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Oxford University, at which I found myself the next day – my mother having already returned to India by the earliest boat on which she could find a passage – was a prospect that had aroused feelings of awe since the day I had been granted an exhibition; so the reality of Oxford railway station came as a shock. A hundred or so undergraduates milled around looking for their luggage. Once it would have been porters they sought, but now there were no porters and no wealthy golden youth to employ them. In army style we went directly to the barrows, the trunks, and hopefully to the taxi queue.
Thus opened for me a period of unparalleled opportunities to which I remained obstinately blind. I was overwhelmed before I started by the aura of intellectual brilliance with which Oxford was surrounded. Actual contact with my contemporaries intensified my sense of inadequacy. They came from schools with famous names; I did not. They came from homes with a university tradition; I did not. “Here comes Bion with his non-conformist hat on”, was the kindly jest with which a fellow in my rugger team greeted my arrival to board the bus for an ‘away’ match. It embarrassed me, but it also brought some relief – at least it was not that bloody ‘college cap’. No one said, “You there, you wearing that pious mug on your face, na poo! Finish! 'op it!” Oxford was very kind and tolerant.
“Oh, by the way,” one distinguished interviewer had said, coming to the end of his time and, I suspect, his resources for believing in my suitability as a candidate, “any initials?” I was puzzled. I thought hard. At last light dawned.
“Oh, W. R.”
It was his turn to be puzzled. “W. R.?. No, no! I mean MC or something.”