by Tom Sharpe
They trooped out across the Court, Mrs Morestead following with her pad and pencil, and it was only when they were seated round a mahogany table in the Private Dining Room that the Praelector explained the purpose of the meeting. He did so in a decidedly sepulchral manner.
‘We are gathered here today,’ he said, ‘to take measures to deal with what can only be described as a major catastrophe both for the College itself and for the architectural heritage of the entire country. The Porterhouse Chapel is one of the finest examples of late mediaeval neo-Romanesque religious architecture in Britain. Its style is unique in owing very little to the influence of the Gothic. Constructed at a time when the Gothic style was predominant, it speaks volumes for the conservative nature of the College even in those days that our predecessors chose to celebrate the faith in the most traditional fashion. Porterhouse has always prided itself on being, in the truest sense of the expression, “behind the times” or, to be even more precise, to exist in a timeless world. It is therefore supremely important in an age in which change seems all-conquering, and the future seems to hold nothing but the stultification of the human spirit by the endless watching of television and the proliferation of appalling programmes to satisfy man’s baser desires, that we should fight the company that has deliberately and criminally done such terrible damage to our Chapel. It is our bounden duty to extract the maximum in compensation from these people at Transworld Television not only for the physical damage done to the entire fabric of the College but for the mental suffering they have inflicted on members of the College. I for one will never recover from the shock …’
While the Praelector’s peroration rambled on the Bursar tried to think what other bits of the College buildings had recently become unsafe and whose condition Transworld Television Productions could be forced to make good. There was a length of gutter behind the Cox Block that had recently dropped into the road, fortunately when no one was underneath. Not that any of those awful young men could have reached it, the pitch of the roof was far too steep for that and they’d have needed ropes, but all the same. Then there was the entire section of the Library that required repainting, and all the chimneys were in a dangerous state … The Bursar occupied himself by making an inventory of repairs needed.
Opposite him Mr Retter and Mr Wyve sat side by side and said nothing. They had inherited their position as legal advisers to Porterhouse with the firm Waxthorne, Libbott and Chaine, when they had joined it. They had been regretting the connection ever since. Waxthorne, Libbott and Chaine had all been dead a great many years before, but Mr Retter and Mr Wyve, being sound legal men, had insisted on keeping their names. It provided them with an adequate cover for their own legal inadequacies by allowing them to say that Mr Waxthorne had given it as his opinion that … Since Mr Waxthorne had been lying in the cemetery on the Newmarket Road for sixty-five years he could be said to act only in a consultancy role, and it was perfectly reasonable and indeed proper for Mr Retter and/or Mr Wyve to explain that he was unable to see any of their clients personally. Exactly the same could be said on behalf of Messrs Libbott and Chaine, the former having chosen to be cremated rather than share the same earth even approximately close to the partner he had loathed for years, and the latter having bequeathed his body to the University Medical Faculty for research purposes and dissection, less out of a desire to advance medical knowledge than to make absolutely sure he was well and truly dead before he went to the crematorium on the Huntingdon Road. Up to a point his wishes had been fulfilled, though his skull was still used as a wine bumper by a rather effete Drinking Club in King’s called the Chaine Males. And up to a point Mr Retter and Mr Wyve had prospered. They had always specialized in work for colleges and had never been known to undertake any case that required them to appear in court, although Mr Retter had had to appear once before the magistrates for driving under the influence and had lost his licence for a year. Faced with anything involving litigation they invariably briefed other solicitors in London who in turned briefed counsel.
In short, the fees of Waxthorne, Libbott and Chaine were extortionate. This was hardly surprising. They were the solicitors for Porterhouse and were forced to work for the College for nothing. There were days when they cursed the Praelector. He had known Mr Waxthorne as a young man and had attended his funeral and had for many years kept in touch with his widow and knew perfectly well that Libbott had been cremated and Chaine had gone to that part of the Medical School from which only bits and pieces return. Now, however, they felt they could be taking on a case which might just be so rewarding for Porterhouse that they would be paid. ‘After all we’ve nothing to lose,’ Mr Wyve had said. ‘If they win against Transworld, an unlikely outcome I agree, they’ll be in a position to make good some of our losses on their behalf.’
