Porterhouse Blue

Chapter 11

On the towpath by the river the Dean stood huddled in his overcoat against the wind. Behind him the willows shuddered and shook and the hedgerow rustled. In front the eights rowed through choppy water, each with its coterie of coaches and supporters splashing through the puddles on their bicycles and shouting orders and encouragement. On every stroke the coxes jerked backwards and the boats leapt forwards, each in pursuit of the eight ahead and each in turn in flight from the eight behind. Occasionally a sudden burst of cheering signalled a bump as one eight touched the boat in front and the two pulled into the side of the river and the victors broke off a willow branch and stuck it into the bow. There were gaps in the procession where bumps had been achieved, spaces of empty water and then another eight would appear round the bend still trying desperately to catch the boat at least two lengths ahead and overbump. Jesus. Porterhouse. Lady Margaret. Pembroke. Trinity. St Catherine’s. Christ’s. Churchill. Magdalene. Caius. Qare. Peterhouse. Historic names, hallowed names like so many prayers on a rosary of racing boats to be repeated twice yearly at Lent and after Easter. To the Dean the ritual was holy, a sacred occasion to be attended, no matter how cold or wet the weather, in memory of the healthy athleticism of the past and the certainties of his youth… The Bumps were a time of renewal for him. Standing on the towpath he felt once more the innocence, the unquestioning innocence of his own rowing days and the fitness of things then. Yes, fitness, a fitness not simply of body, or even of mind, but of things in general, an acceptance of life as it was without the insidious subversion of questions or the dangerous speculations which had gained momentum since. A guiltless time, that, a golden age of assurance before the Great War when there was honey still for tea and a servant to bring it too. In memory of that time the Dean braved the wind and the cold and stood on the towpath while the bicycles splashed mud on to his shoes and the eights rowed by. When it was all over he turned and trudged back to the Pike and Eel where his car was parked. Behind him and in front, strung out along the path, old men like himself turned up the collars of their overcoats and headed home, their heads bent against the wind but with a new sprightliness in their step. The Dean had reached the railway bridge when he was aware of a familiar figure in front. “Afternoon, Skullion. We rowed over again,” he said. Skullion nodded. “Jesus never looked like catching us,” the Dean said, “and we should bump Trinity tomorrow. It was the choppy water that stopped us today.”

They walked on in silence while the Dean recalled other Bumps and famous crews and Skullion tried to think of some way of broaching the subject of the Bursar’s treachery without offending the Dean’s sense of what was proper for College servants to say. It wasn’t easy even to walk beside the Dean. Not his place, and presently Skullion gave up the unequal struggle with his conscience and gradually fell back a pace or two behind the old man. At the Pike and Eel the Dean, still lost in thought, unlocked his car and climbed in. Skullion fetched his bicycle and wheeled it across the footbridge. Behind him the Dean sat in his car and waited for the traffic to clear. He had forgotten Skullion. He had forgotten even the Bumps and the youth they had recalled to him. He was thinking about Sir Godber and the glibness of his modernity and the threat to Porterhouse he represented. His feet were cold and the joints in his knees ached. He was an old man, bitter at the loss of his power. When the last of the other cars had gone he started the engine and drove home through the factory workers coming out of Pye’s television factory. Cars pulled out of the factory gates in front of him. Men on bicycles ignored him and girls ran across the road to catch their buses. The Dean eyed them angrily. In the old days he would have blown his horn and cleared them off the road. Now he had to sit and wait. He found himself staring at an advertisement. “Watch with Carrington on Pye”, it said and a face smiled at him from a television screen. A familiar face. A face he knew. “Carrington on Conservation. The Nation’s Heritage at Stake.” The Dean stared at the face and was suddenly conscious of new hope. Behind him someone hooted importunately and the Dean put his car in gear and moved forward. He drove steadily home, unaware now of the traffic and of the present.

