Grantchester Grind

by Tom Sharpe

  ‘It isn’t,’ said Myrtle, but the look in the General’s eyes silenced her.

  ‘In other words we are all exactly the same under the skin which is why you are to wear this … er, confection.’ Sir Cathcart indicated a black latex costume on a chair. ‘It will lessen the need for you to black up and help to contain your charms which, you must admit, you do have in abundance.’

  ‘Ooh, you are awful, General, you are and all,’ said Myrtle Ransby.

  Sir Cathcart confined himself to dubious compliments. Awful was not the way he would have described Myrtle Ransby. Time and the ravages of long tempestuous nights and alcohol had told on her. She was infinitely worse than awful. Her hairstyle was particularly affecting.

  ‘I don’t see how you’re going to get me into the rubber hood and it still look natural,’ she said. ‘I mean it’s going to spoil my en bouffant, know what I mean?’

  ‘There is that,’ said the General, beginning to wonder if he would ever feel quite the same about black latex. Certainly the suit would never fit the smaller women he preferred, and there was no doubt in his mind that Dr Osbert would find his sexual perspectives fundamentally altered. Then again, naked and white, Myrtle might well send him clean off his trolley.

  Behind the screen he had insisted she use to change, Myrtle was struggling. ‘It’s ever so difficult to get into,’ she called out. ‘You sure this wasn’t made for a much smaller girl? I mean I’ve got my proportions and all.’

  ‘You have indeed, my dear,’ said Sir Cathcart, ‘and very lovely they are too.’

  Ten minutes later Myrtle appeared round the screen and fulfilled his worst expectations. Wrinkled pink skin was apparent through the slits where her nipples were supposed to be. They were evidently squashed up over her shoulders. ‘It’s because I had to pull it up from below,’ she explained breathlessly. ‘They’re all squeezed up. Now if you was to put your finger through and sort of hook it round you could pull them down so that they poked out proper.’

  The General gritted his teeth and did what she suggested. It wasn’t pleasant, and Myrtle made it no easier by pressing herself urgently against him and murmuring what a lovely man he was. But in the end her enormous teats bulged through the slits and behind them her breasts assumed a more orthodox if knobbly appearance. The only trouble was that the nipples were not black ones.

  ‘We’ll just have to dye them,’ said the General. ‘Can’t see any other way round it.’

  ‘You can’t dye my eyes, dearie. What are you going to do about them?’

  The General considered the problem for a moment. ‘The best thing would be if you didn’t look at him too closely. The hood will help and we’ll keep the lights down low. Besides, I daresay his attention will be focused on other parts of you which will be much nearer to him.’

  Myrtle giggled. ‘Ooh, fancy that,’ she said. ‘You want me to give him the old cough medicine, do you?’

  ‘Cough medicine? I don’t quite follow.’

  ‘The cunning linctus, you know. Some fellatios like it, know what I mean?’

  ‘Yes, yes, absolutely,’ said Sir Cathcart with a shudder, ‘though I can assure you that it’s not my cup of tea.’

  ‘Ooh, you are awful, General. Fancy thinking of that too. Do you think he’d like a nice –’

  ‘I’m sure he’d find it delightful, but I think we’ll give it a miss all the same. Now then the game plan is this –’

  ‘I’ve got to go wee-wee,’ said Myrtle. ‘This costume is ever so tight and my –’

  ‘Quite,’ said the General loudly, and wondered how long she was going to take. If she had to get out of the costume, she’d be gone for hours.

  In fact she was back almost at once. ‘Ever so handy having that hole down there,’ she said, ‘though if you ask me it could do with a bit of widening if he’s to get the full benefit of the old oral, know what I mean?’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll manage somehow,’ said Sir Cathcart, beginning to feel rather squeamish himself. ‘Now, as I was saying, he’s got this ambivalent attitude towards women and in particular –’

  ‘Oh dear, he’s one of those is he?’ Myrtle interrupted. ‘So many of them are these days, aren’t they? I don’t know what the world’s coming to. I said to my hubby only the other day –’

  ‘I daresay you did, but let’s get this over with,’ said the General irritably. ‘The point I am trying to make is he’s heavily into bondage and he may struggle a bit when he first sees you come in. Not that there’ll be trouble. My man will be there to help.’

  ‘Ooh, it’s couples, is it? I didn’t know it was going to be couples. Still, makes a change, I always say.’

