Amiss could just about imagine what a female lover of the Bursar’s might look like; the notion of a male was too tax ing an idea for him to address. ‘Oh, well, it’ll just have to wait.’
As he left the dining room, he felt a pull on his arm which proved to be provided by Francis Pusey, low-voiced and con spiratorial and still rather merry from his pre-dinner debauchery.
‘I wondered, Robert, if you’d like to see a film. I have quite a selection on video in my room, and if you’d like, we might even have a little port.’
Amiss wasn’t very keen on port but in his present mood he would have looked kindly on an invitation to partake of turpentine. ‘Why not? What a nice idea.’ And off we went together, as he wrote the next day to Rachel—two chaps getting away from the women by sitting with their Pekinese amidst the chintz and needlework and trinkets of Francis’s dainty little nest.
Amiss had been rather attracted by the idea of watching the kind of film he expected Francis Pusey to favour—Arsenic and Old Lace or an old Ealing comedy like The Ladykillers. In fact, when Pusey had dispensed port along with much information about origins, suppliers, vintages and so on, and had produced his index to his video collection, his visitor got a nasty shock. Ladykillers there were aplenty but they came from a genre, wrote Amiss to Rachel, that could be described most succinctly as ‘1990s dismembering’.
He announced in that prissy little voice and with that self-deprecating ‘tee-hee’ that makes my toes curl with the effort of suppressing a scream of irritation, that he and Bobsy liked nothing more than to curl up at night with some choccies and a good film. I was not, he sniggered, to think he was some horrid old sadist because he liked a bit of gore in his films. ‘Just a bit of escapism, Robert. Helps me wind down after a hard day.’
Hard day my arse. I’ve yet to discover anything he does that a normal person would classify as work, since the young breed of gel is about as interested as I am in learning to tat, knit, sew, dry flowers or turn last year’s skirt into a spring hat. For their accomplishments they mostly these days go to Sandra’s course on ‘Getting in Touch with your Feelings Through Tree-Hugging and Dance Movement Therapy’ or some other similar kind of crap which in these days passes muster as a female accomplishment. (This is not an area in which the Mistress takes much interest.) So he has a negli gible amount of teaching.
You know how squeamish I am. So you can imagine how thrilled I was to be faced with making it a choice between films with names like Eviscerate 3 or The Gouger Stalks. So I simpered and said I wasn’t macho enough for the really horrid stuff. That made him—and no doubt Bobsy—feel very tough, but fortunately left him protective enough to expose me only to some drama that involved a muscley chap avenging some insult by rushing round the place waving an AK47 and knocking off thousands. I found if I shut my eyes during the worst bits and thought about tatting I could get through without too much pain.
***
The pain came later. Just as the moronic machine-gunner espied someone who had made fun of him in nursery school and decided terminally to assuage his hurt feelings, Miss Stamp knocked on the door perfunctorily and came rushing in squawking. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I’m sorry to interrupt, but she said I had to come and get you. She won’t let me get a doctor or anything.’
‘Who wants whom?’ asked Amiss.
‘The Bursar. She’s been injured by the blunderbuss.’ The images that this information set coursing through Amiss’s imagination would have done credit to the most deranged product of Hollywood.
‘She’s been shot with the blunderbuss? And survived?’ squeaked Pusey. ‘I know she’s got the hide of a bison, but…’ He tailed off, evidently appreciating that this comment was hardly suitable to the crisis in hand.
‘Not shot. Hit over the head. Come on, come on. She wants you.’
‘Me?’ asked Pusey incredulously.
‘No, not you. Mr. Amiss.’
As Amiss—followed by an excited Pusey—ran after his nimble-footed guide, he realized to his dismay how attached he had become to Jack Troutbeck.
***
She was sitting in her customary leather armchair taking a copious draught of what looked like neat Scotch. Around her stood a small group of protesting colleagues.
‘Nonsense,’ she was saying. ‘A bit of blood never did anyone any harm. Ah, here he is. Talk sense to this crew, will you, Robert? Everyone’s making such a fuss. Nothing wrong with me that won’t be cured by a couple of stiff drinks and an early night.’
