Grantchester Grind:

by Tom Sharpe

  Sir Cathcart stayed in his study and drank with Kudzuvine, who didn’t know what all the shit was about. Horses were horses though frankly he preferred pork himself. More human he reckoned. You could keep fucking turtles and baby octopuses but fucking pigs was something else again. Sir Cathcart said he supposed it must be, though even in his drunken state he couldn’t think it was very pleasant and talking about fucking pigs that Myrtle Ransby … Kudzuvine said she hadn’t turned him on either. Old bag like that dress her how you like and that black rubber hadn’t done anything for her except stop you having to see her face. Still some guys he’d known liked their meat well hung. Sir Cathcart said he’d have hung the bitch a long time ago if he’d known what she was going to do to him. Kudzuvine said Hartang would have Calvied her no mistake the way she’d acted. It was a most unedifying conversation.

  *

  The talk in the Master’s Lodge between Hartang and Ross Skundler had been only slightly more civilized. The Bursar, the Dean and the Praelector had been present in part to reassure Skundler that he was persona grata with the new Master but also, as the Dean put it, to find out if there was any little thing they could do to make the new Master more comfortable in the College and, of course, to welcome him.

  ‘Drop dead,’ said Hartang, looking at Skundler but evidently including the Bursar, the Praelector and the Dean in the injunction. He had had an appalling two nights in the Lodge in the company, by the sound of it, of a colony of enormous rats in the attic above his head. Certainly some things had spent their time scurrying about up there and making very strange noises. Arthur had tried to reassure him at breakfast (Hartang had been downright rude about the cholesterol effects of two fried eggs and a Porterhouse portion of fatty bacon, not to mention the fried bread which had been Skullion’s special favourite) that they were merely squabs.

  ‘In the roof? Squabs in the roof?’ Hartang had said incredulously. ‘I don’t believe it. That where these eggs come from?’

  ‘No, sir, those are hen’s eggs. We do not keep chickens in the attic.’

  ‘And squabs aren’t chickens, what are they?’

  ‘Young pigeons, sir. In the old days pigeons were a Porterhouse delicacy and some of their descendants still inhabit their predecessors’ home. You will see the entrances on the end gables. I believe there may be a colony of pipistrelles up there too.’

  ‘Bats? Bats?’ said Hartang who did at least know what a pipistrelle was. ‘Are they a Porterhouse delicacy too? Shit.’

  ‘No, sir, bats are a protected species. It is unlawful to kill them,’ Arthur said, and went back to the kitchen to see if he could find some oatbran and skimmed milk yoghurt that Hartang insisted was all he ever ate for breakfast. Hartang was not in a good mood when Skundler and the Senior Fellows arrived. He’d had to have muesli and even that had sugar in it. And the coffee had been foul.

  Arthur hadn’t been too happy either. ‘Very uncouth gentleman, the new Master,’ he told the bodyguards who had heard the exchange on the wired sound system. What they were now hearing had the same acrimoniously uncouth quality about it. The Dean’s use of the word ‘amenities’ had been the last straw.

  ‘What amenities? Amenity? I haven’t seen a single amenity since I got here. The fucking bath is big enough to drown in and it takes an hour to fill and the water’s goddam cold by the time it’s full.’

  ‘Well, we’ve had some rather large Masters in the past,’ the Dean explained. ‘They needed a sizeable bath. I’m sorry about the water but Porterhouse men are used to it being on the lukewarm side.’

  ‘I’m not,’ Hartang assured him. ‘I like my water hot and if what that old fool of a waiter tried to give me for breakfast is anything to go by, like it would fur up an elephant’s arteries in no time at all, I’d say the Masters you’ve had in the past had to have been sick men. Didn’t think what they were doing to their bodies.’

  ‘Very possibly,’ the Praelector said pacifically. ‘As you’ve undoubtedly noticed we are a very old College and some of our ways may seem rather out of date. I am sure we can accommodate you in circumstances more to your liking.’

  Hartang didn’t say anything. He had found the Praelector daunting when he had met him at Transworld Television Centre and he had found that ‘accommodate’ uncomfortable. ‘I’d be glad if the boiler could be fixed,’ he said. ‘Most grateful.’

