by Tom Sharpe
‘Well, for one thing,’ the barber went on, responding to this challenge to his powers of observation, ‘you’ve still got powder on your neck.’ Zipser said shortly that he’d had a bath and used talcum powder.
‘Oh quite,’ said the barber sarcastically, ‘and I suppose all these clipper shavings …’
‘Listen,’ said Zipser conscious that Mr Turton had still not turned back to Titbits and was listening with interest, ‘if you don’t want to cut my hair …’ The buzz of the clippers interrupted his protest. Zipser stared angrily at his reflection in the mirror and wondered why he was being dogged by embarrassing situations. Mr Turton was eyeing the back of his head with a new interest.
‘I mean,’ said the barber putting his clippers away, ‘some people like having their hair cut.’ He winked at Mr Turton and in the mirror Zipser saw that wink. The scissors clicked round his ears and Zipser shut his eyes to escape the reproach he saw in them in the mirror. Everything he did now seemed tinged with catastrophe. Why in God’s name should he fall in love with an enormous bedder? Why couldn’t he just get on with his work, read in the library, write his thesis and go to meetings of CUNA?
‘Had a customer once,’ continued the barber remorselessly, ‘who used to have his hair cut three times a week. Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Regular as clockwork. I asked him once, when he’d been coming for a couple of years mind you, I said to him, “Tell me, Mr Hattersley, why do you come and have your hair cut so often?” Know what he said? Said it was the one place he could think. Said he got all his best ideas in the barber’s chair. Weird when you think about it. Here I stand all day clipping and cutting and right in front of me, under my hand you might say, there’s all those thoughts going on unbeknown to me. I mean I must have cut the hair on over a hundred thousand heads in my time. I’ve been cutting hair for twenty-five years now and that’s a lot of customers. Stands to reason some of them must have been having some pretty peculiar thoughts at the time. Murderers and sex maniacs, I daresay. I mean there would be, wouldn’t there, in all that number? Stands to reason.’
Zipser shrank in the chair. Mr Turton had lost all interest in Titbits now.
‘Interesting theory,’ he said encouragingly. ‘I suppose statistically you’re right. I’ve never thought of it that way before.’
Zipser said it took all sorts to make a world. It seemed the sort of trite remark the occasion demanded. By the time the barber had finished, he had given up all thought of asking for contraceptives. He paid the thirty pence and staggered out of the shop. Mr Turton smiled and took his place in the chair.
It was almost lunchtime.
7
‘I think we can dispense with formalities,’ the Master said, sitting forward in his chair and looking down the long mahogany table. On his left the Bursar fiddled with his pen while on his right the Chaplain, accorded this position by virtue of his deafness, nodded his agreement. Down the long table the faces of the Council reflected their displeasure at this sudden meeting.
‘It would appear to me,’ said the Dean, ‘that we have already dispensed with such formalities as we are used to. I can see no virtue in ridding ourselves of the few that are left.’
The Master regarded him closely. ‘Bear with me, Dean,’ he said, aware that he was relapsing from his carefully rehearsed down-to-earth manner into the vernacular of academic bitchiness. He pulled himself up. ‘I have called this meeting,’ he continued with a nasty smile, ‘to discuss in detail the changes in the College I mentioned in my speech on Tuesday night. I shan’t keep you long. When I have finished you can go away and think about my suggestions.’ A ripple of indignation at the effrontery of his remark ran round the table. The Dean in particular lost his cool.
‘The Master seems to be under some misapprehension as to the purpose of the College Council,’ he said. ‘May I remind him that it is the governing body of the College. We have been summoned here this afternoon at short notice and we have come at considerable inconvenience to ourselves …’ The Master yawned. ‘Quite so. Quite so,’ he murmured. The Dean’s face turned a deeper shade of puce. A virtuoso in the art of the discourteous aside, he had never been subjected to such disrespect.
‘I think,’ said the Senior Tutor stepping into the breach, ‘that it should be left to the Council to decide whether or not the Master’s proposals merit discussion this afternoon.’ He smiled unctuously at the Master.
