“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.