‘But if they lose, as surely they must against such a vast company, the costs will be enormous.’
‘Theirs, not ours,’ said Mr Wyve, and the matter was settled.
All the same they said nothing at the meeting, and left it to the Praelector and the Senior Tutor to explain to the Bursar what they wanted him to do. They also felt it wiser to leave the meeting before the facts were placed before him. As Mr Retter put it to Mr Wyve, ‘We cannot be party to any dubious actions they may take. It would invalidate our role in the case and do our reputation no good at all. I did not like the look in the Senior Tutor’s eye. However, having read the Bursar’s statement, I’m beginning to think they do stand a chance. Transworld Television Productions did make the approach to the Bursar, and he has lunched with this Hartang man. I cannot say I like the sound of any of them.’
Behind them in the Private Dining Room the Bursar was appalled. ‘Go and sit with Kudzuvine?’ he gasped. ‘Go and sit with him? I don’t want to go anywhere near him. I won’t do it. I won’t.’
The Senior Tutor stood up slowly. The neat rum was really eating into him now. ‘Mrs Morestead, if you wouldn’t mind leaving us,’ he said with a terrible menace. ‘We do not need a transcript of what is going to be a private discussion.’
For a moment the College Secretary hesitated. She was slightly fond of the Bursar, largely because he never shouted at her whereas the Senior Tutor almost always did. But she gave in and left the room. Dr Buscott didn’t like either the Bursar or the Senior Tutor, but he was interested to see what was going to happen. He sat back in his chair and waited.
The Bursar didn’t. He made a dash for the door but the Praelector, who had been sitting beside it, had already locked it and pocketed the key.
‘Just let me get my hands on that bastard …’ the Senior Tutor began but the Praelector stopped him.
‘If you will be so good as to sit down,’ he said. ‘We need the Bursar in one piece if he is to sit with the man Kudzuvine and get him to answer the questions necessary for our case against his company. If you start knocking the Bursar about we’ll merely have three sick men in the Master’s Lodge. Besides, his own evidence is vital.’
‘Oh, all right,’ the Senior Tutor grumbled but he returned to his chair. The Bursar didn’t. He stood ready to dash round the table if the Senior Tutor got up again.
The situation was calmed once more by the Chaplain. ‘I must say that our guest, Mr Kudzuvine, did not strike me as being in much of a condition to answer questions when I visited him the other day. He made some most peculiar noises, especially when I asked him if he wanted to make his Confession before taking Communion.’
‘The man is a fanatical teetotaller,’ said the Praelector, and was surprised by the Senior Tutor’s suddenly expressed wish that he was too. ‘I don’t suppose Holy Communion is up his street.’
‘Something is up somewhere,’ said the Chaplain. ‘He’s got the same filthy pipe and bag that Skullion wears. Do you suppose everybody who stays at the Master’s Lodge is obliged to wear one?’
‘Let us get back to the original point of discussion,’ said Dr Buscott, ‘in other words that the Bursar is going to use his influence with this
Kudzuvine person –’
‘I’m not,’ said the Bursar. ‘I’m damned if I am. In any case I haven’t got any influence with him. You don’t know what he’s like.’
‘I’ve got a bloody shrewd idea,’ snarled the Senior Tutor. ‘Wears blue sunglasses and a polo-neck sweater –’
‘Quite,’ interrupted the Praelector, ‘but I don’t think the Bursar is talking about his appearance. I think he means his psychological make-up, his mentality in so far as he has one, though increasingly they do say that the higher anthropoids are capable of rational thought … Not that I’d put Kudzuvine among the higher anthropoids. Much lower than, let us say, a brain-damaged baboon. Now where was I? Yes, the Bursar’s objections to sitting and chatting with the creature are, I presume, based upon the fear that Mr Kudzuvine may feel that his present condition has resulted from his association with the Bursar. I can give you every assurance that he will regard you as a true friend.’