‘As you wish,’ said Sir Godber. He looked at his watch. ‘I shall be here until three. If after that you have things you wish to discuss, you will have to do so without me.’ He paused. ‘We can meet again tomorrow or the next day. I shall be available in the afternoon.’
He looked down the table at the suffused faces of the Fellows and felt satisfied. The atmosphere was just what he had wanted for the announcement of his plans. They would react predictably and with a violence that would disarm them. Then when it would appear to be all over he would nullify all their protests with a threat. It was a charming prospect made all the more pleasing by the knowledge that they would misinterpret his motives. They would, they would. Obtuse men, small men for whom Porterhouse was the world and Cambridge the universe. Sir Godber despised them, and it showed.
‘If we are all agreed, then,’ he continued, ignoring the titubation of the Dean who had been nerving himself to protest at the Master’s incivility and leave the meeting, ‘let me outline the changes I have in mind. In the first place, as you are all aware, Porterhouse’s reputation has declined sadly since … I believe the rot set in in 1933. I have been told there was a poor intake of Fellows in that year. Correct me if I’m wrong.’
It was the turn of the Senior Tutor to stiffen in his seat. 1933 had been the year of his election.
‘Academically our decline seems to have set in then. The quality of our undergraduates has always seemed to me to be quite deplorable. I intend to change all that. From now on, from this year of Grace, we shall accept candidates who possess academic qualifications alone.’ He paused to allow the information to sink in. When the Bursar ceased twitching in his chair, he continued. ‘That is my first point. The second is to announce that the College will become a co-educational institution from the beginning of the forthcoming academic year. Yes, gentlemen, from the beginning of next year there will be women living in Porterhouse.’ A gasp, almost a belch of shock, broke from the Fellows. The Dean buried his face in his hands and the Senior Tutor put both his hands on the edge of the table to steady himself. Only the Chaplain spoke.
‘I heard that,’ he bellowed, his face radiant as if with divine revelation. ‘I heard it. Splendid news. Not before time either.’ He relapsed into silence. The Master beamed. ‘I accept your approval, Chaplain,’ he said, ‘with thanks. It is good to know that I have support from such an unexpected quarter. Thirdly …’
‘I protest,’ shouted the Senior Tutor, half rising to his feet. Sir Godber cut him short.
‘Later,’ he snapped and the Senior Tutor dropped back into his seat. ‘Thirdly, the practice of dining in Hall will be abandoned. A self-service canteen run by an outside catering firm will be established in the Hall. There will be no High Table. All forms of academic segregation will disappear. Yes Dean …?’
But the Dean was speechless. His face livid and congested he had started to protest only to slump in his chair. The Senior Tutor hurried to his side while the Chaplain, always alert to the possibilities provided by a stricken audience, bellowed words of comfort into the insensible Dean’s ear. Only the Master remained unmoved.
‘Not, I trust, another Porterhouse Blue,’ he said audibly to the Bursar, and looked at his watch, with calculated unconcern. To the Dean Sir Godber’s manifest lack of interest in his demise came as a stimulant. His face grew pale and his breathing less sibilant. He opened his eyes and stared with loathing down the table at the Master.
‘As I was saying,’ continued Sir Godber, picking up the threads of his speech, ‘the measures I have proposed will transform Porterhouse a
t a stroke.’ He paused and smiled at the appositeness of the phrase. The Fellows stared at this fresh evidence of gaucherie. Even the Chaplain, imbued with the spirit of goodwill and deaf to the world’s wickedness, was appalled by the Master’s sang-froid.
‘Porterhouse will regain its rightful place in the forefront of colleges,’ the Master went on in a manner now recognizably political. ‘No longer will we stumble on hamstrung by the obsolescence of outmoded tradition and class prejudice, by the limitations of the past and the cynicism of the present, but inspired by confidence in the future we shall prove ourselves worthy of the great trust that has been bequeathed us.’ He sat down, inspired by his own brief eloquence. It was clear that nobody else present shared his enthusiasm for the future. When at last someone spoke it was the Bursar.
‘There do appear to be one or two problems involved in this … er … transformation,’ he pointed out. ‘Not insuperable, I daresay, but nevertheless worth mentioning before we all become too enthusiastic.’
