“And if he resigns without warning?”
“We shall publish all the same,” said the Dean. “We shall muddy the issue until it is uncertain whether we forced his resignation or not. Oh, we shall stir the pot, gentlemen. Have no fear of that. If there must be dirt let there be lots of it.” The Dean turned and went out, his gown billowing darkly behind him. In the Combination Room the Fellows looked at one another ruefully. Whatever changes the Master proposed appeared minor by comparison with the uproar the Dean seemed bent on provoking.
It was the Chaplain who broke the silence. “I must say,” he shouted, “that the Chef excelled himself tonight. That soufflé was delicious.”
Outside the main gate Sir Cathcart’s Rolls-Royce waited ostentatiously as the Dean, swaddled in a heavy coat and wearing his blackest hat, hurried past the Porter’s Lodge.
Skullion opened the car door for him.
“Good evening, Skullion.”
“Good evening to you, sir,” Skullion murmured humbly.
The Dean clambered in and the car moved off, its wheels slushing through the snow. In the back the Dean stared through the window at the flurries of snowflakes and the passers-by with their heads bent against the driving wind. He felt warm and contented, with none of the uneasy feelings that had driven the Master to his Bentham. This was weather he appreciated, cold bitter weather with the river rising and the biting wind creating once again the divisions of his youth, that hierarchy of rich and poor, good and bad, the comfort and the misery which he longed to preserve and which Sir Godber would destroy in his search for soulless uniformity. “The old order changeth,” he muttered to himself, “but damned slowly if I have anything to do with it.”
Skullion went back into the Porter’s Lodge.
“Going to supper,” he told the under-porter and trudged across the Court to the kitchen. He went down the stone stairs to the kitchen where the Chef had laid a table for two in his pantry. It was hot and Skullion took off his coat before sitting down.
“Snowing again they tell me,” said the Chef taking his seat.
Skullion waited until a young waiter with a gaping mouth had brought the dishes before saying anything.
“Dean’s gone to see the General,” he said finally.
“Has he now?” said the Chef, helping himself to the remains of the poached salmon.
“Council meeting this afternoon,” Skullion continued.
“So I heard.”
Skullion shook his head.
“You aren’t going to like this,” he said. “The Master’s changes aren’t going to suit your book, I can tell you.”
“Never supposed they would, Mr Skullion.”
“Worse than I expected. Chef, much worse.” Skullion took a mouthful of Ockfener Herrenberg 1964 before going on.
“Self-service in Hall,” he said mournfully.
The Chef put down his knife and fork. “Never,” he growled.
“It’s true. Self-service in Hall.”
“Over my dead body,” said the Chef. “Over my bloody dead body.”
“Women in College too.”
“What? Living in College?”
“That’s it. Living in College.”
“That’s unnatural, Mr Skullion. Unnatural.”
“You don’t have to tell me that, Chef. You don’t have to tell me. Unnatural and immoral. It isn’t right. Chef, it’s downright wicked.”
“And self-service in Hall,” the Chef muttered. “What’s the world coming to? You know, Mr Skullion, when I think of all the years I’ve been Chef to the College and all the dinners I’ve cooked for them, I sometimes, wonder what’s the meaning of it all. They’ve got no right to do it.”
“It’s not them that’s doing it,” Skullion told him. “It’s him that says it’s got to change.”
“Why don’t they stop him? They’re the Council. He can’t do it without their say-so.”
“They can’t stop him. Threatened to resign if they didn’t agree.”
“Why didn’t they let him? Good riddance to bad rubbish.”
“Threatened to write to the papers and tell them we’ve been selling degrees,” Skullion said.
The Chef looked at him with alarm.
“You don’t mean he knows about your…”
“I don’t know what he knows and what he don’t,” Skullion said. “I don’t think he knows about them. I think he’s talking about the ones they let in because they’ve got money. I think that’s what he means.”
“But we’ve a right to let in who we like,” the Chef protested. “It’s our college. It’s not anyone else’s.”
“That’s not the way he sees it,” Skullion said. “He’s threatened them with a national scandal if they don’t toe the line and they’ve agreed.”
“What did the Dean say? He must have said something.”
“Said they’d got to buy time by seeming to agree. He’s gone to see the General now. They’ll think of something.”
Skullion finished his wine and smiled to himself. “He don’t know what he’s tackled,” he said more cheerfully.
“Thinks he’s dealing with the pipsqueaks in Parliament, he does. Wordmongers, that’s what MPs are. Think you’ve only got to say a thing for it to be there next day. They don’t know nothing about doing and they don’t have nothing to lose, but the Dean’s a different kettle of fish. He and the General, they’ll do him down. See if they don’t.” He grinned knowingly and winked his unblacked eye. The Chef nibbled a grape moodily.
“Don’t see how they can,” he said.
“Digging for dirt,” said Skullion. “Digging for dirt in his past, that’s what the Dean said.”
“Dirt? What sort of dirt?”
“Women,” said Skullion.
“Ah,” said the Chef. “Disreputable women.”
“Precisely, Chef, them and money.”
The Chef pushed his hat back on his head. “He wasn’t what you might call a rich undergrad, was he?”
“No,” said Skullion, “he wasn’t.”
“And he’s rich now.”
“Married it,” Skullion told him. “Lacey money, that’s what it is. Lady Mary’s money. That’s the sort of man he is, Sir Godber.”
“Boney woman. Not my cup of tea,” said the Chef. “Like something with a bit more meat to it myself. Wouldn’t be surprised if he hadn’t got a fancy woman somewhere.”
Skullion shook his head doubtfully. “Not him. Not enough guts,” said Skullion.
“You don’t think they’ll find anything then?”
“Not that sort of thing. They’ll have to bring pressure. Influential friends the College has got, the Dean said. They’ll use them.”
“They’d better use something. I’m not staying on to run a self-service canteen and have women in my Hall,” said the Chef.
Skullion got up from the table and put on his coat. “The Dean’ll see to it,” he said and climbed the stairs to the Screens. The wind had blown snow on to the steps and Skullion turned up the collar of his coat. “Got no right to change things,” he grumbled to himself, and went out into the night.
At Coft Castle the Dean and Sir Cathcart sat in the library, a decanter of brandy half empty on the table beside them and their thoughts bitter with memories of past greatness.
“England’s ruin, damned Socialists,” growled Sir Cathcart. “Turned the country into a benevolent society. Seem to think you can rule a nation with good intentions. Damned nonsense. Discipline. That’s what this country needs. A good dose of unemployment to bring the working classes to their senses.”
“Doesn’t seem to work these days,” said the Dean with a sigh. “In the old days a depression seemed to have a very salutary effect.”
“It’s the dole. Man can earn more not working than he can at his job. All wrong. A bit of genuine starvation would soon put that right.”
“I suppose the argument is that the wives and children suffer,” said the Dean.
“Can’t see much harm in that,” the General continued. “Nothing like a hungry woman to put some pep into a man. Reminds me of a painting I saw once. Lot of fellows sitting round a table waiting for their dinner and the lady of the house comes in and lifts the cover of the dish. Spur inside, what? Sensible woman. Fine painting. Have some more brandy?”