29
Out in the darkness under the old beech tree by the back gate Skullion followed the General's progress across the lawn and round the rose beds by the occasional glow of his cigar. Sir Cathcart had lit it almost as soon as he was in the open air partly to give him time to think what he was going to say but also to give Skullion warning that he was coming. 'No point in alarming the old bugger,' he'd said to himself.
But Skullion wasn't alarmed. He'd known this would happen sooner or later. He'd given the Dean his marching bloody orders and the Dean wasn't ever going to forgive him for that. Given him a nasty shock into the bargain telling him about killing Sir Godber Blooming Evans. Only done it because he was drunk and pissed off. But what was done was done and in some ways Skullion didn't regret it. He'd had enough of being called Master and them not thinking of him as the Master. Somehow the Bursar's telling that bloody Yank not to call him a Quasimodo update but the Master had cleared the air and let him see his position in the College in a new light. There wasn't any pride in being Master of Porterhouse and being helpless in a wheelchair. The fact that he'd missed sitting by the bed and gobbledygooking the Yank had told him that too.
It had been different when he'd been Head Porter. He'd had real power then even if he did have to hide it and call the young wet-behind-the-ears 'Sir'. He'd learnt that lesson in the Royal Marines from watching the sergeants saluting young wet-behind-the-ears officers and calling them 'Sir' to their faces and then seeing to it they didn't lead them into any trouble. In France Skullion had seen a Corporal put a bullet through a 2nd Lieutenant who'd wanted to be a hero and get them all killed taking on a company of Panzer Grenadiers waiting for them in a sunken lane. He'd heard the Corporal mutter, 'Him or us. And it ain't going to be us,' just before he shot the officer. And at Lympstone-or was it Deal?-Sergeant Smith had asked him one wet afternoon standing in the drill shed, 'What's your most important job in this bloody war, boy? I'll tell you what it fucking is. To kill the fucking enemy. And to do that you've got to be alive, see? So keep your swede down and remember your blooming mother wants to see you again even if I don't and she ain't going to do that if you're a dead Marine and some fucking Jerry's done to you what you're being paid to do to him. And what are you fucking smiling at, boy? Tell your ruddy uncle here because I'm sure we all want to share the joke.' And 3rd Class Marine Skullion PO/X127052 had said sheepishly, 'It's just that a dead Marine is an empty bottle, isn't it, Sarge? Like a bottle of beer.' And even Sergeant Smith had almost smiled for a moment. 'Well, you're going to see plenty of both where you're going, and for your sake I hope you live to drink plenty of the one and aren't one of the others.' That had all been such a long time ago, but Skullion had never forgotten it nor what he'd seen in France. And people like General Sir Cathcart D'Eath talked about having a Good War. As if being cold and wet and hungry and shit-scared was fun. And hearing someone screaming wasn't fun either even if it was a bloody wounded Jerry.
So now in the darkness Skullion waited underneath the great tree for Sir Cathcart and wasn't sorry it was over.
'Ah Skullion,' the General said, peering at the dark shape against the trunk of the beech. 'Still waiting for us to climb in, what?'
'You, Sir Cathcart, yes, you were a one for climbing in, you were. I caught you many a time and let you go some more, though I don't suppose you ever knew it, sir.'
The end of the General's cigar glowed in appreciation. "You're an old devil, Skullion, you know that, a wicked old devil.'
Skullion grunted, or chuckled. It was impossible to tell which.
'Bad business, Skullion, bad business,' the General continued. 'The Dean's upset. Praelector too. Can't have it, you know.'
'No, sir,' said Skullion.
'Can't say I blame you myself. The bloody man wasn't a fit and proper person to be Master. In your own way you were trying to do the College a service.'
He stopped. Somewhere behind him there was a sound of raucous laughter.
'Boat club,' Skullion explained. 'Getting ready for the Bumps. Senior Tutor's got them in training.'
'Yes,' said the General, suddenly remembering that Skullion wasn't the only killer on the premises. And that's another thing. College reputation's at stake. This business is bound to leak out and once the police start poking their noses in there'll be no stopping them. We can't afford to let that happen. Can't have you making threats to the Dean. He's not a young man, you know. We none of us are and things are going to change pretty damn drastically. So, no matter what you say…well, to put it bluntly, Skullion, man to man and so on, your innings is over. Ran yourself out or played on, whichever you like. Now, I understand from the Dean you don't want to go to the Park.'
'No, Sir Cathcart, I don't. Not with all them loonies like old Dr Vertel. I'd rather die here and now and be done with it. I mean it, sir. I'd rather die now.'
Sir Cathcart mulled this over for a moment, but ruled it out. 'Tell you what,' he said finally. 'There is no question of your going to Porterhouse Park. Give you my word as a gentleman that you won't even be asked to. What do you say to that?'
'Very good of you, sir, very good.'
'On the other hand, the College needs a new Master. You must see that.'
'Oh I do, Sir Cathcart. I've never been the Master the College needed. I've always known that.'
'Good man. Now if you were to retire, of your own free will of course…' Sir Cathcart let the question hang on the still night air. For a moment Skullion said nothing.
'If I retired, Sir Cathcart, I'd have the right to name my own successor, wouldn't I? That's the Master's right, isn't it?'
Sir Cathcart nodded. 'You would indeed have that right,' he said. 'It is your absolute right as Master to name the person to succeed you. And you could come and live at Coft Castle with me, and occasionally we could drive over to visit the College, if you so wished. That is what I've come to tell you.'
'In that case I'm prepared to go,' said Skullion solemnly, 'go whenever you want, sir. And I will name my successor now.'
'And who is it to be?' Sir Cathcart asked.
'Lord Pimpole, sir, Lord Pimpole.'
'Very good, Master, very good. And I can go and inform the Dean of your decision?'
'Yes, Sir Cathcart, you can tell him. And you can tell him this too, he doesn't have to worry about the Sir Godber Evans Fellow, Dr Osbert, about him knowing I killed Sir bloody Godber, because he already does know.'
Sir Cathcart hesitated. 'Knew' would be a more appropriate word in the late Dr Osbert's case.
'He knows because I told him,' Skullion continued. 'He was sitting in the maze when I was telling the Dean. Been there all afternoon, waiting and listening, and he heard every word I said.'
'Good Lord,' said Sir Cathcart and understood why the Senior Tutor had acted with such precipitate violence.
'What's more, the stupid bugger was in the maze all bloody night, crashing about and trying to find the way out.' Skullion chuckled at the memory.
'And you knew he was listening all the time?'
'Course I did. I haven't been Skullion the Head Porter and not known what's going on in College all these years. Yes, I heard him and I thought to myself, 'I'll tell you what you've come to find out and it isn't going to do you any good at all because you ain't going to be able to do anything about it. And it hasn't done him any good.'
'Hmm,' was the only comment Sir Cathcart was prepared to make. He had begun to regret with a new and fearful intensity ever having come near the College in these unfathomable circumstances. He certainly had no intention of incriminating himself any further by asking questions. 'Well, I'll be getting back to the Dean,' he said hurriedly before there could be any fresh disclosures. 'I'm sure he'll be delighted to learn of your decision. We can make arrangements for your moving out of the Master's Lodge at some other time.' And with a hasty 'Goodnight' he was off across the lawn.