Grantchester Grind:

by Tom Sharpe

  ‘Yes, that’s what he told me,’ the Bursar agreed. ‘What I was wondering is why he wears such an obviously cheap wig.’

  ‘Well let me tell you something, Prof,’ said Kudzuvine, evidently warming to a subject close to his heart. ‘Comfort, zumfort. That old bastard doesn’t give a hound-dog’s shit for the comfort of the staff. Most of the time like twenty-four hours in the day he don’t know they’re even there. Pays them – has to because they work the money for him – but they drop dead in front of him he don’t even notice except there’s a mess on the floor. Happens one time I was there and he’s bawling this guy out because he’s lost a consignment some place, an island some place …’ He tried to think where and for once the Bursar had the good sense not to mention the Galapagos Islands and turtles. ‘Cayman or Bahamas somewhere there like the Bermuda Triangle. Whole fucking twenty million gone play hookie. So E.H. is going to have this guy down the Bermuda Triangle too after he’s been through the shredder first. And he’s telling him his fucking fortune and the guy don’t like what he’s hearing and he’s got a weak heart or something so he gets death first before the independents arrive to fly him out in a body-bag. Lying there cold meat and you know what old E.H. is worrying about?’

  ‘No,’ said the Bursar, utterly appalled by what he was hearing. ‘What was he worrying about?’

  Kudzuvine smiled fondly at the memory of the occasion. ‘Guy’s pissed himself on the carpet and E.H. is saying get the whole thing up he isn’t going to have the room stink of fucking piss is all he cares. Goes out for his lunch. Comes back and there’s a new carpet but he don’t like the fucking colour so that’s got to be changed too. You think that’s all? Changes his mind again. Got to be a marble floor. Guy pisses on it you can wipe it up. Same with blood. Don’t show. That’s good old E.H. for you. Lovely man. Right?’

  It was hardly the word the Bursar would have chosen. He glanced nervously at the door but remembered that the Senior Tutor was out there and in any case Kudzuvine was in an obviously amiable mood and was still fond of him. Not that the Bursar wanted his fondness but he was stuck with it. ‘So what happened to the man who had died?’ he enquired.

  ‘Nothing. Too late. Cancelled the independents from Chicago and had him cremated real nice. Natural death and all so there’s nothing to worry about.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ the Bursar agreed. ‘But if he doesn’t care about the people he employs, why do you all wear the same clothes he does? You want to look like him? Is that it?’

  Again a strange smile lit up Kudzuvine’s face. ‘Prof Bursar, you got it the wrong way round,’ he said and there was no doubting his affection for the Bursar now. ‘Who the fuck wants to look like old E.H? Man’s as ugly as a fucking pig. Just not going oink all the time, is all. And pigs is what it’s all about.’ He paused to let the Bursar come to grips with this information.

  The Bursar failed to. ‘Pigs?’ he said. ‘How do pigs come into it?’

  Kudzuvine laughed this time. He really was feeling much better. ‘Wrong again, Prof baby. Pigs don’t come into anything. It’s what goes into pigs he don’t like one little bit. Like he’s phobic about pigs. Some guys in his situation get phobic about bridges or new expressways. Knew a guy once had this bad thing about crocodiles ‘cause they eat just about anything and every little bit. Said to him one time, “Harry, so why fucking worry? You’re living in Atlanta, Georgia, not up the fucking Nile, Africa.” Didn’t do no good. They took the poor bastard shark-fishing one day, like for bait. Got some big monsters too with him. Took them hours to wind those babies in.’ He paused again at the memory of this extraordinary feat. ‘So with old E.H. it’s pigs. He don’t want to end up in their swill tub like the wife of some guy he read about some time. He says to me one time we’re going some place he won’t eat Chinese not if he’s starving and I say, “That’s real nice of you, Mr Hartang. Is that because they eat hound-dogs and puppies and all?” and you know what he says? Says, “Karl K.” – always calls me that when he is in a good mood – “Karl K. you’re so fucking dumb and you don’t even know it. Try thinking sweet and sour.” So I try thinking and I’m out of the tunnel. “Oh, pork, you mean pork.” Man, he went a funny colour and was I glad that fucking plane was pressurized or I’d have been deepsixed right then. But I got him calmed down by the time we landed Miami some place. Learned not to mention pigs or pork. And bacon is a no-no too. Even weaner is off the fucking menu. We had some dealings with a Heinie once called Weaner only they spell it different like with an I and an E and old E.H. pulls the rug on the deal because someone tells him a weaner is a small pig. And you got to be careful with fucking. I don’t use that sort of language with E.H. in case he don’t hear too good. Yes sir, Prof Bursar, he and anything piggy don’t mix good.’

