due to start for another two weeks, the interviewees were using rooms of students who were still on vacation.

Meanwhile Bill Jordan had settled into his own room at Bedford College. His was a much more modest room, rather dark and dingy with very high windows opening onto a busy street. The name on the door of Bill’s room was ‘Tim Carter’. And Bill discovered that Mr. Carter was studying Chemistry.

Bedford is a much more modern college than St. Bede’s, being just 100 years’ old compared with 450 years for St. Bede’s. Whereas St Bede’s had been built using white clay, Bedford was constructed from red brick. St. Bede’s is a rich college, Bedford is comparatively poor.

As with the two colleges, so it was also with the two Williams. William Falconer-Jones was from a well-to-do family. Sir James, a stockbroker, had put his son’s name down for Eton before he was even born. William had never wanted for anything, and his parents had always assumed that he would continue his education at Oxenford.

Bill Jordan, on the other hand, was from a middle-class background; his parents were not really poor, but they always had to budget carefully. Bill’s father was a salesman, and his mother worked as a cleaner. Bill was a student at Wellsbury High School and had worked hard to attain the necessary standard to gain an interview at Oxenford University.

William Falconer-Jones opened his information package. It contained a map of Oxenford, a potted history and a plan of St. Bede’s, times for meals and daily communion, and most importantly the times and venues for William’s interviews. His first interview, at St. Bede’s was scheduled for the following morning; another at William’s second choice, St. Edward’s Hall, was scheduled for Wednesday afternoon.

Bill also had two interviews at different times.

That evening, at about 6p.m., two elderly gentlemen met at the bar of The Rose, a quaint old pub in the centre of Oxenford. One of the men was Professor Charles Tarrant of St. Bede’s; the other was Dr. Eric Willis of Bedford College. They had been colleagues at Oxenford for many years, were good friends, and often met together for a few pints.

Dr. Willis was nearing retirement. He still had a good head of greying hair and sported a very bushy grey beard which he stroked from time to time. He wore a loose fitting brown cardigan and a shirt open at the neck. He cleaned out his pipe as he spoke: “Well, Charles, what sort of applicants have you got this year?”

“There’s one very good young chap, name of Bryant, comes from Wellington College,” replied Charles Tarrant. “Then there’s Smith, and Rogers, and a young Indian fellow called Singh. All look very promising. Oh, and I almost forgot, William Falconer-Jones, son of Sir James. A hopeless case, 3 C’s at best, but he does play rugger and would be an asset to the college team. I’m not sure of his academic ability, though. Have to see whether or not he can catch the ball.” He laughed.

Professor Tarrant was a few years younger than Dr. Willis, tall and elegant with short silver-grey hair. He was neatly dressed in a tweed jacket and wore an Oxenford tie.

“What about you, Eric?”

“I’ve got one very promising young man, name of Jordan. He comes from Wellsbury. He’s a first if ever I saw one.” As Willis spoke, he pulled his pipe from his mouth and a thin film of brown saliva stuck to his teeth.

The following day, William Falconer-Jones rose early, had a bath, and went to breakfast in the College Hall. He was accustomed to being waited on and enjoyed a good meal of porridge, kippers, toast and marmalade, and tea. His interview was scheduled for 10.30 a.m., so he decided to take a stroll into the city centre to browse around Blackwood’s bookshop.

Bill Jordan was not accustomed to being waited on, and at breakfast didn’t know whether he should take one egg or two, whether he should take both sausages and bacon or just one of them. In the end he settled for one egg, one sausage and a piece of toast. He was still hungry when he left the hall.

Bill’s interview time was 11 a.m., so he also made his way to Blackwood’s; and it was there that the two William’s met.

When Bill arrived, he noticed William looking at a book entitled ‘A Sporting Chance’. They didn’t know each other, but they were both smartly dressed ready for their interviews, so they recognised each other as kindred spirits.

Bill was the first to speak. “What’s that you’re reading?”

“It’s a book about probability in sport. Rather boring really.”

“Are you here for interview?”

“Yes,” replied William.