Observing the bloodstains on her jumper and the greyish tinge of her complexion, Amiss’s initial relief turned to crossness. ‘Do I understand that you’re trying to avoid having proper medical attention?’
‘Stuff and nonsense. Proper medical attention is one thing, sending for ambulances is another. I won’t have it.’
‘Jack, how long have you been unconscious?’
‘Not long.’
‘The Bursar,’ said the Mistress icily, ‘appears to have been concussed since about six o’clock. That is, about four hours ago. She is extremely fortunate not to be dead.’
‘I haven’t been unconscious. I’ve been asleep.’
Dr. Windlesham let out a hoot of derision. ‘Being assaulted with about half a ton of wood and iron sent you to sleep, did it?’
‘No, Deborah, I fell asleep first. I distinctly remember sitting here having a pre-prandial gin and feeling very sleepy. I must just have been over-tired and needed a nap. So that, combined with somebody hitting me, does knock a girl out for the count a bit.’
‘Bursar,’ said the Mistress, ‘you’ve probably got a fractured skull.’
‘Feel this,’ said the Bursar pointing at her forehead. ‘Hard as a rock.’
Curiosity drove Amiss to press his fingers gingerly to her head.
‘Not like that,’ she said impatiently. She grabbed his hand, forced it into a fist and rapped hard with his knuckles on her forehead. ‘Ebony,’ she said. As he sucked his bruised knuckles, he felt inclined to agree.
‘All the Troutbecks were like that. It would take more than a few bashes on the head to make any impact.’
‘Have you called for an ambulance?’ Amiss asked the Mistress.
‘No,’ she said wearily. ‘We’ve been arguing for the last half an hour. Any sane person would have an X-ray but since we’re dealing with the Bursar, normal rules do not apply.’
The Senior Tutor, Miss Stamp, Pusey and Miss Thacka berry together embarked on various squealing imprecations: the Bursar took another defiant swig.
‘Compromise, Bursar, please,’ said Amiss. ‘Come upstairs to bed and receive a doctor—just to clean you up and make sure everything’s hunkery-dory.’
‘Oh, all right.’ Her voice sounded exhausted.
‘Let me give you my arm.’
‘Festina lente,’ warned Miss Partridge.
‘Oh, stop fussing,’ said the Bursar weakly, as she accepted Amiss’s offer. And leading a small procession of worried scholars and against a background of agitated chatter, they proceeded towards her sleeping quarters.
***
It was an hour later when Dr. Scott reported back to the group. He was a man who was economical with his words. ‘She should be dead. Abnormally thick skull, so the wound’s only superficial. Try and persuade her to have an X-ray, but it’s my guess there’s no damage done. She should have a few days in bed.
‘I’ll drop by tomorrow. Have you called the police yet?’
‘Should we?’ The Mistress seemed surprised at the sugges tion.
‘Unless you actively enjoy the idea of consorting with a would-be murderer, I should.’ He raised his eyes to heaven at the daftness of intellectuals and left.
‘There’s no need to do anything till the morning,’ said the Mistress firmly. ‘We all need a good night’s sleep. I’ll ring the police after drill.’
Amiss looked at her incredulously. ‘It doesn’t worry you that somebody might try again?’
‘Certainly not. This i
s nothing to do with any of us. It was a burglar and he will have escaped by now anyway.’
‘Supposing it wasn’t? Supposing it’s somebody within who might try again? Shouldn’t the Bursar have police protection?’
‘Oh really, Mr. Amiss. You’re being a little alarmist, surely.’
‘Nonetheless.’ He adopted his firmest tone. ‘I’m going to spend the night on the sofa in her room.’
‘Mr. Amiss,’ said Dr. Windlesham, ‘that would be not only improper but contrary to the statutes.’
Amiss felt his temper rise. ‘Madam, I am aware that there are persons in this institution who believe that all men are potential rapists, but I assure you that the Bursar’s virtue is safe with me.’
‘But the statutes…’
‘Say what? “There shall be no shacking up in this estab lish ment?”’
‘There’s no need to be coarse. The Founder made it very clear that no man was ever to be permitted within the sleep ing quarters of either staff or students except for tea and under the supervision of a chaperone.’
