by Tom Sharpe
‘I don’t need God to know what I’d do. I know damned well myself.’ The Senior Tutor slumped back into his chair and spilt some more beef tea.
‘Well, about the roof. You’re quite right, it hasn’t given way entirely, but thanks to those foul people stamping about on it this morning during the Sung Eucharist several large sections of plaster have come down – it’s a miracle no one was killed – Dr Cox’s Memorial Bust has gone and the Lectern has assumed a new and rather peculiar configuration.’
‘But the Lectern is made of solid bronze. It’s immensely strong,’ said the Senior Tutor. ‘Are you saying it’s bent?’ His disbelief was patent.
‘Not so much bent as twisted. You know that bird on the front, I assume it’s an eagle? Well, it’s no longer flying forward so much as looping the loop.’
‘Looping the loop? Are you out of your mind? The fucking thing never did fly. Couldn’t even if it wanted to. Far too heavy and –’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ the Praelector interrupted. It was his turn to be furious. ‘Stop taking figures of speech literally and listen. A huge block of solid masonry supporting one of the roof timbers came away and landed on the Lectern. In other words, we are now in a position to demand the most enormous damages from these people. It could run into millions.’
‘Could do but it won’t. Don’t suppose we’ll ever catch the swine and even if we did they’d weasel out of it somehow.’
‘As a matter of fact Mr Kudzuvine is lying in bed in the Master’s Lodge and is unconscious. I have sent for Dr MacKendly and the Matron is with him.’ A shiver ran through the Senior Tutor. ‘The point I am trying to make is that Mr Kudzuvine is Vice-President of a company called Transworld Television Productions who were here at the Bursar’s behest to make some sort of film about the College. In other words –’
‘The Bursar? You mean to say the bloody Bursar’s responsible for …? I’ll kill the swine. I’ll tear him limb from limb. I’ll make him wish he’d never been born. I’ll –’
‘Sit down,’ commanded the Praelector and, exercising his temporary physical superiority, pushed the Senior Tutor and the beef tea back into his chair. ‘You will do nothing of the sort. Instead you will listen to me. We are strategically placed to force this Transworld Television company to make good the damage they have done and pay very large financial compensation into the bargain. I am now going to see if I can find the Bursar and I want you to come with me … No, on the whole I do not think that would be very advisable given your present condition. I shall find someone more rational.’
He went down the stairs and found Dr Buscott gloomily looking at a moccasin floating in the Fountain. ‘I don’t know what the world is coming to,’ he said. ‘I gather there was some sort of riot here this morning.’
The Praelector took him and a young physicist called Gilkes along to the Bursar’s office. ‘I want you to take careful note of what is said,’ he told them. ‘We are going to sue for damages and I need witnesses.’
They finally found the Bursar hiding in the little washroom behind the College Secretary’s office and although it was Sunday she was there herself. ‘Ah Mrs Morestead, have you seen the Bursar?’ the Praelector enquired.
Mrs Morestead indicated the washroom with her head and the Bursar was brought out. He was ashen and in a state of acute anxiety.
‘Now come along and sit down and tell us all about it over a nice cup of tea,’ said the Praelector in his most kindly manner. ‘Mrs Morestead is going to make a nice big pot of strong tea and we’ll have some biscuits and you’ll explain why you hired this Transworld Television Company to come and make a film about Porterhouse. Now it’s all right. Nobody is going to hurt … to blame you and you are quite safe with us. Just tell us in your own words … No, there’s no need to gibber and I didn’t quite catch what you were gibbering about. No, the Senior Tutor isn’t going to find you here. And yes, I daresay he is stalking about seeking whom he may devour, though I rather doubt he’s in any condition to stalk anything and his desire to devour is notably absent today. Now here is Mrs Morestead with the tea. Yes, lots of sugar. Thank you, Dr Buscott, and the biscuits please, Mr Gilkes. That’s nice, isn’t it? Nice and cosy.’
The Bursar shook his head miserably. ‘They’ll kill me. I know they will,’ he whimpered.
‘I don’t think so. Of course the Dean is going to be a trifle cross and the Senior Tutor –’
‘I’m not talking about them. I’m talking about those terrible people down at Transworld Television. Skundler, for instance.’
‘Skundler?’ said the Praelector and asked for the name to be spelt so that Mrs Morestead could get it down.