They chatted for a few minutes, exchanging a few facts about themselves, their respective Colleges, their interview times, and their aspirations.

“I say, would you care to come punting on the river this afternoon after our interviews are over?” asked William.

“I’d love to, but won’t it be rather cold?”

“It’s much warmer today,” reassured William, “but bring some warm clothes just in case.”

They agreed to meet at the punt boatshed at 2 p.m.

Bill was the first to be interviewed. He felt nervous and apprehensive as he stood at the foot of the spiral staircase leading to Dr. Willis’ room. He climbed the stairs slowly and hesitated before knocking on the door.

He heard a voice from inside say, “Come in.”

When Bill opened the door, the smell of stale tobacco reached his nostrils. As he stepped inside, he stopped himself from sneezing when he realised the smell pervaded the whole room. At the centre of the room was a large desk strewn with untidy piles of papers and books, mostly covered in a film of dust.

Dr. Willis motioned to Bill. “Come sit here close to the fire.”

Two chairs were already positioned, one on either side of a roaring log fire. Bill felt more relaxed as he sat down in this rather informal arrangement.

Dr. Willis studied the young man sitting beside him. He was fairly short and stocky with short, well-groomed hair, and he wore glasses with very thick lenses. Obviously a very studious lad, he thought. He was smartly dressed in a dark blue suit and a white shirt with a striped tie. He seemed a little nervous, but he answered all the questions with confidence.

The old don and the young student chatted for about twenty minutes. Dr. Willis didn’t ask him many questions about mathematics; he didn’t need to since he had already seen Bill’s entrance examination paper, and realised that Bill knew the subject well. He had already made up his mind to offer him a place at Bedford for the next academic year. Nevertheless, as the young man rose to leave the room, he would only reassure him with the words, “I’ll let you know my decision tomorrow. Come and see me again at 10 a.m.”

William Falconer-Jones’ interview was to be much more formal, and there were three people ready to interview him – Professor Charles Tarrant, Dr. Hywel Davies, and Dr. Isabel Brooke. William was confident and showed no signs of nervousness when he knocked on the door of Professor Tarrant’s office.

“Who is it?” enquired a voice from within.

“William Falconer-Jones, Sir.”

“Come in.”

William opened the door slowly. When it was almost fully opened, from the corner of his eye he noticed a slight movement away to his right. The next moment he saw a rugby ball flying towards his midriff. William’s reactions were sharp, and he managed to catch the ball cleanly. He had had a lot of practice.

“Well done, sonny,” said Dr. Davies in a lilting Welsh accent. “Come in and sit yourself down. You’ve passed the first test. Now just answer a few simple questions and you’re in to St. Bede’s.”

William sat down in the seat indicated to him in the centre of the room. The three academics sat at three corners of an obtuse angled triangle, Professor Tarrant in the centre, Dr. Brooke to his right and Dr. Davies to his left.

William felt relaxed as he waited for the first question. He was confident now that he had made a good first impression. He sat with his arms folded and stretched out his long legs. With one hand he brushed back a lock of blond hair from his forehead. He smiled as Professor Tarrant began speaking to him. The professor asked William a few questions about himself and why he had chosen St. Bede’s.

The answer, “It was my father’s college,” was an obvious one, but the professor was trying to make the young man relax before they asked the more difficult questions.

Dr. Davies was next to speak. “Tell me, William, what is the path of a cricket ball after it has been struck by the batsman, as it rises and then falls again to the ground – or is caught, of course?”

William thought long and hard and he felt sweat on his brow as he hesitated. Eventually he volunteered an answer, “Is it a circle, Sir? – a circular arc I mean, of course.”

“Think again, son. What other kinds of curves do you know?”

“An ellipse?”

“No, no, it’s a parabola.”

Dr. Brooke was next to ask her question. Once again William did not know the answer.

The interview eventually came to an end with the words, “Thank you, Mr, Falconer-Jones. We’ll let you know.” The professor did not sound very reassuring, and William felt thoroughly dejected. He left the room demoralised, certain that he had failed to gain a place at St. Bede’s.