He left his car in the garage behind Phipps Building and went up to his room and presently he was sitting at his desk checking the Porterhouse Register for Cornelius Carrington’s name. There it was, 1935-8. The Dean closed the book and sat back contentedly. A nasty piece of work, Cornelius Carrington, but effective for all that. The Jeremiah of the BBC, they called him, and certainly his romantic Toryism was popular. Not even politically divisive, just good-hearted nostalgia for the best that was British and with immense family appeal. The Dean did not often watch television but he had heard of Cornelius Carrington’s programmes. “Jewels of the Empire” had been one such series, with the ubiquitous Carrington expatiating on the architectural treasures of Poona and Lucknow. Another programme had been devoted to the need to preserve the rum ration in the Royal Navy, and Carrington had made himself the spokesman for past privileges wherever they were threatened. He was, the Dean felt sure, capable of extolling the virtues of any subject you chose and certainly there was no doubting the effectiveness of his appearance. Elicit Cornelius Carrington’s interest and you were sure of an audience. And the wretched fellow was a Porterhouse man. The Dean smiled to himself at the thought of Carrington publicizing the threat that Sir Godber’s innovations posed to the College. It was a nice thought. He would have to speak to Sir Cathcart about it. It would depend on the outcome of the College Council meeting in the morning.

Skullion was at his waterpipe in the boiler-room when the meeting began. With the usual interruptions from the central heating system he could hear much of what was said. Most of the discussion centred on the cost of repairing the damage done to the Tower by Zipser’s experiment in the mass disposal of prophylactics. Sir Godber, it seemed, had very definite views on the subject.

“It is time,” he was saying, “that the College recognized the need to act in accordance with the principles which appear to have motivated the members of this Council in the past. The changes which I proposed at our last meeting met with opposition on the grounds that Porterhouse is a self-sufficient and independent college, a self-governing body whose interests are internal and without reference to the world at large. For myself as you know, that view is without foundation, but I am prepared to accept it since it appears to represent the views of the majority of this Council.” The Master paused, evidently looking round the Fellows for approval. In the boiler-room Skullion tried to digest the import of his words without much success. It seemed too much to hope that Sir Godber had changed his mind.

“Are we to understand that you have conceded that there is no need for the changes you proposed at our last meeting?” the Dean asked.

“The point I am conceding, Dean,” continued the Master, “is that the College is responsible for its own internal affairs. I am prepared to accept the views of the Council that we should not look for guidance or assistance from the public”

“I should certainly hope not,” said the Senior Tutor fervently.

“That is all I am conceding and since that is the case the full responsibility for the recent tragic events must be borne by the College. In particular the cost of the repairs to the Tower must be met out of our own resources.”

A murmur of astonishment greeted the Master’s statement.

“Impossible,” said the Dean angrily, “out of the question. In the past we have had recourse to a Restoration Fund. There seems to be no good reason why we should not set up such a fund in this case.”

In the boiler-room Skullion followed the argument with difficulty. The Master’s tactics evaded him.

“I must say, Dean, that I find your attitude a little difficult to understand,” Sir Godber continued. “On the one hand you are opposed to any changes that would bring Porterhouse into line with contemporary standards of education…” There was an angry interjection from the Dean. “… and on the other you seem only too ready to appeal to public subscription to avoid the necessary economies required to rebuild the Tower…” At this point the central heating system interjected and it was some time before Skullion could catch the drift of the discussion again. By then they had got on to the details of the economies Sir Godber had in mind. Not surprisingly they seemed to embody just those changes in College policy he had suggested at the previous meeting but this time the Master was arguing less from policy than from financial necessity.

Through the gurgles in the pipe Skullion caught the words “Self-service system in Hall… coeducation… and the sale of College properties.” He was about to climb down from his perch when Rhyder Street was mentioned. Skullion lived in Rhyder Street. Rhyder Street was College property. In the boiler-room Skullion’s interest in the proceedings taking place above his head took on a new and more personal touch.

“The Bursar and I have calculated that the cost of the repairs can be met by the economies I have outlined,” Skullion heard. “The sale of Rhyder Street in particular will provide something in the region of £150,000 at today’s inflated prices. It is slum property, I know, but…” Skullion slid down the pipe and sat on the chair. Slum property, he called it. Rhyder Street where he lived in Number 41. Slum property. The Chef lived there too. The street was filled with the houses of College servants. They couldn’t sell it. They’d got no right to. A new fury possessed Skullion, a bitterness against Sir Godber that was no longer a concern for the traditions of the College he had served so long but a sense of personal betrayal. He’d been going to retire to Rhyder Street. It had been one of the conditions of his employment. The College had provided a house at a nominal rent. Skullion hadn’t worked for forty-five years at a pittance a week to be evicted from a house that had been sold over his head by Sir Godber. Without waiting to hear more he got up from the chair and lurched out of the boiler-room into the Old Court in search of the Chef. Above his head a new violence of debate had broken out in the Council Chamber. Sir Godber had announced the proposed installation of a contraceptive dispenser.