‘Why should he? And what is his present condition?’ demanded the Bursar, who had been horrified that whatever that condition was it required Kudzuvine to wear a catheter and bag.
‘Let us take your second question first. It has some bearing on the question of his fondness for you. Unfortunately what occurred on Sunday in the Chaplain’s rooms rules out any feelings of affection Mr Kudzuvine might have felt for the Chaplain and me. In our efforts to get the man to tell us who he was we perhaps went about it the wrong way.’
‘Ah, of course that explains everything,’ said the Chaplain. ‘When I enquired about the bagpipe he acted most peculiarly. Of course, of course! I’d forgotten about the cooking brandy and I can see that my remarks about the benefits of colonic irrigation –’
‘What the hell is he talking about?’ asked the Senior Tutor, reacting to the mention of cooking brandy.
‘Nothing, nothing. The point I am trying to make is that while, thanks to Dr MacKendly, Kudzuvine does not know what hit him, by the time he comes to his senses he may recognize who hit him. That rather rules the Chaplain and me out.’
‘Are you seriously saying that you and the Chaplain actually assaulted this man?’ Dr Buscott asked. He was enjoying himself enormously.
‘No, I am not saying that,’ said the Praelector coldly. ‘I am using the word “hit” in a metaphorical sense of his not understanding what was going on. Have I made my meaning absolutely clear, Dr Buscott?’
Dr Buscott nodded. He was astonished at the transformation that had come over the Praelector now that there was a crisis in Porterhouse and the Dean wasn’t there to exert his authority. The Praelector was a very old man indeed who had previously always stayed in the background. Dr Buscott found it all exceedingly strange. He would never understand what made the Senior Fellows tick.
The Bursar, on the other hand, was still trying to understand why the hell Kudzuvine should feel any fondness for him. ‘When you say “thanks to Dr MacKendly” …?’ he said, and left the question unspoken.
‘I mean that the College doctor has administered some mild medication, thus reducing Mr Kudzuvine’s mania and criminally intrusive behaviour to a gentle docility and calmness that is, I am told, quite remarkable. Skullion … the Master sits beside his bed a lot of the time and they seem to have hit it off quite well together. As you know the Master is not an easy fellow to get on with.’
‘Nor is Kudzuvine,’ said the Bursar, who still didn’t like the Praelector’s repeated use of the word ‘hit’. ‘He’s bloody nasty.’
‘He was very nasty, I agree, but now he’s not,’ said the Praelector. ‘So we will come with you as far as the bedroom door and you will …’
There was some brief resistance on the Bursar’s part but it was overcome by the Praelector’s promise that someone would be within striking distance all the time. And by the Senior Tutor’s description of what would happen to him if he didn’t go.
‘When you say “within striking distance”,’ said Dr Buscott, ‘are we to take it that you also mean that in a metaphorical way?’
‘No,’ snapped the Praelector, ‘I mean it literally. You will be manning the tape recorder on the landing and the porters are there too. So if we are ready, gentlemen …’
But the Bursar still prevaricated. ‘What sort of questions am I to ask?’ he said and helped himself to a very large whisky from the decanter on the sideboard.
‘You’ve read the list Mr Retter supplied, haven’t you?’ said the Praelector. The Bursar nodded. ‘So there is no need to waste time.’
‘Can’t I just have another quick one?’
‘No,’ said the Senior Tutor, ‘you can’t.’
14
The little group went out into the morning sunlight and made its way across the Fellows’ Garden and past the Master’s Maze to the Lodge and presently the Bursar was ushered into the bedroom where Kudzuvine was lying propped up against the pillows. The Bursar approached him warily. Kudzuvine didn’t look at all vicious. On the other hand he didn’t look at all well. Something about his eyes.
‘Hullo, Karl,’ the Bursar said huskily, breathing whisky fumes. ‘You don’t mind me calling you Karl, do you K.K?’
‘No, Prof, I don’t mind. I’m just delighted you call me anything. Man, Professor Bursar, am I glad to see you. Have I had one hell of a trip. I mean I didn’t know they came that bad. This was a trip like nothing I’ve ever known and I’ve had some way-out ones in my time.’
