“Now look here,” he said with an attempt at authority, but Skullion was looking. His bitter eyes stared at Sir Godber and he too was in the grip of the past and its violent instincts. His face was flushed and unknown to him his fists were clenched.
“You bastard!” he shouted and lunged at the Master. “You bloody bastard!” Sir Godber staggered backwards and tripped against the coffee table. He fell against the mantelpiece and clutched at the edge of the armchair and the next moment he had fallen back into the fireplace. Beneath his feet a rug gently slid away and Sir Godber subsided on to the study floor. His head had hit the corner of the iron grate. Above him Skullion stood dumbfounded. Blood oozed on to the parquet. Skullion’s fury ebbed. He stared down at the Master for a moment and turned and ran. He ran down the passage and out the front door into the street. It was empty. Skullion turned to the right and hurried along the pavement. A moment later he was in Trinity Street. People passed him but there was nothing unusual about a college porter in a hurry.
In the Master’s Lodge Sir Godber lay still in the flickering light of his fire. The blood running fast from his scalp formed in a pool and dried. An hour passed and Sir Godber still bled, though more slowly. It was eight before he recovered consciousness. The room was blurred and distant and clocks ticked noisily. He tried to get to his feet but couldn’t. He knelt against the fireplace and reached for the armchair. Slowly he crawled across the room to the telephone. He’d got to ring for help. He reached up and pulled the phone down on to the floor. He started to dial emergency but the thought of scandal stopped him. His wife? He put the receiver back and reached for the pad with the number of the Samaritans on it. He found it and dialled. While he waited he stared at the notice Lady Mary had pinned on the pad. “If you are in Despair or thinking of Suicide, Phone the Samaritans.”
The dialling tone stopped. “Samaritans here, can I help you?” Lady Mary’s voice was as stridently concerned as ever.
“I’m hurt,” said Sir Godber indistinctly.
“You’re what? You’ll have to speak up.”
“I said I’m hurt. For God’s sake come…”
“What’s that?” Lady Mary asked.
“Oh God, oh God,” Sir Godber moaned feebly.
“All right now, tell me all about it,” said Lady Mary with interest. “I’m here to help you.”
“I’ve fallen in the grate,” Sir Godber explained.
“Fallen from grace?”
“Not grace,” said Sir Godber desperately. “Grate.”
“Great?” Lady Mary enquired, evidently convinced she was dealing with a disillusioned megalomaniac.
“The hearth. I’m bleeding. For God’s sake come…” Exhausted by his wife’s lack of understanding Sir Godber fell back upon the floor. Beside him the phone continued to squeak and gibber with Lady Mary’s exhortations.
“Are you there?” she asked. “Are you still there? Now there’s no need to despair.” Sir Godber groaned. “Now don’t hang up. Just stay there and listen. Now you say you’ve fallen from grace. That’s not a very constructive way of looking at things is it?” Sir Godber’s stentorian breathing reassured her. “After all what is grace? We’re all human. We can’t expect to live up to our own expectations all the time. We’re bound to make mistakes. Even the best of us. But that doesn’t mean to say we’ve fallen from grace. You mustn’t think in those terms. You’re not a Catholic, are you?” Sir Godber groaned. “It’s just that you mentioned bleeding hearts. Catholics believe in bleeding hearts, you know.” Lady Mary was adding instruction to exhortation now. It was typical of the bloody woman. Sir Godber thought helplessly. He tried to raise himself so that he could replace the receiver and shut out forever the sound of Lady Mary’s implacable philanthropy but the effort was too much for him.
“Get off the line,” he managed to moan. “I need help.”
“Of course you do and that’s what I’m here for,” Lady Mary said. “To help.”
Sir Godber crawled away from the receiver, spurred on by her obtuseness. He had to get help somehow. His eye caught the tray of drinks near the door. Whisky. He crawled towards it and managed to get the bottle. He drank some and still clutching the bottle reached the side door. Somehow he opened it and dragged himself out into the Fellows’ Garden. If only he could reach the Court, perhaps he could call out and someone would hear him. He drank some more whisky and tried to get to his feet. There was a light on in the Combination Room. If only he could get there. Sir Godber raised himself on his knees and fell sideways on to the path.
Chapter 20
It was Sir Cathcart’s birthday and as usual there was a party at Coft Castle. On the gravel forecourt the sleek cars bunched in the moonlight like so many large seals huddled on the foreshore. Inside the animal analogy continued. In the interests of several Royal guests and uninhibited debauchery, masks were worn if little else. Sir Cathcart typically adopted the disguise of a horse, its muzzle suitably foreshortened to facilitate conversation and his penchant for fellatio. Her Royal Highness the Princess Penelope sought anonymity as a capon and deceived no one. A judge from the Appellate Division was a macaw. There was a bear, two gnus, and a panda wearing a condom. The Loverley sisters sported dildos with stripes and claimed they were zebras and Lord Forsyth, overzealous as a labrador, urinated against a standard lamp in the library and had to be resuscitated by Mrs Hinkle, who was one of the judges at Crufts. Even the detectives mingling with the crowd were dressed as pumas. Only the Dean and the Senior Tutor came as humans, and they were not invited.
“Cathcart’s the only man I know who could do it,” the Dean had said suddenly during dinner in the empty Hall.
“Do what?” asked the Senior Tutor.
“See the PM,” said the Dean. “Get him to rescind the Master’s nomination.”
The Senior Tutor lacerated a shinbone judiciously and wiped his fingers. “On what grounds?”
“General maladministration,” said the Dean.
“Difficult to prove,” said the Senior Tutor.
The Dean helped himself to devilled kidneys and Arthur replenished his wine glass. “Let us review the facts. Since his arrival the College has seen the deaths of one undergraduate, a bedder, the total destruction of a building classified as a national monument, charges of peculation and a scandal involving the admission of unqualified candidates, the sacking of Skullion and now, to cap it all, the assumption of dictatorial powers by the Master.”
“But surely -”
“Bear with me,” said the Dean. “Now you and I may know that the Master is not wholly responsible, but the general public thinks otherwise. Have you seen today’s Telegraph?”
“No,” said the Senior Tutor, “but I think I know what you mean. The Times has three columns of letters, all of them supporting Skullion’s statement on the box.”
“Exactly,” said the Dean. “The Telegraph also has a leading article calling for a stand against student indiscipline and a return to the values Skullion so eloquently advocated. Whatever the merits of the Carrington Programme, it has certainly provoked a public reaction against the dismissal of Skullion. Porterhouse may have been blackguarded but it is Sir Godber who takes the blame.”
“As Master, you mean?”