Porterhouse Blue (12 page)

At High Table the Fellows dined in moody silence. Even the Chef’s poached salmon failed to raise their spirits, dampened by the obduracy of the Master and the memory of their capitulation. Only the Dean remained undaunted, shovelling food into his mouth as if to fuel his determination and mouthing imprecations on Sir Godber simultaneously, his forehead greasy and his eyes bright with the cunning Sir Godber had recognized.

In the Combination Room, as they took their coffee, the Senior Tutor broached the topic of their next move. ‘It would appear that we have until Wednesday to circumvent the Master’s proposals,’ he said, sipping brandy fastidiously.

‘A relatively short time, if you don’t mind my saying so.’

‘Short but enough,’ said the Dean tersely.

‘I must say I find your confidence a little surprising, Dean,’ said the Bursar nervously.

The Dean looked at him with a sudden ferocity. ‘No more surprising than I find your lack of discretion, Bursar,’ he snapped. ‘I hardly imagine that this unfortunate turn of events would have occurred without your disclosure of the financial state of the College.’

The Bursar reddened. ‘I was simply trying to point out to the Master that the changes he was proposing would place an intolerable strain on our resources,’ he protested. ‘If my memory serves me right you were the first to suggest that the finances should be brought to his attention.’

‘Certainly I suggested that. I didn’t however suggest that he should be made privy to the details of our admissions policy,’ the Dean retorted.

‘Gentlemen,’ said the Senior Tutor, ‘the mistake has been made. Nothing is to be gained by post-mortem. We are faced by an urgent problem. It is not in our best interest to apportion blame for past mistakes. If it comes to that we are all culpable. Without the divisions that prevented the election of Dr Siblington as Master, we should have avoided the nomination of Sir Godber.’

The Dean finished his coffee. ‘There is some truth in that,’ he admitted, ‘and a lesson to be learnt. We must remain united in the face of the Master. In the meantime I have already made a move. I have arranged a
meeting with Sir Cathcart D’Eath for this evening. His car should be waiting for me now.’ He rose to his feet and gathered his gown about him.

‘May one inquire the purpose of this meeting?’ the Praelector asked. The Dean looked down at the Bursar. ‘I should not like to think that our plans are likely to reach Sir Godber’s ears,’ he said deliberately.

‘I can assure you …’ began the Bursar.

‘I have requested this meeting because Sir Cathcart as you all know is President of the OPs. I think he should know what changes the Master proposes. Furthermore I think he should know the manner in which the Master has conducted himself in the matter. I fancy that there will be an extraordinary meeting of the Porterhouse Society next Tuesday to discuss the situation and I have high hopes that at that meeting a resolution will be passed censoring Sir Godber for the dictatorial attitude he has adopted in his dealings with the College Council and calling for his immediate resignation from the Mastership.’

‘But, Dean, surely that is most unwise,’ protested the Senior Tutor, thoroughly alarmed. ‘If a motion of that sort is passed, the Master is bound to resign and to publish his confounded letter. I really don’t see what that is going to accomplish.’

The Bursar put down his coffee-cup with unwonted violence. ‘For God’s sake, Dean,’ he said, ‘consider what you are doing.’

The Dean smiled grimly. ‘If Sir Godber can threaten us,’ he said, ‘we can threaten him.’

‘But the scandal, think of the scandal. It will involve us all,’ muttered the Bursar desperately.

‘It will also involve Sir Godber. That is precisely the point of the exercise. We shall get in first by demanding his resignation. The force of his letter to the PM will be dulled by the fact that the College authorities and the Porterhouse Society have both demanded his resignation on the grounds of incompetence and his letter to the press with its so-called disclosures will have the appearance of being the action of a slighted and bitter man. Besides I rather think you overestimate Sir Godber’s political courage. Faced with the ultimatum we shall present at the Council meeting on Wednesday I doubt if he will risk a further confrontation.’

‘But if the call for his resignation has already been published …’

‘It won’t have been. The motion will have been passed, I trust unanimously, but its publication will be dependent on Sir Godber’s attitude. If he persists in demanding the changes in the College, then we shall publish.’

‘And if he resigns without warning?’

‘We shall publish all the same,’ said the Dean. ‘We shall muddy the issue until it is uncertain whether we forced his resignation or not. Oh, we shall stir the pot, gentlemen. Have no fear of that. If there must be dirt
let there be lots of it.’ The Dean turned and went out, his gown billowing darkly behind him. In the Combination Room the Fellows looked at one another ruefully. Whatever changes the Master proposed appeared minor by comparison with the uproar the Dean seemed bent on provoking.

It was the Chaplain who broke the silence. ‘I must say,’ he shouted, ‘that the Chef excelled himself tonight. That soufflé was delicious.’

Outside the main gate Sir Cathcart’s Rolls-Royce waited ostentatiously as the Dean, swaddled in a heavy coat and wearing his blackest hat, hurried past the Porter’s Lodge.