The Master surfaced from his reverie. ‘Such as?’ he said shortly.
The Bursar pursed his lips. ‘Quite apart from the foreseeable difficulties of getting this … er … legislation accepted by the Council, I use the term advisedly you understand, there is the question of finance to consider. We are not a rich college …’ He hesitated. The Master had raised an eyebrow.
‘I am not unused to the argument,’ he said urbanely. ‘In a long career in government I had heard it put forward on too many occasions to be wholly convinced that the plea of poverty is as formidable as it sounds. It is precisely the rich who use it most frequently.’
The Bursar was driven to interrupt. ‘I can assure you …’ he began but the Master overrode him.
‘I can only invoke the psalmist and say Cast thy bread upon the waters.’
‘Not to be taken literally,’ snapped the Senior Tutor.
‘To be taken how you wish,’ Sir Godber snapped back. The members of the Council stared at him with open belligerence.
‘It is precisely that we have no bread to throw,’ said the Bursar, trying to pour oil on troubled waters.
The Senior Tutor ignored his efforts. ‘May I remind you,’ he snarled at the Master, ‘that this Council is the governing body of the College and …’
‘The Dean reminded me earlier in the meeting,’ the Master interrupted.
‘I was about to say that policy decisions affecting the running of the College are taken by the Council as a whole,’ continued the Senior Tutor. ‘I should like to make it quite clear that I for one have no intention of accepting the changes outlined in the proposals that the Master has submitted to us. I think I can speak for the Dean,’ he glanced at the speechless Dean before continuing, ‘when I say we are both adamantly opposed to any changes in College policy.’ He sat back. There were murmurs of agreement from the other Fellows. The Master leant forward and looked round the table.
‘Am I to understand that the Senior Tutor has expressed the general feelings of the meeting?’ he asked. There was a nodding of heads round the table. The Master looked crestfallen.
‘In that case, gentlemen, there is little I can say,’ he said sadly. ‘In the face of your opposition to the changes in College policy that I have proposed, I have little choice but to resign the Mastership of Porterhouse.’ A gasp came from the Fellows as the Master rose and gathered his notes. ‘I shall announce my resignation in a letter to the Prime Minister, an open letter, gentlemen, in which I shall state the reasons for my resignation, namely that I am unable to continue as Master of a college that augments its financial resources by admitting candidates without academic qualifications in return for large donations to the Endowment Subscription Fund and selling degrees.’ The Master paused and looked at the Fellows who sat stunned by his announcement. ‘When I was nominated by the Prime Minister, I had no idea that I was accepting the Mastership of an academic auction-room nor that I was ending a career marked, I am proud to say, by the utmost adherence to the rules of probity in public life by becoming an accessory to a financial scandal of national proportions. I have the facts and figures here, gentlemen, and I shall include them in my letter to the Prime Minister, who will doubtless pass them on to the Director of Public Prosecutions. Good afternoon, gentlemen.’
The Master turned and stalked out of the room. Behind him the Fellows of Porterhouse sat rigid like embalmed figures round the table, each absorbed in calculating his own complicity in a scandal that must bring ruin to them all. It took little imagination to foresee the public outcry that would follow Sir Godber’s resignation and the publication of his open letter, the wave of indignation that would sweep the country, the execrations that would fall on their heads from the other colleges in Cambridge, the denunciations of the other, newer universities. The Fellows of Porterhouse had little imagination but they could foresee all this and more, the demand for public accountability, possibly even prosecutions, even perhaps an enquiry into the sources and size of College funds. What would Trinity and King’s say to this? The Fellows of Porterhouse knew the odium they could expect for having precipitated a public enquiry that could put, would put, in jeopardy the vast wealth of the other colleges and they shrank from the prospect. It was the Dean who first broke the silence with a strangled cry.
‘He must be stopped,’ he gurgled.
The Senior Tutor nodded sympathetically. ‘We have little alternative.’
‘But how?’ demanded the Bursar, who was desperately trying to banish from his mind the knowledge that he had inadvertently provided the Master with the information he was now threatening to disclose. If the other Fellows should ever learn who had provided Sir Godber with this material for blackmail his life in College would not be worth living.