‘I’m quite happy with that,’ said Amiss heading for the door. ‘Feel free to join us with a tea-tray. And remember to make the cucumber sandwiches with very thinly-sliced bread.’
Chapter 13
Throughout the long night, Amiss had frequent cause to regret his gallantry. While the Bursar’s lusty snorings were a reassuring indication that the life force coursed vigorously around her veins, they took their toll on her guardian’s jangling nerves. At about 3:00 a.m. he could stand no more. He climbed off his sofa and found his way across the room to the bed.
‘Jack,’ he hissed—gently, so as not to alarm her—‘please stop snoring.’ There was no response other than a particularly rich explosion of sound. He raised his voice progressively for the second, the third and the fourth attempts, rousing her finally only by shaking her.
‘What’s wrong?’ she muttered. ‘What is it? Is the joint on fire?’
‘No, Jack. But you’re snoring so loudly I can’t get a wink of sleep. Can you please try turning over?’
‘Nothing wrong with a good snore. Clears the tubes. I like snoring. You should try it.’ She fell asleep as she finished the sentence.
Miserably, Amiss crept back to his uncomfortable sofa and fell into a sleepless gloom.
***
Just before 7:00 came a commanding rap on the door, which he found had been inflicted by Deborah Windlesham. Amiss closed the door quietly and joined her in the corridor. She threw a disparaging glare at his crumpled appearance. ‘You look as if you’ve slept in your clothes.’
‘I have. I had little option.’
She sniffed one of those sniffs that substitutes for whole paragraphs of criticism. ‘No alarms in the middle of the night? No interruptions by assassins?’
Amiss opened his mouth to sympathize with her on her disappointment and closed it again. New Men didn’t cheek women: he had stepped out of character quite enough the pre vious night. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘We have been quite undis turbed.’
‘You’d better hurry up or you’ll be late for drill.’
‘I’m not going to drill.’
‘You must. We won’t have a quorum otherwise. I don’t expect the Bursar’s going to be up to it.’
‘Dr. Windlesham.’ Amiss spoke with as much patience as he could muster. ‘I’m not leaving the Bursar alone until the police are with her.’
‘That’s melodramatic stuff and nonsense, as I’m sure Miss Troutbeck would be the first to agree.’ She threw open the door and marched over to the recumbent—now just slightly snorting—Bursar and gazed on her with evident irritation. ‘Can’t think why you’re so solicitous,’ she said over her shoulder to Amiss. ‘What is she? Your long-lost mother?’
‘Got it in one.’ Amiss’s temper suddenly got the better of him. ‘Now will you leave us together to celebrate our reunion?’
This time Dr. Windlesham’s sniff penetrated the Bursar’s slumber. She opened her eyes slowly and then sat bolt upright. ‘What a damn disinheriting countenance, Deborah. To what do I owe the honour of this visit?’
‘I was just checking that you’d been looked after properly by your poodle.’
The Bursar’s eyes flickered over towards Amiss, who was leaning against the door trying to look soigné. ‘Push off, Deborah, will you? Go and be unpleasant to someone else for a change.’
Dr. Windlesham marched out. Amiss applauded. ‘That’s what I like about you, Jack. Never use a stiletto when there is an axe to hand.’
‘An axe isn’t a bad weapon, but we Troutbecks rather favour the flail. That iron-spiked ball on the end of a chain saw off large numbers of infidels in short order during the Crusades, I can tell you. Now, what’s going on? Fill me in. My memories of last night are as hazy as if I’d been doing the Freshers’ pub crawl.’
Amiss told the story rapidly. ‘So,’ he ended, ‘a couple of days in bed and you’ll be back to normal, if that’s the right way to describe you.’
‘Rubbish!’
She clambered out of bed and stood there arms akimbo. Despite his irritation, Amiss thought her a rather magnificent picture of defiance. Even her lavender-sprigged flannelette nightdress could not detract from her presence. ‘I’m carrying on,’ she announced. ‘Business as usual.’
‘God preserve me,’ yelled Amiss, ‘from stubborn old cows who can’t get it into their thick heads that they’re going to get murdered if they don’t take some elementary fucking precautions!’