‘And then there is Edgar Hartang. He’s the head of it all and a terrifying man and enormously rich and flies about the world in his own King Lear …’ The Bursar stopped, conscious that there was a mistake somewhere.
‘I see,’ said the Praelector in tones that would have done credit to an undertaker at the bedside of a dying man. ‘Do go on. In a King Lear? Does he have three daughters, by any chance?’
‘I think he means a Lear jet,’ said Gilkes. ‘It’s an executive jet and can fly anywhere in the world.’
‘Very useful, I’m sure, and at least we now know that Mr Hartang is a person and not a brand of tea. But you still haven’t told us why you hired them to film the College.’
‘I didn’t,’ said the Bursar. ‘They wanted to give the College huge sums of money and I was at this conference on fund-raising when Kudzuvine approached me and …’
While his story poured out the others sat listening raptly. As the Praelector told the College Council when it met some days later, it was at that moment that he felt Porterhouse had hit the jackpot.
11
It was hardly the most auspicious moment for Dr Purefoy Osbert to arrive to take up his post as the Sir Godber Evans Memorial Fellow. He had made special arrangements with the authorities at Kloone and had agreed to drive up once a month to do some Continuous Assessment work on the students in his Department without any cost to the University and the parting, though sudden, had been an amicable one. Even Mrs Ndhlovo had shown her admiration of him and approval by allowing him to kiss her and fondle her beautiful breasts. ‘You are becoming a proper man, Purefoy,’ she said, giving up pidgin English for a moment. ‘I can see that you are going to make a great name for yourself.’
‘You could have the same name if you married me. You would be Mrs Osbert.’
Mrs Ndhlovo gave the matter some thought and shook her head. ‘No, not until you are famous and rich,’ she said.
‘But I am comparatively speaking rich, and although I may not be famous I am still the Sir Godber Evans Memorial Fellow at Porterhouse College, Cambridge, and that is not something to be sneezed at.’
Mrs Ndhlovo laughed and pushed her hair away from her eyes. ‘I not sneeze, Purefoy sweetheart. I not even sniff. I just say I wait see what happens you. I hear Porterhouse not such good place right now. Plenty bad things happen one time.’
‘And I intend to find out for certain what happened to Sir Godber. That is why I got the post and the salary.’
‘I know what the salary is. You told me and that don’t make you rich. You just comfortable and can go find nice girl to jig-jig with now stead of beating your biltong way you do now.’
‘Biltong?’ said Purefoy, who wasn’t familiar with Afrikaner eating habits.
‘Meat, Purefoy, beating your meat. It means –’
‘I know what it means. I’ve been to every lesson you’ve given on the subject of Male Infertility and so on and I –’
‘I don’t give lessons on so on. Ain’t possible. So on. Got to end some time. Even Mr Ndhlovo got to stop coming. Come three, four, five times but not so on. And he proper man. Got balls. Wonder what happened to them.’
Purefoy wasn’t even faintly interested in the destination of the late Mr Ndhlovo’s testicles. ‘All I’m trying to tell you is that I never think about any other woman
except you when … when … well, when I seek relief from my frustration.’
Mrs Ndhlovo’s eyes widened wondrously. ‘My, oh my,’ she said. ‘I heard it called lots of things my time but I never did hear it called technical like that. Relief from frustration. You ain’t frustrated, is you, honey?’
‘Of course I am,’ said Purefoy, whose own balls were beginning to ache. ‘You know I am. For you.’
‘Then you give me one more big kiss and I let you feel my mammaries one time more.’
‘I really do wish you wouldn’t use terms like that. You’ve got lovely breasts and it’s wrong to call them mammaries.’
‘That’s technical like you saying relief from frustration ’stead of soaping the snake. I know others just as good.’
Purefoy Osbert misheard her and shuddered. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘please don’t use that awful word. You’re not a cow. You’re the most beautiful woman in the world. And you speak perfectly good English. Why do you have to pretend to be someone you’re not. You are beautiful.’
‘I ain’t no such thing, Purefoy. I just a proper woman. Now you go be proper man and then maybe …’
‘You’ll marry me? Please say you will.’
‘Possibly,’ said Mrs Ndhlovo. ‘But first of all you’ll have to prove yourself a proper man at Porterhouse.’
*
In the event Purefoy had the greatest difficulty proving he had anything to do with Porterhouse. He arrived at the Main Gate to find it locked. He pulled the bell chain and waited. There were heavy steps inside and a man asked him what he wanted.
