“This programme of yours on the College is a splendid idea,” Sir Godber continued when they were seated. “Just the sort of thing the College needs. A critical look at old traditions and an emphasis on the need for change. I imagine you have something of that sort in mind?” Sir Godber looked at him expectantly.
“Quite,” said Carrington. Sir Godber’s generalities left every option open. “Though I don’t imagine the Dean will approve.”
Sir Godber looked at him keenly. The hint of malice he detected was most encouraging. “A wonderful character, the Dean,” he said, “though a trifle hidebound.”
“A genuine eccentric,” agreed Carrington drily. It was evident from his manner that the Dean did not command his loyalty. Reassured, the Master launched into an analysis of the function of the college system in the modern world while Carrington toyed with his glass and considered the invincible gullibility of all politicians. Sir Godber’s faith in the future was almost as insufferable as the Dean’s condescension and Carrington’s erratic sympathies veered back towards the past. Sir Godber had just finished describing the advantages of coeducation, a subject that Carrington found personally distasteful, when Lady Mary arrived.
“My dear,” said Sir Godber, “I’d like you to meet Cornelius Carrington.”
Carrington found himself gazing into the arctic depths of Lady Mary’s eyes.
“How do you do?” said Lady Mary, her sympathies strained by the evident ambiguities of Carrington’s sexual nature.
“He’s thinking of doing a programme on the College,” Sir Godber said, pouring the driest of sherries.
“How absolutely splendid,” Lady Mary barked. “I found your programme on spina bifida most invigorating. It really is time we put some backbone into those people at the Ministry of Health.”
Carrington shivered at the forcefulness of Lady Mary’s enthusiasm. It filled him with that nostalgia for the nursery that was the hidden counterpart of his own predatory nature. The nursery with Lady Mary as the nanny. Even the thin mouth thrilled him, and the yellow teeth.
“Of course it’s the same with the dental service,” Lady Mary snarled telepathically. “We should put some teeth into it.” She smiled and Carrington glimpsed the dry tongue.
“I imagine you must find this a great change from London,” he said.
“It’s quite extraordinary,” said Lady Mary still blossoming under the warmth of his asexual attention. “Here we are only fifty miles from London and it seems like a thousand.” She pulled herself together. He was still a man for all that.
“What sort of thing were you thinking of doing on the College?” she asked. On the sofa Sir Godber blended with the loose cover.
“It’s really a question of presentation,” Carrington said vaguely. “One has to show both sides, naturally…”
“I’m sure you’ll do that very well,” said Lady Mary.
“And leave it to the viewers to make up their own minds,” Carrington went on.
“I think you’ll have difficulty persuading the Dean and the Fellows to cooperate. You’ve no idea what a reactionary lot they are,” Lady Mary said. Carrington smiled.
“My dear,” said Sir Godber, “Carrington is a Porterhouse man himself.”
“Really,” said Lady Mary, “in that case I must congratulate you. You’ve come out of it very well.” They went in to lunch and Lady Mary talked enthusiastically about her work with the Samaritans over a pilchard salad while Carrington slowly wilted. By the time he left the Lodge carrying with him their benediction on the programme Carrington had begun to feel he understood the Master’s longing for a painless, rational and fully automated future free from disease, starvation and the miseries of war and personal incompatibility. There would be no place in it for Lady Mary’s terrifying philanthropy.
He dawdled throughout the College grounds, gazed at the goldfish in the pond, patted the busts in the library, and posed in front of the reredos in the chapel. Finally he made his way to the Porter’s Lodge to reassure himself that Skullion was still agreeable to stating his grievances before three million viewers. He found the Porter less pessimistic than he’d hoped.
“I told them,” he said, “I told them they’d got to do something.”
“Told whom?” Carrington asked, grammatically influenced by his surroundings.
“Sir Cathcart and the Dean.”
Carrington breathed a sigh of relief. “They should certainly see that you’re reinstated,” he said, “but just in case they don’t, you can always find me at the Blue Boar.”
He left the office and made his way to the hotel. There was really nothing to worry about. An appeal by the Dean to Sir Godber’s better feelings was hardly likely to advance the Porter’s cause but, just in case, Carrington phoned the Cambridge Evening News and announced that the Head Porter of Porterhouse had been dismissed for objecting to the proposed installation of a contraceptive dispenser in the Junior lavatory. “You can confirm it with the Domestic Bursar,” he told the subeditor, and replaced the receiver.
A second call to the Students Radical Alliance announcing the victimization of a college servant for joining a trade union, and a third to the Bursar himself, conducted this time in pidgin English, and complaining that the UNESCO expert on irrigation in Zaire expected his diplomatic immunity to protect him from being ejected with obscenities by the guardian of the Porterhouse gate, completed the process of ensuring that Skullion’s dismissal should become public knowledge, the centre of left-wing protest, and irrevocable. Feeling fully justified, Carrington lay back on his bed with a smile. It had been a long time since he had been ducked in the fountain in New Court but he had never forgotten it. In the Bursar’s office the telephone rang and rang again. The Bursar answered, refused to comment, demanded to know where the sub-editor had got his information, denied that a contraceptive dispenser had been installed in the Junior lavatory, admitted that one was going to be, refused to comment, denied any knowledge of sexual orgies, agreed that Zipser’s death had been caused by the explosion of gas-filled prophylactics, asked what that had to do with the Head Porter’s dismissal, admitted that he had been sacked and put the phone down. He was just recovering when the Students Radical Alliance phoned. This time the Bursar was brief and to the point. Having relieved his feelings by telling the Radical Students what he thought of them he replaced the receiver with a bang only to hear it ring again. The ensuing conversation with the delegate from Zaire, marked as it was by frequent references to the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs and the Race Relations Board and punctuated by apologies from the Bursar and the assurance that the porter in question had been dismissed, completed his demoralization. He put the phone down, picked it up again and sent for Skullion. He was waiting for him when the Dean entered.
“Ah, Bursar,” he said, “just wanted a word with you. What’s all this I hear about Skullion being sacked?” The Bursar looked at him vindictively. He had had about all he could take of Skullion for one afternoon.
“It would appear that you have been misinformed,” he said with considerable restraint, “Skullion has not been sacked. I have merely suggested to him that it is time he looked round for other employment. He’s getting on and he’s due for retirement shortly. If he can find another job in the meantime it would be sensible for him to take it.” He paused for a moment to allow the Dean to digest this version before continuing. “However, that was yesterday. What has happened today puts the matter in an entirely different light. I have sent for Skullion and I do intend to sack him.”