She looked at him in a mildly surprised way. ‘I thought it was a good thing that I had a thick head.’ Then, observing his expression, she grinned. ‘Oh, all right. I’ll be careful and I will see the police. In fact, I’ll permit you to stand guard outside the bathroom door while I ablute.’
‘And then you’ll lock yourself in the bedroom while I go and get changed until I come and collect you.’
‘Yes.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know what old Major-General Bozo Troutbeck would make of this. He didn’t single-handedly take out a platoon of Zulus by hiding in his bedroom.’
‘Zulus don’t have platoons.’
‘These ones did.’ She picked up a towel. ‘Come on, then.’ As he trailed wearily after her he wondered by what process she had absorbed all the vitality he had lost.
***
They caused rather a stir when they arrived at breakfast. The Mistress was positively solicitous, Miss Stamp went into an orgy of wittering and even Bridget Holdness managed a civil if terse enquiry.
The Bursar blossomed under all this attention. On hearing her launch into her ‘a-little-tap-on-the-head-never-damaged-a-Troutbeck’ routine, Amiss sloped off to the other end of the table and left them to it. He was rewarded by finding himself sitting between Sandra and Mary Lou and having to listen to an interminable moan from Sandra about the permanent peril in which women lived. ‘Atmosphere of male violence/no women safe walking the streets/intimidation/male resentment at women’s self-empowering/meaningful coincidence that the attack had followed the Bursar’s coming out/heterosexism leading to anti-lesbian violence/reclaim the night/curfews on men…’ On it went remorselessly, delivered in that high-pitched mewl that he found particularly hard to bear. As his attention drifted, he glanced at Mary Lou and their eyes met. Convinced that he had seen her lip twitch covertly, he winked at her. Her lip twitched again. In better heart, he resumed listening respectfully to Sandra.
Chapter 14
It was 8:45 when Amiss heard the Senior Tutor’s squeak of ‘Where’s the Mistress?’ Only he—bored out of his mind by Sandra’s maunderings, and nervy with sleeplessness and worry—paid her any attention. Almost everyone was listen ing bemusedly to the Bursar, who was celebrating her survival by engaging in family reminiscences of a kind that unsurprisingly caused her to be accused by Bridget Holdness of colluding with colonial exploiters.
His compassion aroused by the Senior Tutor’s close resemblance to a squirrel with a nervous tic, Amiss left his
seat, warily circled the adversaries and went round to try to soothe her. ‘What’s the matter, Senior Tutor?’
‘She’s seven minutes late. It’s never ever happened before. You know what she’s like.’
Amiss was too new to have fully grasped the Mistress’s complicated timetable but he did know that it was set in stone.
‘She’s always in at twenty to nine.’
‘What does she do between drill and breakfast, then?’
‘Well, after drill she showers and dresses. You know, all that sort of thing.’ The Senior Tutor went slightly pink, alarm ed perhaps lest Amiss’s erotic urges might be awakened by the notion of Dame Maud Theodosia Buckbarrow in the shower.
‘And then?’ He smiled encouragingly.
‘Why at 8:10, she takes a list of references to the library to check, then it’s back here promptly to breakfast at 8:40.’
‘She’s never late?’
She looked shocked. ‘“To choose time is to save time” is her guiding principle. And she chose it many years ago.’
‘I’m sure there’s a simple explanation, Senior Tutor. Perhaps she’s dealing with the police over that unfortunate busi ness last night.’
The little features relaxed. ‘Oh, that must be it.’
Her happiness was short-lived. It was only two minutes later that the gathering was electrified by an eruption from the kitchen. Greasy Joan came in squealing, her face a compound of terror and self-importance. She seemed to have got herself spectacularly bedraggled for this occasion. Her dank pepper-and-salt hair was all over the place, her apron sported generations of bacon fat and a long smear of egg and her stockings were mucky and bloody from where she had injured herself in her flight to bring her bad news. The gathering gazed at her open-mouthed as she wailed at top volume: ‘She’s gone and flung ’erself owt the winder.’
‘Who has?’ boomed the Bursar.
‘Our blessed Daime.’ And Greasy Joan set up an ululation that would have done credit to a banshee.
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