  ‘I’m sure you do. But as a matter of fact it’s only one couple. You and this young man. Now once you’ve got him starkers you may find he’s got an arousal problem. In fact seeing you dressed up like that he’s almost certain to –’

  ‘That’s not a very nice thing to tell a girl, I must say,’ said Myrtle. ‘I may not be as young as I once was but –’

  ‘Not that,’ the General said hurriedly. ‘Because he’ll think you’re black. I’ve told you he’s a South African and he’s got a problem about women who are black. Which of course is why we’re going to all this trouble for the poor fellow. And that, Myrtle dear, is why you’re just the right person for him, the mature and beautiful woman with experience who can alter his sexual outlook quite dramatically.’

  Myrtle Ransby preened herself. ‘That’s different of course. I always did want to be an actress,’ she said. ‘You know, like Barbara Windsor. Ever so sophisticay.’

  Sir Cathcart glanced once again at her curious proportions and doubted the comparison. Hattie Jacques. With bits of her into anorexia nervosa.

  ‘Well, now is your opportunity. At first you will pleasure him as a black woman and of course he may struggle a bit as a result of his phobic reaction. But then you will slowly reveal yourself in all your radiant beauty as the lovely white woman you are.’

  ‘You mean I’ve got a chance to do a bit of the old striptease? Ooh, I do like that. You undress ever so slowly like, and do a bit of a dance in between.’ She stopped and looked puzzled. ‘Will he have a gag in his mouth? Bondage freaks usually do.’

  ‘Of course,’ said the General. ‘I should have mentioned that before. Why, what’s the problem?’

  ‘Well, I don’t see how he’s going to give me the old cough medicine with a gag in his mouth.’

  ‘That is a bit of a problem, come to think of it, but I’m sure you’ll find a way round it somehow. You know, improvise. After all he’s got a nose and things. That’s when you are a black woman. When you’ve revealed yourself as a white one, you can dispense with the gag. He’s bound to give you all the pleasure he can in that area then. And one other thing. You’ll be wearing this little earpiece under the hood. It’s got a tiny radio in it and I’ll tell you what I want you to do and things like that. They use them all the time on film sets and TV, you know. Well, I think that’s about all. You can get out of the latex togs and back into those lamé trousers of yours. Very fetching, I must say.’

  Myrtle Ransby disappeared behind the screen and took a great deal longer getting out of the costume than she had getting in. But at least Sir Cathcart didn’t have to use his finger again. Instead he gave some thought to the need for discretion. Not being acquainted with Dr Osbert he couldn’t be at all sure how he would feel about being tied to a bed in a strange house and subjected to the sexual favours Myrtle was going to offer him so fulsomely. In the long run, when he had seen the video, it would be different, but all the same it was best to be on the safe side. ‘By the way, I think you had better have a stage name,’ he said. ‘I mean, if he knew your real name was Myrtle Ransby, he might start making a pest of himself by falling in love and all that sort of thing.’

  There was a giggle behind the screen. ‘Ooh, you are silly, Sir Cathcart. You don’t think my real name is Myrtle Ransby, do you? Course it isn’t. Like the Yanks used
to say, I only use it for special assignments. My hubby wouldn’t like it if I went around saying who I really am. He’s got a very good job with British Telecom.’

  ‘Oh well, that’s all right,’ said the General. ‘And how many children did you say you had?’

  ‘Didn’t say any,’ said Myrtle, still involved in a battle with the costume. ‘Though actually it’s nine not counting the miscarriages.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Sir Cathcart who had suspected she was the mother of a very large family. All the same, there was something still troubling him. If she was shrewd enough to use a false name for special assignments and had nine children to cater for plus a husband in British Telecom, she was also shrewd enough to have found out who he was. It suddenly dawned on him that she had been calling him ‘General’ and ‘Sir Cathcart.’ With the thought that the wretched woman was in a position to blackmail him, the General decided to take precautions.

  ‘If you don’t mind, my dear,’ he said when she reappeared in her gold lamé trousers, crimson see-through top and leopardskin coat, ‘I just want to check up on a partner of mine. We’ve got a little enterprise going and I’d like you to make his acquaintance. He’s an interesting fellow with rather special expertise and I’m sure he’d like to see you looking so lovely.’

  They went out to the garage at the back and drove out to Coft Castle.

  ‘Ooh, ever so posh,’ said Myrtle appreciatively. Sir Cathcart drove past the sign to Cathcart’s Catfood Canning Factory and they got out.