‘As a matter of fact I want to come in. I’m expected.’
On the far side of the gate the Head Porter smiled to himself. ‘That’s right. So you are,’ said Walter. ‘I knew you’d be back and like I told you you’ll get more than a bloody nose if you try to get in this time. Now get lost.’
Purefoy stood dumbfounded on the pavement. He understood now why Porterhouse had such a dreadful reputation. If anything, what he had heard had been an underestimation of its dreadfulness. And he could well believe Lady Mary’s statement that her husband had been murdered there. For a moment he almost decided to return to Kloone but the thought of Mrs Ndhlovo gave him strength. To win her hand and all the rest of her he had to be a proper man. He would do anything for her.
‘Listen,’ he called out through the black door. ‘My name is Dr Osbert and I am expected.’
There was a moment’s hesitation inside. ‘Dr Osbert? Did you say Dr Osbert?’
‘Yes,’ said Purefoy. ‘That is precisely what I said.’
‘We’ve already got Dr MacKendly in for that bloke in the Master’s Lodge,’ Walter called back. ‘Are you a partner of Dr MacKendly or something? I didn’t know he’d got a partner.’
‘No, of course I’m not a partner of Dr MacHenry. I am Dr Purefoy Osbert.’
‘And he sent for you from Addenbrooke’s Hospital?’ Walter asked. His tone of voice was less aggressive now.
‘I am not that sort of doctor. I don’t have any medical training. I’m the –’
But the Head Porter had heard enough. ‘No, I had a funny idea you weren’t a proper doctor,’ he said. ‘But I’ll tell you what, you try getting into the College you’re fucking well going to need one. Now buzz off.’
For the second time Purefoy Osbert’s resolution faltered but he stood his ground. Inside the great gate he could hear a muttered conversation. He seemed to catch the words ‘The buggers’ll try anything in the book, Henry. Calls himself a doctor!’
Purefoy jerked the bell chain again. He was getting angry now. ‘Listen,’ he shouted. ‘I don’t know who you are –’
‘That makes two of us, mate,’ said Walter. ‘I don’t know who you are and what’s more I’m not interested.’
‘But,’ continued Purefoy. ‘I am the new Fellow.’
‘He’s a Fellow now,’ said Walter. ‘Or a fella.’
‘I am the Sir Godber Evans Memorial Fellow and my name is Dr Purefoy Osbert. Do you understand?’
There was a long silence on the far side of the gate. It was beginning to dawn on Walter that he might have made a terrible mistake. All the same he wasn’t taking any chances. ‘What sort of glasses are you wearing?’ he asked.
‘I am not wearing any glasses. I can see perfectly well.’
The Head Porter wished he could. There was no peephole in the gate. He tried peering through a crack and could only see Purefoy’s leather sleeve. ‘And you’re not wearing white socks?’ he asked.
‘Of course I’m not wearing white socks. Why on earth should I be wearing white socks? What does it matter what colour socks I’m wearing?’
‘And you really are the Sir Godber Evans … whatever it was you said, Fellow?’
‘Would I say I was if I wasn’t?’ Purefoy demanded. If this was the level of intelligence at Porterhouse, he was definitely going back to Kloone. Getting knowledge and understanding into people’s heads there was infinitely easier than this.
Inside the gate Henry was telling Walter that the bloke outside didn’t sound like a Yank. Walter had to agree, and presently the wicket gate opened slowly and a strange and rather alarmed face peered at Purefoy. In the Porter’s Lodge Henry was trying to phone the Senior Tutor, who wasn’t going to answer it.
‘I suppose you’d better come in, sir,’ Walter said, switching from the threatening to the positively servile. ‘And I’ll carry your bags, sir.’ Purefoy Osbert stepped through the wicket gate carrying them himself. If this cretin – and he wasn’t going to waste time on euphemisms now – got hold of the suitcase containing his notes and manuscripts he’d probably never see them again.