The Dean erupted from the meeting with a virulence that stemmed from the knowledge that he had been outmanoeuvred. The Master’s appeal to principle had placed him in a false position and the Dean was conscious that his arguments against the Master’s proposed economies had lacked the force of conviction. “To cap it all,” he muttered to himself as he swept from the room, “a damned contraceptive machine.” The Bursar’s sudden change of allegiance had infuriated him too. With his support Sir Godber could manipulate the College finances as he pleased, and the Dean cursed the Bursar viciously as he climbed the stairs to his room. There remained only Sir Cathcart and already he had shown himself pusillanimous in the matter of calling a meeting of the Porterhouse Society. Well, there were others who could be relied on to bring influence to bear. “I’ll see Sir Cathcart this afternoon,” he decided, and poured himself a glass of sherry.

Sir Godber left the meeting with the Bursar. He was feeling distinctly pleased with his morning’s work.

“Why don’t you lunch with us at the Lodge?” he said with a sudden generosity. “My wife has been asking to meet you.”

“That’s very kind of you,” said the Bursar, glad to escape the hostile reception he was likely to meet at High Table. They strolled across the lawn past a group of Fellows who were conferring at the entrance to the Combination Room. In the Screens they saw Skullion scowling darkly in the shadows.

“I must say I find Skullion’s manner a trifle taciturn,” Sir Godber said when they were out of earshot. “Even as an undergraduate I found him unpleasant to deal with, and age hasn’t improved his manners.”

The Bursar sympathized with Sir Godber. “Not a very likeable fellow but he’s very conscientious and he is a great favourite of the Dean.”

“I can imagine that they get on well together,” said Sir Godber. “All the same, Porterhouse may be the name of the College but it doesn’t mean that the Head Porter is in charge. On the night of the… er… accident Skullion was distinctly disrespectful. I told him to open the main gates for the ambulancemen and he refused. One of these days I daresay I shall have to ask you to give him notice.”

The Bursar blanched at the thought. “I think that would be most inadvisable, Master,” he said. “The Dean would be most upset.”

“Well,” said Sir Godber, “the next time I have any insolence from him out he goes and no mistake.” With the silent thought that it was time such relics of the past got their marching orders, the Master led the way into the Lodge.

Lady Mary was waiting in the drawing-room. “I’ve asked the Bursar to lunch, my dear,” said Sir Godber, his voice a shade less authoritative in the presence of his wife.

“I’m afraid you’ll just have to take pot luck,” Lady Mary told the Bursar. “My husband tells me that you treat yourselves lavishly at High Table.”

The Bursar simpered apologetically. Lady Mary ignored these signs of submission. “I find it quite deplorable that so much good money should be wasted on maintaining the ill-health of a number of elderly scholars.”

“My dear,” Sir Godber intervened, “you’ll be glad to hear that the Council has accepted our proposals.”

“And not before time,” said Lady Mary, studying the Bursar with distaste. “One of the most astonishing things about the educational institutions of this country is the way they have resisted change. When I think how long we’ve been urging the abolition of private education I’m amazed. The public schools seem to go from strength to strength.”

To the Bursar, himself the product of a minor public school on the South Downs, Lady Mary’s words verged on the blasphemous. “You’re surely not suggesting public schools should be abolished,” he said. From the table where Sir Godber was pouring sherry there came the sound of rattled glass. Lady Mary assumed a new hauteur.

“Am I to infer from that remark that you are in favour of private education?” she asked.

The Bursar groped for a conciliatory reply. “Well, I think there is something to be said for it,” he mumbled finally.

“What?” asked Lady Mary.

But before the Bursar could think of anything to recommend the Public School system without offending his hostess. Sir Godber had come to his rescue with a glass of sherry. “Very good of you. Master,” he said gratefully and sipped his drink. “And a very pleasant sherry, if I may say so.”

“We don’t drink South African sherry,” Lady Mary said. “I hope the College doesn’t keep any in stock.”

“I believe we have some for the undergraduates,” said the Bursar, “but I know the Senior Members don’t touch the stuff.”

“Quite right too,” said Sir Godber.

“I was not thinking of the question of taste,” Lady Mary continued, “so much as the moral objections to buying South African products. I have always made a point of boycotting South African goods.”

To the Bursar, long accustomed to the political opinions expressed at High Table by the Dean and the Senior Tutor, Lady Mary’s views were radical in the extreme and the fact that they were expressed in a tone of voice which suggested that she was addressing a congregation of unmarried mothers unnerved him. He stumbled through the thorny problems of world poverty, the population explosion, abortion, the Nicaraguan earthquake, strategic arms limitation talks, and prison reform until a gong sounded and they went into lunch. Over a sardine salad that would have served as an hors d’oeuvre in Hall his discomfiture took a more personal turn.