‘At all costs the Master must be persuaded to stay on,’ said the Senior Tutor. ‘We simply cannot afford the scandal that would ensue from the publication of his letter of resignation.’
The Praelector looked at him vindictively. ‘We?’ he asked. ‘I beg not to be included in the list of those responsible for this disgraceful disclosure.’
‘And what precisely do you mean by that?’ asked the Senior Tutor.
‘I should have thought that it was obvious,’ said the Praelector. ‘Most of us have had nothing to do with the administration of College finances nor with the admissions procedure. We cannot be held responsible for …’
‘We are all responsible for College policy,’ shouted the Senior Tutor.
‘You are responsible for admissions,’ the Praelector shouted back. ‘You are responsible for the choice of candidates. You are …’
‘Gentlemen,’ the Bursar interposed, ‘let us not bicker about individual responsibilities. We are all responsible as members of the Council for the running of the College.’
‘Some of us are more responsible than others,’ the Praelector pointed out.
‘And we shall all share the blame for the mistakes that have been made in the past,’ continued the Bursar.
‘Mistakes? Who said anything about mistakes?’ demanded the Dean breathlessly.
‘I think that in the light of the Master’s …’ began the Senior Tutor.
‘Damn the Master,’ the Dean snarled, struggling to his feet. ‘Damn the man. Let us stop talking about mistakes. I said he must be stopped. I didn’t say we had to surrender to the swine.’ He waddled to the head of the table, portly, belligerent and stubborn, like some crimson toad and with all that creature’s resilience to the challenges of climate. The Senior Tutor hesitated in the face of his colleague’s revitalized obstinacy. ‘But …’ he began. The Dean raised a hand for silence.
‘He must be stopped,’ he said. ‘For the time being perhaps we must accept his proposals, but for the time being only. In the short run we must use the tactics of delay, but only in the short run.’
‘And then?’ the Senior Tutor asked.
‘We must buy time,’ continued the Dean. ‘Time to bring influence to bear upon Sir Godber and time t
o subject his own career to the scrutiny he has seen fit to apply to the customs and traditions of the College. No man who has spent as long as Sir Godber Evans in public life is wholly without fault. It is our business to discover the extent of his weaknesses.’
‘Are you saying that we should …’ the Praelector began.
‘I am saying that the Master is vulnerable,’ the Dean went on, ‘that he is corrupt and that he is open to influence from the powers that be. The tactics he has used this afternoon, tactics of blackmail, are a symptom of the corruption I am referring to. And let us not forget that we have powerful friends.’
The Senior Tutor pursed his lips and nodded. ‘True. Very true, Dean.’
‘Yes, Porterhouse can justly claim its share of eminent men. The Master may dismiss our protests but we have powerful allies,’ said the Dean.
‘And in the meantime we must eat humble pie and ask the Master to reconsider his resignation in the light of our acceptance of the changes he has proposed?’ said the Senior Tutor.
‘Precisely.’ The Dean looked round the table at the Fellows for a sign of hesitancy. ‘Has anyone here any doubts as to the wisdom of the course I have proposed?’ he asked.
‘We seem to be left with little choice,’ said the Bursar.
‘We have no choice at all,’ the Dean told him.
‘And if the Master refuses to withdraw his resignation?’ the Praelector asked.
‘There is no possible reason why he should,’ the Dean said. ‘I propose that we go now in a body to the Master’s Lodge and ask him to reconsider.’
‘In a body? Is that really wise? Wouldn’t it look … rather … well … obsequious?’ the Senior Tutor asked doubtfully.
‘I don’t think this is any time to be thinking about appearances,’ said the Dean. ‘I am only concerned with results. Humble pie, you said yourself. Very well, if Sir Godber requires humble pie to retract his threat he shall have it. I shall see to it that he eats it himself later on. Besides I should not like him to think that we are in any way divided.’ He stared fiercely at the Bursar. ‘At a time of crisis it is vital that we present a united front. Don’t you agree, Bursar?’