  The Bursar felt extremely uneasy now but fear and curiosity kept him glued to his chair. ‘Yes, I see that,’ he said hesitantly, ‘but I still don’t understand about the white socks and polo-neck sweaters and the blue sunglasses which you wear.’

  ‘Shoot, that’s easy. Like with the metal detectors and the I.D. cards, it’s for protection. Someone gets in the fucking building with an Uzi … No, with an Uzi he could probably do a total but there’s no way an independent is coming in the precautions we take, not with an Uzi. Got to be real small and plastic and with maybe one slug and he’d have to hide the thing up his ass and no independent I know would do a thing like that. Blow his ass off with an unreliable plastic .38 no proper trigger? No way. So he gets in the building, who’s the target? Everyone looks the same. Goes round asking if you’re Edgar Hartang and he’s got no ID. Hey, Prof man, tell you something. I wouldn’t want to be that guy. Like they’d Calvi him like they did that other guy under Black Monks Bridge only this time they’d meat-hook him he was lucky. Right? So that’s why old E.H. has the Transworld staff wear the same clothes he does. You don’t get where Edgar Hartang does in the multi-media finance business without you cover your ass pretty damn good and E.H. has his covered every which way.’

  ‘But why does he wear a cheap wig like that?’ the Bursar asked in spite of himself. He had never heard such horrible stories before in all his life.

  ‘Why’s he wear the wig? And he sure as hell does wear it all the time I’ve been with him. Same as the shades. No one knows what he really looks like. He takes it off, could be someone else no one knows. Yes, sir, Prof Bursar, got to get up real early like the day before yesterday to catch that old motherfucker because he don’t sleep far as I can tell and he’s always some place else or like in the bunker we got over here.’

  ‘The bunker being …’

  ‘Transworld Television Production Centre. Boy, is that place fireproof. Take a megaton to blow that baby away, know what I mean?’

  The Bursar knew something. He should never have had anything to do with Kudzuvine. That fund-raising seminar had been the biggest mistake of his life. Until now he hadn’t even known such people existed and, if they did, they shouldn’t be allowed to. All the Americans he had met had been polite, educated people. But this was a mad, horrible, sadistic and monstrous world he had been introduced to. And into. He had to get out before his reason failed completely. Very slowly and with the utmost caution he got out of his chair and moved towards the door.

  ‘Hey, Prof Bursar baby, you ain’t going? Hey, no, stop, I need you. I got to need you.’

  But the Bursar wasn’t waiting to find out what Kudzuvine got to be needing him for. He wanted out, and Kudzuvine needed a hole in the head. Instead he got Skullion.

  ‘I think we should allow the Master to sit with him,’ said the Matron as the gibbering Bursar tumbled through the door. ‘He usually has a definitely calming effect on the patient and I’ll phone Dr MacKendly. I think it would be best if he were given something to quieten him down.’

  *

  ‘I’ve always been amazed at the Master’s ability to exert his authority over the most unpleasant people,’ said the Praelector a few minutes later as he and the Senio
r Tutor went downstairs in the wake of the Bursar who was being comforted by the Chaplain.

  ‘That wasn’t an unpleasant person,’ said the Senior Tutor, ‘the swine is a bloody gangster.’

  ‘I knew that from the very moment I set eyes on him,’ said the Praelector, ‘but what a very useful gangster he is proving to be.’

  Above them Dr Buscott was carefully removing the long reel of tape on which every word Kudzuvine had said had been recorded and was replacing it with a fresh reel. But before doing so Dr Buscott had taken the additional precaution of ending the recording with his own sworn statement and that of the Chaplain that what had been heard was a true and authentic record of what had been said at the time and date.