  For the rest he talked earnestly with Skundler who took notes and only answered questions, none of which the Fellows understood. By the time they left the Master-to-be had remembered his elocution and etiquette lessons, and was quietly polite, and thanked them for coming.

  *

  ‘This is not going to work,’ the Dean said when they were out of earshot. ‘That man ought to be behind bars. I still find it difficult to believe such people exist. What on earth are we going to do?’

  ‘For the time being nothing,’ said the Praelector. ‘I suggest we keep out of his way and ensure that his bathwater is hot. And I think we must persuade his lawyers to come up and talk to him. I have found them most helpful.’

  It was not an opinion Hartang shared.

  *

  In the listening-room the tape of the conversation was locked away and the older taller man was on the phone. His views were exactly the same as the Dean’s. The Master-to-be was not shaping up. ‘She says it’s going to take time and there’s no point in rushing things. There are still things they need from him. Just keep him safe.’

  In the kitchen Arthur explained to the Chef that ‘Him-over-there’ wanted something called Noovell Couiseen.

  ‘Never heard of it,’ said the Chef. ‘Best see if they’ve got some at Marks & Sparks by the Market. We’re having beef with dumplings tonight in Hall with a Stilton soup to start with and omelette for savoury.’

  Arthur said he didn’t think ‘Him-over-there’ was very fond of eggs and Cheffy said he didn’t care what he was fond of, he wasn’t Master yet and never would be till Mr Skullion gave his say-so because Mr Skullion was the Master still whatever anyone said.

  ‘I wonder where he went to, Cheffy. Him and that Dr Osbert.’

  ‘That’d be telling, Arthur, that’d be telling,’ was all the Chef would say. ‘And don’t you tell anyone I said so.’

  40

  ‘I can fully understand your feelings, Master,’ said Schnabel when he finally came up to Porterhouse. Hartang said he couldn’t. No one could live in a fucking mausoleum with a whole lot of deadbeats who didn’t know a dollar from a peso and had to use their fingers to count to ten, and even begin to understand what it felt like.

  ‘I don’t think you should allow appearances to mislead you,’ said Schnabel. ‘Academics are deceptive people and the English have always been known for their understatement. It’s part of the national character. They don’t like to show their feelings. You mustn’t take them at face value.’

  Hartang looked out of the window at the marquees on the Fellows’ Lawn and wished he could express his feelings. He had never taken anyone at face value except maybe in movies. Some of the best contractors from Chicago and Miami had nice faces. ‘Have you ever met a fat woman with a blue hair rinse and a shopping bag who doesn’t give her name?’ he asked. ‘Artificial pearls and a voice like a pointed Luger. Has two men with her who could be SAS. They’re living in the house with me. Not the woman. The men.’

  ‘For your protection, I’m sure,’ said Schnabel. ‘They’ll see you through this early period until you’re settled in and then they’ll pull out. That’s the agreement. You wouldn’t want non-professionals who don’t know their job.’

  ‘I certainly hope so. Anyone show around Transworld? You know “anyone”?’

  ‘My information is no. You’re keeping the money flowing into the same accounts so there’s no reason to think you have been involved in any way. If you’d blown with it, that would be different. There’s a man in your office your height and dressed the same, lives the same way you do. So you’re there if they ask the staff. And one
day, say in six months, he’ll have an infarct and they’ll have a big cremation at Golders Green and an obituary in The Times about how you built Transworld up from nothing.’

  ‘Someone’s going to want to see the body.’

  ‘Naturally,’ said Schnabel. ‘No one will stop them. Same build, same face, wig and glasses. They’ll be able to take photographs but no touching. The people protecting you have morticians who could make Boris Karloff look like Marilyn Monroe. How do you think they get IRA informers new identities?’

  ‘You going to tell me they embalm them? Shit, I don’t want to know.’

  ‘They embalm some dead guy. Plastic surgery like you wouldn’t believe. The real guy’s different too. So who’s to know? No one. Got a new identity and could be living in the same street as always. That’s the way they are. Professionals.’