“You’re not by any chance related to the Shropshire Shrimptons?” Lady Mary asked.

The Bursar shook his head sorrowfully.

“My family came originally from Southend,” he said.

“How very unusual,” said Lady Mary. “I only asked because we used to stay with them at Bognorth before the war. Sue Shrimpton was up with me at Somerville and we served together on the Needham Commission.”

The Bursar acknowledged Lady Mary’s social distinction in silence. He would put his present humiliation to good use in the future. At sherry parties for years to come he would be able to say “Lady Mary was saying to me only the other day…” or “Lady Mary and I…” and establish his own superiority over lesser men and their wives. It was in such small achievements that the Bursar’s satisfactions were found. Sir Godber ate his sardines in silence too. He was grateful to the Bursar for providing a target for his wife’s conversation and moral rectitude. He dreaded to think what would happen if the injustices on which Lady Mary vented her moral spleen ever disappeared. “The poor are always with us, thank God,” he thought and helped himself to a piece of cheddar.

It was left to Skullion to represent the College on the towpath that afternoon. The Dean had driven over to Coft to see Sir Cathcart and Skullion stood alone in the biting wind watching Porterhouse row over for the second day running. The terrible sense of wrong that he had felt in the boiler-room when he heard the proposed sale of Rhyder Street had not left him. It had been augmented by the news Arthur had brought him from High Table after lunch.

“He’s put the cat among the pigeons now, the Master has,” Arthur said breathlessly. “He’s got under their skin something terrible this time.”

“I don’t wonder,” said Skullion, thinking bitterly of Rhyder Street.

“I mean you wouldn’t want one in your own home, would you? Not one of them things.”

“What things?” Skullion asked, all too conscious of the fact that he was unlikely to have a home to put anything in if Sir Godber had his way.

“Well I don’t rightly know what they’re called,” Arthur said. “Not exactly, that is. You put your money in and…”

“And what?” Skullion asked irritably.

“And you get these things out. Three I think. Not that I’ve ever had occasion to use them.”

“What things?”

“Frenchies,” said Arthur, looking round to make sure no one was listening.

“Frenchies?” said Skullion. “What Frenchies?”

“The Frenchies that Zipser gentleman exploded himself with,” Arthur explained. Skullion looked at him in disgust. “You mean to tell me they’re going to bring one of those filthy things into the College?”

Arthur nodded. “In the men’s toilet. That’s where it’s going.”

“Over my dead body,” said Skullion. “I’m not staying here as Head Porter with one of those things in the toilet. This isn’t a bloody chemist’s shop.”

“Some of the other colleges have them,” Arthur told him.

“Some of the other colleges may have them. Doesn’t mean we’ve got to. It isn’t right. Encourages immorality, French letters do. You’d have thought they’d have learnt that from what happened to that Zipser bloke. Preyed on his mind, all those FLs did.”

Arthur shook his head sorrowfully. “T’isn’t right,” he said, “t’isn’t right, Mr Skullion. I don’t know what the College is coming to. Senior Tutor is particularly upset. He says it will affect the rowing.”

Standing on the towpath Skullion agreed with the Senior Tutor. “All this business about sex,” he muttered. “It doesn’t do anybody any good. It isn’t right.”

When the Porterhouse Eight rowed past Skullion raised a feeble cheer and then stumped off after them. Around him bicycles churned the muddy puddles as they overtook him but, like the Dean the day before, Skullion was lost in thought and bitterness.

His anger, unlike the Dean’s, was tainted with a sense of betrayal. The College whose servant he was and his ancestors before him had let him down. They had no right to let Sir Godber sell Rhyder Street. They should have stopped him. That was their duty to him, just as his duty to the College had been for forty-five years to sit in the Porter’s Lodge all day and half the night for a miserable pittance a week, the guardian of privilege and of the indiscretions of the privileged young. How many drunken young gentlemen had Skullion helped to their rooms? How many secrets had he kept? How many insults had he suffered in his time? He could not begin to recall them but in the back of his mind the debits had balanced the credits and he had been secure in the knowledge that the College would always look after him now and in his old age. He had been proud of his servility, the Porter of Porterhouse, but what if the College’s reputation was debased? What would he be then? A homeless old man with his memories. He wasn’t having it. They’d got to see him right. It was their duty.