  15

  To Purefoy Osbert the comings and goings at the Master’s Lodge were of only visual interest. He had no idea what was going on over there but from the window of his room he watched the Senior Tutor and the Praelector and the Chaplain come and go across the lawn and past the Master’s Maze in their various ways. The Senior Tutor strode now that he felt better, the Praelector stalked slowly and meditatively with his head bent like some long-legged water bird, possibly a heron, watching for a fish. The Chaplain trotted, and the Bursar had to be helped. But the strangest figure to emerge from the Lodge was the Master himself who came, usually at dusk, though occasionally, when his presence by Kudzuvine’s bedside was not required, in the morning or afternoon to sit by the Back Gate as he had done when he had been Head Porter, watching and waiting for the young gentlemen, as he still called the students, to climb in after hours. Not that ‘after hours’ could be said to exist any longer. The College gates, when not closed against intruders, were left unlocked all the time. But traditional ways persisted at Porterhouse to the point where the Night Porter kept a list of every undergraduate who came in after midnight and the list went to the Dean who would summon persistent late-nighters and threaten them with fines or even rustication if they continued staying out late. Not that the Dean really objected. As he put it many times to culprits, ‘There is a right way of doing things and a wrong way. And the right way after midnight is over the back wall next to the Master’s Lodge.’ The fact that the back wall was topped with a double bank of revolving spikes to prevent undergraduates climbing in provided the sort of challenge the Dean approved of.

  ‘Besides, it provides the Master with an interest and something to concentrate his mind on,’ he had said at a meeting of the College Council when one of the younger dons had proposed that the spikes be removed as constituting a dangerous relic from the past. That proposal had been defeated and the spikes remained along the top of the wall and the great wooden gates. Below them Skullion did too, sitting in his wheelchair or sometimes managing to hobble across to lean where he had leant so many years before against the trunk of an old beech tree with the words ‘Dean’s report in the morning, sir’ ready on his lips. With the full moon Purefoy Osbert could make out that dark shape even at one o’clock in the morning when he turned his lights out, and he found it sinister. He couldn’t begin to fathom what went on in the former Head Porter’s mind, or the sheer persistence of the man. But then Porterhouse baffled him completely. It wasn’t simply that it was unlike any other college in Cambridge. It was that Porterhouse seemed to refuse to accept that any changes had occurred since … well, since before the First World War, or to recognize the astonishing achievements in science and medicine that were being made year after year by people in Pembroke and Christ’s, in Queens’ and Sidney Sussex, in fact in every college in Cambridge. Except Porterhouse. In Porterhouse the emphasis was always on the Arts and, if the War Memorial was anything to go by, on the Martial Arts. Hundreds of Porterhouse men had gone to their deaths obediently on the Somme and at Loos and again in the Second World War. And everywhere he went in his exploration of the College he encountered large muscular undergraduates who greeted him politely or, in the case of those who hadn’t heard he was the new Sir Godber Evans Memorial Fellow, as though he were one of the College servants.

  ‘Hey, you with the face,’ one young lout had called out to him, ‘come and help me shift the desk in my room. It’s too damned heavy for me.’ And Purefoy had obliged him, only to point out most coldly and politely that he was in future to be addressed as Dr Osbert and not as The Face, if you don’t mind. But his main interest lay in fulfilling his mandate and doing his research into the life and times of Sir Godber Evans. As usual his first visit was to the College Library, an oddly shaped octagonal structure of stone standing apart from the other buildings in its own walled garden behind the Chapel. Inside, a central iron circular staircase went up from floor to floor and the shelves radiated out from it. At the very top a lantern let in the light.

  Purefoy Osbert recognized the system immediately. ‘Bentham’s Panopticon,’ he said to the Librarian, who ought to have been sitting at the circular desk under the staircase but who had made himself more comfortable in a small side office.

  ‘Quite right, but, since no one ever bothers to read in here or to take books out, it seems an unnecessary precaution,’ the Librarian told him. ‘I can’t imagine that it crosses anyone’s mind to steal a book. The only thing I have to do round here is dust the shelves occasionally and turn the lights on and off in winter.’