Skullion opened the car door for him.

‘Good evening, Skullion.’

‘Good evening to you, sir,’ Skullion murmured humbly.

The Dean clambered in and the car moved off, its wheels slushing through the snow. In the back the Dean stared through the window at the flurries of snowflakes and the passers-by with their heads bent against the driving wind. He felt warm and contented, with none of the uneasy feelings that had driven the Master to his Bentham. This was weather he appreciated, cold bitter weather with the river rising and the biting wind creating once again the divisions of his youth, that hierarchy of rich and poor, good and bad, the comfort and the misery which he longed to preserve and which Sir Godber would destroy in his search for soulless
uniformity. ‘The old order changeth,’ he muttered to himself, ‘but damned slowly if I have anything to do with it.’

Skullion went back into the Porter’s Lodge.

‘Going to supper,’ he told the under-porter and trudged across the Court to the kitchen. He went down the stone stairs to the kitchen where the Chef had laid a table for two in his pantry. It was hot and Skullion took off his coat before sitting down.

‘Snowing again they tell me,’ said the Chef, taking his seat.

Skullion waiting until a young waiter with a gaping mouth had brought the dishes before saying anything.

‘Dean’s gone to see the General,’ he said finally.

‘Has he now?’ said the Chef, helping himself to the remains of the poached salmon.

‘Council meeting this afternoon,’ Skullion continued.

‘So I heard.’

Skullion shook his head.

‘You aren’t going to like this,’ he said. ‘The Master’s changes aren’t going to suit your book, I can tell you.’

‘Never supposed they would, Mr Skullion.’

‘Worse than I expected, Chef, much worse.’ Skullion took a mouthful of Ockfener Herrenberg 1964 before going on.

‘Self-service in Hall,’ he said mournfully.

The Chef put down his knife and fork. ‘Never,’ he growled.

‘It’s true. Self-service in Hall.’

‘Over my dead body,’ said the Chef. ‘Over my bloody dead body.’

‘Women in College too.’

‘What? Living in College?’

‘That’s it. Living in College.’

‘That’s unnatural, Mr Skullion. Unnatural.’

‘You don’t have to tell me that, Chef. You don’t have to tell me. Unnatural and immoral. It isn’t right, Chef, it’s downright wicked.’

‘And self-service in Hall,’ the Chef muttered. ‘What’s the world coming to? You know, Mr Skullion, when I think of all the years I’ve been Chef to the College and all the dinners I’ve cooked for them, I sometimes wonder what’s the meaning of it all. They’ve got no right to do it.’

‘It’s not them that’s doing it,’ Skullion told him. ‘It’s him that says it’s got to change.’

‘Why don’t they stop him? They’re the Council. He can’t do it without their say-so.’

‘They can’t stop him. Threatened to resign if they didn’t agree.’

‘Why didn’t they let him? Good riddance to bad rubbish.’

‘Threatened to write to the papers and tell them we’ve been selling degrees,’ Skullion said.

The Chef looked at him with alarm.

‘You don’t mean he knows about your …’

‘I don’t know what he knows and what he don’t,’ Skullion said. ‘I don’t think he knows about them. I think he’s talking about the ones they let in because they’ve got no money. I think that’s what he means.’

‘But we’ve a right to let in who we like,’ the Chef protested. ‘It’s our college. It’s not anyone else’s.’

‘That’s not the way he sees it,’ Skullion said. ‘He’s threatened them with a national scandal if they don’t toe the line and they’ve agreed.’

‘What did the Dean say? He must have said something.’

‘Said they’d got to buy time by seeming to agree. He’s gone to see the General now. They’ll think of something.’

Skullion finished his wine and smiled to himself. ‘He don’t know what he’s tackled,’ he said more cheerfully.

‘Thinks he’s dealing with the pipsqueaks in Parliament, he does. Wordmongers, that’s what MPs are. Think you’ve only got to say a thing for it to be there next day. They don’t know nothing about doing and they don’t have nothing to lose, but the Dean’s a different kettle of fish. He and the General, they’ll do him down. See if they don’t.’ He grinned knowingly and winked his unblacked eye. The Chef nibbled a grape moodily.

‘Don’t see how they can,’ he said.

‘Digging for dirt,’ said Skullion. ‘Digging for dirt in his past, that’s what the Dean said.’

‘Dirt? What sort of dirt?’

‘Women,’ said Skullion.

‘Ah,’ said the Chef. ‘Disreputable women.’

‘Precisely, Chef, them and money.’

The Chef pushed his hat back on his head. ‘He wasn’t what you might call a rich undergrad, was he?’

‘No,’ said Skullion, ‘he wasn’t.’

‘And he’s rich now.’

‘Married it,’ Skullion told him. ‘Lacey money, that’s what it is. Lady Mary’s money. That’s the sort of man he is, Sir Godber.’