‘I’m ever so sorry, sir, but we’ve had a bit of trouble here today and my orders were not to let anyone who wasn’t a member of College in or out. Praelector was very strict about it. I do apologize, sir. If you’ll just step this way, sir …’
Purefoy followed him into the Porter’s Lodge. It was unlike that of any other Cambridge college he had visited. Here there were no signs of the late twentieth century and a great many of the early nineteenth and even eighteenth. The pigeonholes looked as though generations of birds had actually nested there instead of letters and messages. But everything was clean and highly polished. Even the brass hooks on which keys hung were brightly polished and the sheen on Walter’s bowler hat suggested that he treated it with reverence. Purefoy put his suitcases down and felt slightly better. The smell of beeswax was having a calming effect on his nerves.
All the same his reception had been so extraordinary and alarming that he kept a watchful eye on the Head Porter and on Henry, the junior one who wasn’t getting through to the Senior Tutor on the ancient telephone in the far office. ‘It’s no use,’ he said. ‘He isn’t in.’
‘He is. Just not answering,’ said Walter. ‘And no wonder, state he was in last night when he come in from Corpus. Looked like a corpus himself, he did. What he must have been like this morning doesn’t bear thinking about. Oh, he did look horrible.’
Purefoy listened to this exchange and found it disturbing. If the Head Porter, who was hardly a pleasant man to look at – he had a twisted and unnaturally gruesome way of eyeing people out of the corner of a strangely coloured left eye – could describe someone as looking horrible, the man must be utterly hideous. Henry’s next remark was hardly reassuring either.
‘Matron says he threw up all over the bedroom floor,’ he said. ‘Bollock naked he was too. Said she thought he was dead first of all. Had a Porterhouse Blue was what she thought.’
‘If he goes on like that at his age, he will have one and no mistake,’ Walter said, and emerged from the little office with an obsequious grimace that Purefoy hoped was a smile. ‘I’m very sorry about this, sir. I wasn’t told you were coming today and I had strict orders about them others. But I’ve found you in the book and you’re all right. The Bursar’s allotted you rooms overlooking the Fellows’ Garden so here’s the keys. Henry will carry your b
ags, sir, and show you the way.’
Purefoy bent to pick up his suitcases but Walter stopped him. ‘Sorry, sir,’ he said with another grovelling grimace that managed in some mysterious way to combine extreme servility with something distinctly threatening, ‘but gentlemen Fellows don’t carry their own bags in Porterhouse. Don’t set a proper example. That’s what Mr Skullion what’s the Master now told me. Tradition, he said it was, going ever so far back.’
For a moment Purefoy felt like telling the man he didn’t give a damn about Porterhouse tradition and always carried his own bags, but he had travelled a long way and he was exhausted. ‘What do I do with my car?’ he asked. ‘It’s on a parking meter down the road.’
‘You give me the keys, sir, and I’ll have it driven round to the Old Coach House which is where the Fellows’ cars are kept. You wouldn’t happen to know what make it is, would you, sir?’
To Purefoy Osbert it seemed obvious the Head Porter was taking the piss out of him but Walter’s next remark changed his mind. ‘I only ask, sir, because a lot of the Fellows don’t know. The Dean’s been driving an old Rover since I don’t know when and he still calls it a Lanchester and they don’t make them any more. Leastways I don’t think they do. And the Chaplain’s got an Armstrong Siddeley, though he don’t drive any longer and I don’t think he even knows it’s there.’
Purefoy gave him the keys and told him it was a Renault and was green and had an A registration. ‘I think it’s 5555 OGF,’ he said.
‘Very good, sir, and I’ll put the keys in your pigeonhole. That way you’ll know where to find them.’
‘But I don’t know which my pigeonhole is,’ said Purefoy.
‘Ah, but I do, sir. All you’ll have to do is ask me, sir.’ And with another terrible grimace he disappeared into the back where he could be heard telling someone that that new Fellow, Dr Oswald, had a foreign car and a Frenchie one at that which wouldn’t go down well with the Senior Tutor because he didn’t like … Having a shrewd idea what was coming, Purefoy followed Henry and his two suitcases round Old Court and behind a very old block of blackened clunch and up a path to another building, this time of blackened brick. On the way they passed a number of students, all of whom looked rather too respectably dressed for Purefoy’s liking. He was used to people in boots and with torn and patched jeans and with hair that was either very, very long and unwashed, or hardly existed at all. He was suspicious of clean young people with neat haircuts and a great many of the young men he saw seemed to be very large and muscular and to laugh too loudly. And the one young woman he met smiled agreeably, which he found most peculiar. At Kloone women didn’t smile. On the whole they scowled and practised assertiveness on him.