  ‘Just so long they don’t change their minds about me. I don’t want to end up this place Golden Green.’

  ‘You aren’t going to,’ said Schnabel. ‘You’re too valuable. So Hartang’s dead, long live the Master of Porterhouse.’

  Hartang thought about it for a bit. ‘I’m not making a will,’ he said finally. ‘They want my money they keep me alive.’

  ‘Very wise. They want your financial genius. That’s what they’re buying – keeping you alive and out of circulation. Ross Skundler making out all right?’

  ‘That shit,’ said Hartang and felt better.

  And Skundler was. Every few days he would look at the old bound ledgers and ask the Bursar for a quill but the new financial position was good. The Bursar was happier too. He didn’t have to worry about money or the College debts but could go and inspect the work being done in the Chapel and see how much better the College looked. Even Skullion’s disappearance didn’t bother him. He’d never liked him and Skullion had never bothered to hide his contempt for the Bursar. In fact from every point of view things were working out very well.

  *

  In Onion Alley Purefoy was exhausted. So was Mrs Ndhlovo. For a week they had sat and listened to Skullion and they felt they had been living in Porterhouse for ever. It was the repetition that had this effect, repetitions and digressions, trips Skullion took them on down the tributaries of his main concern, the treachery he had suffered, not just once, not even twice, but from the moment he had set foot in Porterhouse and had doffed his cap to the gentlemen there. It was that sense of betrayal, stronger now than it had been even when Sir Godber had him sacked, that gave him the strength to keep talking, dredging his memory for details of those slights and little insults he knew now to be the pilot fish for the greatest betrayal of all.

  ‘That bloody Sir Cathcart D’Eath promised me, swore on his oath as a gentleman, that I wouldn’t go to the Park. Gave me his word I could stay at Coft Castle if I agreed to retire. The bloody bastard,’ he told them any number of times. ‘And I said I had the right to name my own successor as Master and I have, and he agreed. Had to. College tradition since time immemorial. The dying Master has the right to name his own successor. And I did. “Lord Pimpole,” I said, “The Honourable Jeremy Pimpole of Pimpole Hall in the County of Yorkshire.” That’s who I named and a nicer young gentleman you never met. Came up in 1959. Him and Sir Launcelot Gutterby were the best.’ Skullion paused, recalling their ineffable superiority and arrogance.

  Then he spat into the fireplace. ‘So what happens next? That bastard Sir Cathcart has me bundled into an ambulance and I’m locked in the Park and they’ve got some fucking Yank or something in the Master’s Lodge.’ The enormity of this final betrayal overcame him and he was silent, staring into the meaningless abyss of hatred this final act of treachery had led to. Worst of all he had only himself to blame. He could have kept his independent mind, he’d always believed he had, but he hadn’t. He’d surrendered it to Porterhouse, to his cosy job and his self-indulgent consciousness of doing his duty. Duty! About as much duty as a fucking poodle jumping through hoops in a circus and walking on its back paws and doing tricks to satisfy an audience of idiots. That’s what his duty had been. He knew that now. He knew it because they had betrayed him.

  He knew it even more because they had betrayed Porterhouse by their stupidity. Any fool could have seen what was happening to the College years ago and taken measures to protect the place and keep it independent. He’d seen that himself and had denied it too because he’d trusted them. And because there’d been nothing he could do about it. He hadn’t wanted to think about it and had told himself it would all come right in the end. Instead it had all come wrong. There was a worse thought at the back of his mind: that it had always been wrong and that his life had been wasted in the service of the rotten. That was what he thought now but he didn’t say it to Purefoy and Mrs Ndhlovo and the tape recorder. They were young and there was no point in hurting them so early. Life would do that. Besides, he needed them for what he had to do.

  *

  ‘Still no news of Skullion?’ the Praelector asked, looking out of the Fellows’ Private Dining Room at the marquees and the tables and wooden dance floors arranged on the lawn. A group of sound technicians were setting up speakers and lights were already installed round them.

  ‘None,’ said the Dean. ‘And Osbert hasn’t been into College since that first night. None of the College servants has any idea where they’ve got to.’

