“Always been fond of ’em,” Sir Cathcart had replied. “Loyal friend, obedient, go anywhere with you. Nothing to touch ’em.”
“If you found a stray you’d give him a home?”
“Certainly,” said Sir Cathcart. “Glad to. Couldn’t leave him to starve. Plenty of room here. Have the run of the place. Decent quarters.”
Since in the edited version Sir Cathcart’s hospitality appeared to refer to Skullion, Carrington felt that he could congratulate himself on a brilliant performance. All it had needed had been the substitution of “If Skullion needed a place to live you’d offer him a home?” for “If you found a stray you’d give him a home?” The General was unlikely to deny his invitation. The consequences to his image as a public benefactor would be too enormous.
As they drove to London Carrington coached Skullion in his role. “Remember to look straight into the camera. Just answer my questions simply.” In the darkness Skullion nodded silently.
“I’ll say ‘When did you first become a porter?’ and you’ll say ‘In 1928’. You don’t have to elaborate. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” said Skullion.
“Then I’ll say, ‘You’ve been the Head Porter of Porterhouse since 1945?’ and you’ll say ‘Yes’.”
“Yes,” said Skullion.
“Then I’ll go on, ‘So you’ve been a College servant for forty-five years?’ and you’ll say ‘Yes’. Is that clear?”
“Yes,” said Skullion.
“Then I’ll say, ‘And now you’ve been sacked?’ and you’ll say ‘Yes’. I’ll say ‘Have you any idea why you’ve been sacked?’ What will you say to that?”
“No,” said Skullion. Carrington was satisfied. The General might just as well have been talking about Skullion when he said that dogs were obedient. Carrington relaxed. It was going to go well.
They crossed London to the studio and Skullion was shepherded by an assistant to the entertainment room in the basement while Carrington disappeared into a lift. Skullion looked around him suspiciously. The room looked like a rather large air-raid shelter.
“Do sit down, Mr Skullion,” said the young man. Skullion sat on the plastic sofa and took off his bowler hat, while the young man unlocked what looked like a built-in wardrobe and wheeled out a large box. Skullion scowled at the box.
“What’s that?” he enquired.
“It’s a sort of portable bar. It helps to have a drink before one goes up to the studio.”
“Ah,” said Skullion and watched the young man unlock the box. A formidable array of bottles gleamed in the interior.
“What would you care for? Whisky, gin?”
“Nothing,” said Skullion.
“Really,” twittered the young man. “That’s most unusual. Most people need a drink especially if they’re going on live.”
“You have one if you want one,” Skullion said. “Mind if I smoke?” He took out his pipe and filled it slowly. The young man looked doubtfully at the portable bar.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t care for a drink?” he asked. “It does help, you know.”
Skullion shook his head. “Have one afterwards,” he said, and lit his pipe. The young man locked the bar and put it back into the wardrobe.
“Is this your first time?” he asked, evidently anxious to put Skullion at his ease.
Skullion nodded and said nothing.
He was still saying nothing when Cornelius Carrington came down to collect him. The room was filled with the acrid smoke from Skullion’s pipe and the young man was sitting at the far end of the plastic sofa in a state of considerable agitation.
“He won’t drink anything,” he whispered. “He won’t say anything. He just sits there smoking that filthy pipe.” Carrington looked at Skullion with some alarm. Visions of Skullion drying up in the middle of the interview began to seem a distinct possibility.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
Skullion looked at him sourly. “Never felt better,” he said. “But I can’t say I like the company.” He glowered at the young man.
Carrington escorted him out into the corridor. “Poofter,” said Skullion as they went up in the lift. Carrington shuddered. There was something disturbing about the Head Porter’s new attitude. He lacked the eagerness to please that seemed to affect most people who came to be interviewed, a nervous geniality that made them pliable and stimulated in Carrington a dominance he was unable to satisfy outside the artificial environs of the studio. If anyone was likely to dry up, he admitted to himself, it seemed more likely to be Cornelius Carrington than Skullion. He ushered the Porter into the brilliantly lit studio and sat him in the chair before hurrying out and having two quick slugs of whisky. By the time he had returned Skullion was telling a young make-up woman to keep her paws to herself.
Carrington took his seat and smiled at Skullion. “One thing you must try to avoid is kicking the mike,” he said. Skullion said he’d try not to. The cameras moved round him. Young men came and went. In the next room behind a large darkened window the producer and the technicians arranged themselves at the console. Carrington on Cambridge was on the air. 9:25. Peak-hour viewing.
In Porterhouse dinner was over. It had, for a change, been an equable affair without any of the verbal infighting that usually occurred whenever the Fellows were gathered together. Instead a strange goodwill prevailed. Even the Master dined in Hall and the Dean sitting on his right managed to refrain from being offensive. It was as though a truce had been declared.
“I’ve done my best to see that more influential members of the Porterhouse Society have been informed about the programme,” he told the Master.
“Excellent,” said Sir Godber. “I’m sure we all owe you a debt of gratitude, Dean.” The Dean forebore from sniggering. “One does one’s best,” he said. “After all it’s for the good of the College. We should get one or two fairly healthy subscriptions for the restoration fund as a result of young Carrington’s efforts.”
“I found him a most sympathetic man,” said Sir Godber. “Unusually perceptive, I thought, for…” He was about to say an old Porterhouse man but thought better of it.
“Flirty Bertie, they used to call him, when he was an undergraduate,” shouted the Chaplain.
“Ah well, he seems to have changed a good deal since those days,” said Sir Godber.
“They ducked him in the fountain,” the Chaplain continued. It was the only ominous remark of the whole meal.