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round the lake at Chatsworth, all the time exclaiming at eye-catchers, admiring ha-has, gasping at effects achieved by great sweeping avenues of beech and chestnut.
    The further the plane taking him for the interview had got across the Atlantic, the more certain Richard grew that the college gardens would be a deal breaker. Those of the university were famously picturesque. In the taxi to Branston his dread had reached its peak, merciless images of roses against old stone, time-worn, wisteria-framed doorways had filled his imagination. He had considered turning round, there and then.
    But the taxi had stopped before something that looked like a nuclear reprocessing plant – the only plant visible, from what Richard could see. He had stepped out in disbelief – and relief. Branston’s brutal, unromantic appearance, so at odds with the ancient grace and gorgeousness of the rest of the university, struck an instant chord. It looked every bit as bleak as he felt; exactly the kind of featureless box he wanted to lock himself away in.
    When the Assistant Bursar, an oppressed-looking woman who seemed permanently welded to her clipboard, said something disparaging and apologetic about Branston’s grounds, he had surprised her by saying they looked perfectly OK to him. They were looking for a new gardener, the Assistant Bursar had confided. Richard hoped they wouldn’t try too hard.

Branston’s porter did not conform to the traditional college servant stereotype. He did not have a moustache and bowler hat. He was burly, bald, wore an Arsenal T-shirt and sat behind the sort of sliding glass screen usually found in hospitals. He looked as if he worked out a lot, but seemed friendly enough.
    Bent under her rucksack – heavier even than she remembered – Isabel paused at the pigeonholes in the college foyer, a framework of wooden boxes nailed to the wall. Each student had a named one in which their post was put.
    The one with Isabel’s name on held a flyer for the freshers’ fair and a bundle of English Faculty instructions. A pigeonhole nearby, however, was bursting with thick cream-and-white envelopes upon which glimpses of beautiful italic handwriting could be seen. They were obviously invitations, and smart ones at that. There was even a bunch of roses stuffed in there. Isabel felt sorry for the flowers, shoved in as they were, without any water.
    Curious, she read the name above the pigeonhole: the Hon. A.R.S. Piggott. Isabel’s thoughts flicked instantly back to the Brideshead conversation she had had with Olly, about the university not being that sort of place any more, and Branston especially not. The Hon. A.R.S. Piggott rather seemed to belie this. He or she – she, judging by the roses – also sounded vaguely familiar, but Isabel could not think why. She didn’t know anyone with a title.
    But she had other matters to concern her, such as finding her room. The Gesamtkunstwerk , Isabel now discovered, was designed inside like a huge wheel. The lifts and lobbies formed the centre and corridors spoked off at regular intervals. As a design concept it was no doubt groundbreaking, but finding your way round was a challenge. The fact there were no windows was disorientating. You could be in outer space, or on a journey to the centre of the earth. Which corridor was which? They all looked the same with a strip of orange corridor carpet and rows of shiny beige-coloured doors with brushed aluminium handles and numbers and names slotted into holders.
    Isabel pressed on. She passed a closed pair of pale wooden doors which, together, formed the shape of an upright egg. They each bore one half of a simple brass cross and she realised she must be at the spiritual heart of the Gesamtkunstwerk , the Branston College chapel. Pushing open the stiff, rather awkward doors Isabel saw an egg-shaped concrete chamber whose grey walls tapered to a rounded cone.
    Was this what an unhatched chick felt like? Was it some sort of metaphor? The