At 2 p.m. Bill Jordan was waiting at the boatshed, but William didn’t arrive for another thirty minutes. The tall, athletic youth carried a rucksack on his back.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said feebly.

“That’s alright. How did your interview go?”

“I blew it. I couldn’t answer any of their maths questions. How about you?”

“I don’t know yet. I think it went O.K., but Dr. Willis is going to let me know tomorrow.”

“Me too,” said William. His tone was not very hopeful. “Have you ever been in a punt before?”

“No.”

“It’s easy. All you have to do is stand at the back of the boat and use this long pole to push the boat along. I’ll show you. You get into the front of the punt and I’ll do the work. You can have a go later.”

William effortlessly pushed the boat away from the river bank, then stood up and balanced himself on the platform at the rear of the punt. By pushing the pole into the solid bed of the river, he was able to propel the boat forwards. “It’ll be alright unless we get the pole stuck in the mud.” He laughed.

After a few minutes, William suggested that Bill should have a go at using the pole. Bill soon got the hang of how to keep his balance and at the same time push on the pole. A short time later William took over again and Bill relaxed seated in the punt.

“Open the rucksack,” said William.

“Why, what’s inside.”

“Open it and see.”

Bill pulled out a pile of sandwiches and a cake, and then discovered a bottle of rum in the bottom of the bag.”

“Go ahead. Have something to eat and drink,” said William.

“Thank you. I’ll have a sandwich and some cake, but I don’t drink alcohol.”

“Go on, just a little. What else do sailor’s drink?”

“I’ll try just a little, then.”

‘Just a little’ became a glassful, then two. By the time Bill took over as steersman again, he was more than a little unsteady on his feet. However, he managed to stay upright and kept his balance as they continued on their way.

All went well until Bill noticed that the boat was heading towards a low branch from a tree growing near the river bank. He thought about ducking underneath, but the branch was very low, so he decided to change direction at the last moment. He managed to avoid the branch, but now found that the punt was on a collision course with the bank on the opposite side of the river. When the front end of the boat hit the bank, the rear end swung around and became stuck fast in the mud.

“It’s O.K.,” said Bill. “I’ll shift it.”

“Wait!” said William. But his warning came too late.

Bill chose a solid part of the bank and pushed against it with the pole as hard as he could. At first the punt didn’t move, but it gave way suddenly, the boat moved forwards and Bill lost his balance, falling into the icy water. When he surfaced, cold and gasping for air, he saw that William had already retrieved the pole and was steering the punt back towards him. William helped Bill back into the punt.

“There’s a spare jersey inside my rucksack,” said William. “Take off your wet things and put it on. I’ll get us back to the boathouse in a jiffy. Have another glass of rum to warm yourself up.”

William escorted Bill back to his room at Bedford College. Bill had a hot shower and a change of clothes; then they shared a few more glasses of rum before William left about 7.30 p.m.

Bill went straight to bed and was soon sleeping. He didn’t remember a thing until he awoke at 9 o’clock the following morning. He looked at his watch and recalled that he had to see Dr. Willis in another hour.

Before going to see Dr. Willis, he called in at the Porter’s Lodge to see if there were any messages for him.

“Good morning, Mr. Jordan,” said the porter. “How are you feeling now?”

“I’m fine. Why shouldn’t I be?”

“You mean you don’t remember?”

“Remember what?”

“Last night the night porter found you wandering around the college about 11 o’clock in your pyjamas. He says you were very merry, and he had to take you back to your room.”

“Oh!” Bill didn’t know what to say.

A few minutes later, he left Dr. Willis’ room dejected.  “Sorry, we cannot offer you a place at Bedford,” Dr. Willis had said. “Your behaviour last night has not shown you in good light.”

On the other side of the city at St. Bede’s, William was elated. He had had no trouble sleeping off the rum. He was used to it.

“Congratulations, Mr. Falconer-Jones,” Dr. Davies had told him. “You’re a fine rugger player. Just what St. Bede’s needs. Your application is accepted.”