Grantchester Grind

'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 corning. 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.'