‘Bony woman. Not my cup of tea,’ said the Chef. ‘Like something with a bit more meat to it myself. Wouldn’t be surprised it he hadn’t got a fancy woman somewhere.’

Skullion shook his head doubtfully. ‘Not him. Not enough guts,’ said Skullion.

‘You don’t think they’ll find anything, then?’

‘Not that sort of thing. They’ll have to bring pressure. Influential friends the College has got, the Dean said. They’ll use them.’

‘They’d better use something. I’m not staying on to run a self-service canteen and have women in my Hall,’ said the Chef.

Skullion got up from the table and put on his coat. ‘The Dean’ll see to it,’ he said and climbed the stairs to the Screens. The wind had blown snow on to the steps and Skullion turned up the collar of his coat. ‘Got no
right to change things,’ he grumbled to himself, and went out into the night.

At Coft Castle the Dean and Sir Cathcart sat in the library, a decanter of brandy half empty on the table beside them and their thoughts bitter with memories of past greatness.

‘England’s ruin, damned Socialists,’ growled Sir Cathcart. ‘Turned the country into a benevolent society. Seem to think you can rule a nation with good intentions. Damned nonsense. Discipline. That’s what the country needs. A good dose of unemployment to bring the working classes to their senses.’

‘Doesn’t seem to work these days,’ said the Dean with a sigh. ‘In the old days a depression seemed to have a very salutary effect.’

‘It’s the dole. Man can earn more not working than he can at his job. All wrong. A bit of genuine starvation would soon put that right.’

‘I suppose the argument is that the wives and children suffer,’ said the Dean.

‘Can’t see much harm in that,’ the General continued. ‘Nothing like a hungry woman to put some pep into a man. Reminds me of a painting I saw once. Lots of fellows sitting round a table waiting for their dinner and the lady of the house comes in and lifts the cover of the dish. Spur inside, what? Sensible woman. Fine painting. Have some more brandy?’

‘That’s very kind of you,’ said the Dean, proffering his glass.

‘Trouble with this Godber Evans fellow is he comes from poor stock,’ continued Sir Cathcart when he had filled their glasses. ‘Doesn’t understand men. Hasn’t got generations of county stock behind him. No leadership qualities. Got to have lived with animals to understand men, working men. Got to train them properly. A whack on the arse if they do something wrong and a pat on the head if they get it right. No use filling their heads with a whole lot of ideas they can’t use. Bloody nonsense, half this education lark.’

‘I quite agree,’ said the Dean. ‘Educating people above their station has been one of the great mistakes of this century. What this country requires is an educated elite. What it’s had in fact, for the past three hundred years.’

‘Three meals a day and a roof over his head and the average man has nothing to grumble about. Stout fellows. The present system is designed to create layabouts. Consumer society indeed. Can’t consume what you don’t make. Damned tommyrot.’

The Dean’s head nodded on his chest. The fire, the brandy and the ubiquitous central heating in Coft Castle mingled with the warmth of Sir Cathcart’s sentiments to take their toll of his concentration. He was dimly aware of the rumble of the General’s imprecations, distant and receding like some tide going out across the mudflats of an estuary where once the fleet
had lain at anchor. All empty now, the ships gone, dismantled, scrapped, the evidence of might deplenished, only a sandpiper with Sir Godber’s face poking its beak into the sludge. The Dean was asleep.

Zipser stirred on the floor of his room. His face in contact with the carpet felt sore and his head throbbed. Above all he was cold and stiff. He turned on his side and stared at the window, where an orange glow from the sky over Cambridge shone dimly through the falling snow. Slowly he gathered himself together and got to his feet. Feeling distinctly weak and sick he went to the door and turned on the light and stood blinking at the two large cartons on the floor. Then he sat down hurriedly in a chair and tried to remember what had happened to him and why he was the possessor of two gross of guaranteed electronically tested three-teat vending machine pack contraceptives. The details of the day’s events slowly returned to him and with them the remembrance of his misunderstanding with the Dean. ‘Gated for a week,’ he murmured and realized the implications of his predicament. He couldn’t deliver the beastly things to the Unicorn now and he had signed the slip at the wholesale office. Enquiries would be made. The barman at the Unicorn would identify him. So would the wretched clerk at the wholesale office. The police would be informed. There would be a search. He’d be arrested. Charged with being in felonious
possession of two gross of … Zipser clutched his head in his hands and tried to think what to do. He’d have to get rid of the things. He looked at his watch. Eleven o’clock. Got to hurry. Burn them? He looked at the gas fire and gave up the idea. Out of the question. Flush them down the lavatory? Better idea. He threw himself at the cartons and began to open them. First the outer carton, then the inner one, then the packet itself and finally the foil wrapper. It was a laborious job. He’d never do it. He’d got to do it.