  ‘But how do you occupy your time? I see you are writing something,’ Purefoy said. An ancient black enamel typewriter with glass panels on the sides stood to one side of the desk, and there were typed pages in a wire basket.

  ‘Oh, I’m mucking about trying to revise Romley’s History of Porterhouse, which is completely out of date – it was published in 1911 – and full of the most dreadful inaccuracies. For instance, he actually goes so far as to claim that Porterhouse predates Peterhouse which was the first college in Cambridge as everyone knows. Not the late Mr Romley. No, he’s convinced the original foundation was Porterhouse and that a school for Franciscan monks was established here in 1095.’

  ‘But the Franciscan Order wasn’t founded until the thirteenth century,’ said Purefoy. ‘That can’t be right. He must have meant some other Order, like the Benedictines who were founded much earlier.’

  ‘In AD 529, to be precise,’ said the Librarian, and immediately won Purefoy’s heart. The Librarian was obviously a man who placed a special emphasis on certainties.

  ‘But surely this man Romley must have known that?’

  ‘Heaven alone knows what he knew. From what I’ve seen of the older Fellows he probably thought Benedictine was only a liqueur.’

  ‘Well, if all his facts are as bad as that I should forget the revision and write your own history of the College, warts and all.’

  ‘I have more or less decided to, though I think I won’t mention warts. That’s what really brought me here. Warts and eczema and skin diseases in general. Actually I graduated from Glasgow as a medical doctor. It was a great mistake. I wasn’t cut out for the contemplation of skin conditions and I wasn’t any good in any case. I saw this post advertised and I thought it would be a much pleasanter life and I’ve always loved reading and I cannot stand inaccuracies. That was another reason for not staying in medicine. Diagnosis is largely guesswork and while the effect is obvious the cause very seldom is. No one really knows what causes eczema and I don’t think they understand very much about warts either. Some people can charm the things away. Well, I just wasn’t prepared to be a medical water-diviner. Or I suppose I should say a blood-diviner.’

  They talked on and Purefoy told him about the work he was supposed to be going to do on the life of the late Master, Sir Godber Evans. ‘Actually, I was meaning to ask you if you knew where any of his papers are,’ he said.

  ‘I suppose they might be in the archives,’ the Librarian said with a derisory laugh. ‘Though knowing what the Dean and the Senior Tutor thought of him, it wouldn’t surprise me if they had burned them.’

  Purefoy was shocked beyond belief. ‘What?’ he exclaimed. ‘But you can’t do things like that. It’s sacrilege
to destroy documents. That’s the only stuff of history there is, and the facts … You can’t destroy knowledge like that.’

  ‘You can in Porterhouse. You try reading Romley’s History and you’ll see what he thought about facts. I don’t suppose he’d have known one if he’d had it handed him on a plate.’ He paused and thought for a moment. ‘Though come to think of it, the only fact he’d be likely to recognize would be on a plate with lots of sautéed potatoes round it and a glass of excellent claret to go with it. Anyway we can go down into the Crypt and have a look.’

  ‘The Crypt? Under the Chapel?’

  ‘No, under here. It’s really just an enormous cellar but they call it the Library Crypt. Don’t ask me why. They call everything in Porterhouse by some peculiar name. Have you seen the Dossery?’

  Purefoy said he hadn’t, and had never heard of such a place.

  ‘It was part of the original lodgings where the scholars used to sleep. Now they’ve split it up into separate rooms but they still call it the Dossery.’

  He unlocked a door in the wall and they went down a steep flight of stone steps. The Librarian tried to switch the light on but nothing happened. ‘It’s the damp,’ he explained. ‘The whole place practically drips and the wiring hasn’t been replaced since God knows when. That’s why I wear rubber-soled shoes and keep those heavy industrial gloves here. It’s safer and, if you’re going to come down here, I’d advise you to use them. You don’t want to get electrocuted.’

  He tried the old metal switch several times more and finally the lights came on. They were very dim. ‘The Bursar insists on fifteen-watt bulbs to save money but if you need more light I’ve got some one-fifties in my office, though frankly I don’t know what they’d do to the wiring. Probably set it alight and burn the place down.’