‘Well, I suppose all this gadding about and going to the Galapagos Islands must have made you an experienced traveller.’
‘Traveller? Galap … What you say? Gal …’
‘Where the turtles are.’
‘What turtles?’ The panic-stricken look was coming back into Kudzuvine’s eyes.
The Bursar decided to steer the conversation back to more immediate problems. ‘And how do you feel now? Are you feeling any better? In yourself I mean.’
Outside the bedroom door the Senior Tutor recoiled from the expression. He had had enough discussions about the Self to last him a lifetime. The Praelector and Dr Buscott continued to listen intently. Kudzuvine’s literal selfishness was becoming more and more obvious. ‘In myself? How do I feel in myself? You mean “in” like in, man?’ he muttered. ‘Hell shoot, I don’t know how I feel any fucking place. I don’t even know where the fuck I am and I’ve got this fucking ogre comes and looks at me like I’m in an iron lung and can’t move a damn bit of me and my eyes won’t shut and you ask me how I feel in myself? Shit, there ain’t no answer to that one. Ain’t no words I can find any place.’
‘But you’re feeling better now surely?’ said the Bursar. ‘You are sitting up and talking and opening and shutting your eyes quite normally.’
‘Now. Sure I am. I can move again and of course I keep opening and shutting my eyes just to make sure I can because, Prof, some of the things I’ve seen around here I don’t ever want to see again. No siree. Not this side of hell I don’t. And I got to tell you I don’t smoke even joints after this trip. I don’t know what it was I took but I OD’d on something fucking awful. I mean the Chemical Warfare guys ought to take some of my blood and look into it see what the fuck it was. They could scrap the Marine Corps with that stuff in the arsenal. And the battle tanks and win wars no problem. Jesus it was something else I can tell you. Still is half the time. I keep having this feeling I’m dead or something.’
‘How extraordinary,’ said the Bursar. ‘It must be most unpleasant.’
Kudzuvine stared at him in horror. ‘Unpleasant?’ he squeaked. ‘Unpleasant it isn’t. It’s … it’s … hell, I don’t even know what it is. Some old guy I think I’ve seen someplace comes in and starts fucking praying like I’m really dead and I can’t move or say anything and I’m trying to but he won’t listen and there’s another guy and a nurse and Quasimodo in a wheelchair looking like he’s measuring me up for something and when they’re gone I have these terrible dreams about cooking brandy. You know what cooking brandy is, Prof?’
The Bursar said h
e had a shrewd idea but Kudzuvine disagreed. ‘Not this cooking brandy you don’t. Not the way I know it. You can’t, it’s not possible because it’s in my fucking head. It’s got to be the only place it is. Man, you know any good shrinks round here? Because when I have that dream I know I’ve got to be schizoid and I need help but bad.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said the Bursar to keep on the right side of him. ‘I take it it’s a very nasty dream then?’
‘When?’ said Kudzuvine, getting disoriented again.
‘When you have it,’ said the Bursar.
‘Is it ever. Jesus it’s the worst, man, the worst. There’s this monk, man, and a terrible old guy and I mean old and mean and terrible and I’m being held down on the floor and they’ve got this fucking rubber douche bag and …’
‘I think we can miss this dream out,’ said the Praelector loudly from the landing. Kudzuvine’s mouth dropped open and he started violently. So did the Bursar.
‘Did you hear that?’ Kudzuvine demanded when he could speak.
But the Bursar had had time to think. ‘Hear what?’ he enquired.
Kudzuvine shrank down the bed. He had to be insane.
The Bursar changed the subject. ‘There’s been something I’ve been wanting to ask you for some time,’ he said. ‘Mr Hartang told me he allows his staff to wear exactly the same clothes as he does because he wants the staff to be comfortable. I think that’s very considerate of him, don’t you?’
Kudzuvine came to life again. The mention of Hartang seemed to have galvanized him. It had certainly taken his mind off his own sanity or lack of it. ‘He told you that? Hartang, old E.H. told you that?’