  ‘Wouldn’t tell you if they knew,’ the Senior Tutor said. ‘They’ve always kowtowed to Skullion even before he became Master.’

  ‘True, but they’re worried too. If they knew and weren’t telling, they’d be in a different mood. I’m certain they have no idea.’

  ‘The police have no information either. All they have found out is that Dr Osbert hired a van in Hunstanton and brought it back two days later. They’ve contacted hospitals but he hasn’t been admitted. It is all most disturbing.’

  ‘Since there is nothing we can do about it, I don’t think we should waste time worrying about it,’ said the Praelector. ‘I have to confess the new Master is giving me more cause for concern. He is an even more unpleasant individual than I had supposed.’

  ‘He was your choice and you have no one to blame but yourself,’ said the Senior Tutor.

  ‘I accept that responsibility and I do blame myself. On the other hand he is yet to be inaugurated and if anyone can think of a suitable alternative, someone who can provide the College with the financial resources we so desperately require, I daresay we can persuade the authorities to take him off our hands.’

  ‘By “authorities” I take it you mean the people with him in the Master’s Lodge,’ said the Senior Tutor. ‘I have to say they are not very pleasant themselves. I gather they body-searched Professor Pawley when he made the mistake of going to pay his respects. He hasn’t got over their thoroughness yet.’

  ‘Well, at least they are subduing the wretched man they are looking after,’ said the Dean. ‘We must be grateful for that, and they are on our side.’

  The Praelector left them and walked pensively across the Court to the College kitchen. He wanted a word with the Chef.

  41

  For the next four days the Praelector was a busy man. He consulted Mr Retter and Mr Wyve; he telephoned a number in London and met a plump woman with a Liberty shopping bag in Grantchester and had a long talk with her walking in the meadows; he even went to Coft Castle and had a most distasteful hour with Sir Cathcart who wept maudlin tears about Skullion and finally agreed to go to a Spa. He also spoke to Kentucky Fry who said Shit he wasn’t going to do any such fucking thing. The General had bought him some weaners and he was going in for hog raising in a big way. Guy he’d met said they were selling off land from the airbases for Transcendental Meditation but he reckoned hogs was better like fifty thousand piglets rootling would give a good living and living was what he was into, staying living. The Praelector agreed it was a good idea but in the meantime all he wanted him to do was think about it. Kentucky Fry said he couldn’t think about anything else except …

&
nbsp; ‘How about deportation? To Singapore,’ said the Praelector and switched his attention away from hog raising. Kudzuvine said he didn’t want to be deported. Hadn’t done nothing wrong in Singapore. The Praelector smiled and gave him two days to go on thinking about it. Kudzuvine didn’t need two days. No sir, if that was what they wanted, like a ceremonial role and he didn’t have to do anything else, his answer was in the affirmative. The Praelector took his taxi back to Porterhouse and spoke to the Chef who said it wasn’t usual but he didn’t see why not. And finally the Praelector visited Onion Alley by appointment and talked to Skullion for a long time.

  But his hardest task was one he put off to the end waiting until the May Ball was in full swing and the telephone in the Porter’s Lodge was being deluged with calls from people in the neighbourhood who couldn’t stand the appalling din and at the same time weren’t able to make their complaints audible to Walter.

  ‘A word in your ear,’ he shouted at the Dean who was standing mesmerized by a band from the Caribbean who didn’t need the loudspeakers to make life intolerable for anyone within earshot. In front of them on the dance floor undergraduates hurled themselves about in an ecstasy of savagery under pulsating multi-coloured strobes in a way which so disgusted the Dean that even if he had been able to hear the Praelector, and he couldn’t, he would have been unable to reply at all rationally. The Praelector shouted some more but the Dean himself, affected by the insistent beat, only nodded.

  ‘Anything you say,’ he yelled back after the Praelector’s third attempt to communicate.

  ‘Thank you,’ bellowed the Praelector. ‘I am delighted you agree.’ And he went away in the direction of the Master’s Lodge and was promptly admitted by the shorter and more intimidating of the two men on duty.