In the front parlour of his old home the new Master of Porterhouse lay still in his chair and stared calmly at the linoleum. A new peace had come to Skullion out of the chaos of the last few minutes. There were no contradictions now between right and wrong, master and servant, only a strange inability to move his left side.
Skullion had suffered a Porterhouse Blue.
Chapter 21
“A stroke of luck really,” said the Dean at lunch after the formal ceremony in the Council Chamber at which the new Master had presided before being wheeled back by Arthur to the Master’s Lodge.
“I must say I don’t follow you. Dean,” said the Praelector with distaste. “If you are referring to the Master’s affliction -”
“I was merely trying to draw your attention to the advantages of the situation,” said the Dean. “The Master is not without his comforts after all, and we…”
“Enjoy the administration of policy?” the Senior Tutor suggested.
“Precisely.”
“I suppose that is one way of looking at it. Certainly Sir Godber’s reforms have been frustrated. I thought Lady Mary behaved extremely badly.”
The Dean sighed. “Liberals tend to overreact, in my experience. There seems to be something inherently hysterical about progressive opinion,” he said. “Still, there was no excuse whatsoever for accusing the police of incompetence. Nothing could be more absurd than her suggestion that Sir Godber had been murdered. For one moment I thought she was going to accuse the Senior Tutor and myself.”
“I suppose he was drunk,” said the Praelector.
“Not according to the coroner,” said the Bursar.
The Dean sniffed. “I have never placed much faith in expert opinion,” he said. “I smelt the fellow’s breath. He was as drunk as a lord.”
“It’s certainly the only rational explanation of his choice of Skullion,” said the Praelector, “To my knowledge he loathed the man.”
“I’m afraid I have to agree with you,” said the Bursar. “Lady Mary -”
“Accused us of lying,” said the Dean and the Senior Tutor simultaneously.
“As you said yourself, Dean, she was hysterical,” said the Praelector. “She wasn’t herself.”
The Dean scowled down the table. Lady Mary’s accusation still rankled. “Damned woman,” he said, “she’s a disgrace to her sex.” He took his irritation out on the new waiter. “These potatoes are burnt.”
“Now you come to mention it,” said the Senior Tutor, “what went wrong at the crematorium? There seemed an inordinately long delay.”
“There was a power cut,” the Dean said, “on account of the strike.”
“Ah, was that it?” said the Senior Tutor. “A sympathy strike no doubt.”
They finished their meal and took coffee in the Combination Room.
“There’s still the question of Sir Godber’s portrait to be considered,” said the Senior Tutor. “I suppose we should decide on a suitable artist.”
“There’s only Bacon,” said the Dean, “I can think of no one else who could portray a more exact likeness.”
The Fellows of Porterhouse had regained their vivacity.
In the Master’s Lodge Skullion’s life followed its inexorable pattern. He was wheeled from room to room to catch the sun so that it was possible to tell the time of day from his position at the windows, and every afternoon Arthur would take him out through the Fellows’ Garden and across New Court to the main gate. Occasionally late at night the wheel chair, with its dark occupant wearing his bowler hat, could be seen in the shadows by the back gate waiting and watching with an implacable futility of purpose the spiked wall over which the undergraduates no longer climbed. But if Skullion’s horizons were limited to the narrow confines of the College they were celestial in time. Each corner of Porterhouse held memories for him that made good the infirmities of the present. It was if his stroke had sutured the gaps in his memory so that in his immobility he was left free at last to haunt the years as once he had patrolled the courtyards and the corridors of Porterhouse. Sitting in New Court he would recall the occupants of every room, their names and faces, even the counties they came from, so that the Court assumed a new dimension, at once recessional and mute. Each staircase was a warren in his mind alive with men no longer living who had once conferred the honour of their disregard upon him. “Skullion,” they had shouted, and the shouts still echoed in his mind with their call to a service he would never know again. Instead they called him Master now and Skullion suffered their respect in silence.
Around him the life of the College went on unaltered. Lord Wurford’s legacy helped to restore the Tower and Skullion had signed the papers with his thumbprint unprotestingly. As a sop to scholarship there were a few research fellows, mainly in law and the less controversial sciences, but apart from these concessions, little changed. The undergraduates kept later hours, grew longer hair and sported their affectations of opinion as trivially as ever they had once seduced the shopgirls. But in essentials they were just the same. In any case, Skullion discounted thought. He’d known too many scholars in his time to think that they would alter things. It was the continuity of custom and character that counted. What men were, not what they said, and looking round him he was reassured. The faces that he saw and the voices he heard, though now obscured by hair and the borrowed accents of the poor, had still the recognizable attributes of class, and if the old unfeeling arrogance had been replaced by a kindliness and gentle quality that he despised, it was still Them and Us even in the privilege of sympathy. And when an undergraduate would offer to wheel the Master for a walk, he would be deterred by the glint in Skullion’s eyes which betrayed a contempt that made a mockery of his dependence.
Occasionally the Senior Tutor would smother his revulsion for the physically inadequate and visit the Master for tea to tell him how the Eight was doing or what the Rugger Fifteen had won, and every day the Dean would waddle to the Master’s Lodge to report the day’s events. Skullion did not enjoy this strange reversal of roles but it seemed to afford the Dean some little satisfaction. It was as if this mock subservience assuaged his sense of guilt.
“We owe it to him,” he told the Senior Tutor who asked him why he bothered.
“But what do you find to say to him?”
“I ask after his health,” said the Dean gaily.
“But he can’t reply,” the Senior Tutor pointed out.
“I find that most consoling,” said the Dean. “And after all no news is good news isn’t it?”
On Thursday nights the Master dined in Hall, wheeled in by Arthur at the head of the Fellows to sit at the end of the table and watch the ancient ritual of Grace and the serving of the dishes with a critical eye. While the Fellows gorged themselves, Skullion was fed a few choice morsels by Arthur. It was his worst humiliation. That, and the fact that his shoes lacked the brilliance that his patient spit and polish had once given them.
It was left to the Dean, unfeeling to the end, to say the last word in the Combination Room after one such meal. “He may not have been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, but by God he’s going to die with one.”
In his corner by the fire the Master was seen to twitch deferentially at this joke at his own expense, but then Skullion had always known his place.
About Tom Sharpe
Tom Sharpe was born in 1928 and educated at Lancing College and Pembroke College, Cambridge. He did his National Service in the Marines before going to South Africa in 1951, where he did social work before teaching in Natal. He had a photographic studio in Pietermaritzburg from 1957 until 1961, when he was deported… From 1963 to 1972 he was a lecturer in History at the Cambridge College of Arts and Technology. In 1986 he was awarded the XXXIIIeme Grand Prix de l'Humour Noir Xavier Forneret. He is married and lives in Cambridge.
