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.'