  ‘In here, my dear,’ said the General and ushered Myrtle into the abattoir where Kudzuvine was skinning an ancient stallion which he had only recently dispatched.

  ‘Kentucky Fry, I want you to meet Miss Myrtle …’ the General began, but the message of the horrible scene and of Kudzuvine’s bloodstained knife and hands had not been lost on Myrtle Ransby. ‘You needn’t worry about me, Bishop,’ she whimpered when she had been helped out of the shed. ‘I ain’t going to say nothing to nobody. Swear to God I won’t.’

  Sir Cathcart beamed at her. ‘Of course you won’t, my dear,’ he said. ‘And no doubt you’d like to be paid in advance.’

  Myrtle brightened slightly. This was the sort of gentleman she appreciated.

  ‘Half now and half afterwards suit you?’

  ‘Oh yes. Ever so generous of you,’ she said and was surprised when the General took out a bundle of large-denomination notes and tore them in half.

  ‘You need have no fear. The banks accept torn notes with no trouble at all. You simply tape them together,’ he explained and gave one half to her.

  ‘Yes, Bishop, anything you say. And I ain’t going to say a word to anyone.’

  ‘Then I’ll call you when our young friend is ready,’ said the General. Myrtle Ransby got into the car and was driven away.

  *

  Sir Cathcart’s next move was to consult his secretary, a blonde from Las Vegas who was just crazy about generals and horses and not being anywhere near certain guys in Nevada. ‘Now, my dear,’ he said, ‘what have you been able to find out about Dr Osbert? Did you phone the Porter’s Lodge like I told you?’

  ‘Gee, General, the guys there say he’s a loner and a weirdo. You know what he’s into? You’re not going to believe this.’

  ‘Tell me, my dear,’ said Sir Cathcart, helping himself to a large Scotch to rid himself of the memory of Myrtle Ransby bulging in black latex. The gold lamé and the leopardskin hadn’t been too pleasant either. ‘What is he into?’

  ‘Like penises.’

  ‘Like penises, dear? Are you sure?’

  ‘That’s what they said. I mean it’s something different, I guess.’

  ‘You can say that again,’ said the General and took a large swig of whisky. A man who could elicit letters from Mrs Ndhlovo in which she recommended masturbatory techniques involving avocado pears, and who was also heavily into penises, combined so many sexual inclinations he might even find Myrtle Ransby’s elderly and over-ripe eroticism attractive. Weirdo was definitely an understatement. ‘What exactly did they say?’ he asked. ‘And first of all they didn’t know who you were, did they?’

  ‘Oh no, General, I said what you told me to. Like I was calling from the Embassy on account of a visa application by Dr Osbert and needed verification of his subject specialty.’

  ‘And they said penises? They must have been having you on. The blighter is an expert on crime and punishment. He’s written a book on hanging. I can’t see where penises come into that. Unless …’ He paused for a moment and gave the matter some thought. ‘Of course, they do say you get an erection and have an orgasm at the moment of death. Not that that’s much consolation in the circumstances.’

  The girl consulted her notes. ‘I’ve got it here,’ she said. ‘I said what’s his subject specialty and they said he’s the Sir Godber Evans Memorial Fellow and he’s a penologist.’

  ‘Oh that,’ said Sir Cathcart and relaxed. ‘As a matter of fact it’s nothing to do with penises. It has to do with prisons. P-E-N-A-L as in penalty not penile as in … whatever. Natural mistake for a gal to make. Now let’s see, what have we here?’

  He riffled through the copies of Purefoy’s correspondence the Dean had given him. ‘Ah, here we are. The American Association for the Abolition of Cruel and Unusual Punishment. Entirely appropriate. The President is coming to England in August and would value a meeting with Dr Osbert whose book etc. Illegible signature belonging to the Secretary. That should do very nicely. The letter-heading is easy to copy and there shouldn’t be any trouble with the envelope and stamp. Well, my dear, now that you’ve got it clear in that pretty little head of yours that penology has nothing immediately to do with John Thomases, you are about to be enrolled as a member of the American Association for the Abolition of Cruel and Unusual Punishment over here to arrange for the President’s meeting and eager to meet the distinguished Dr P. Osbert, author of The Long Drop. I’ll get a copy from Heffer’s and you can mug it up. That shouldn’t be too difficult for you, should it?’

  ‘Oh gee, General, it’s such a privilege to be of help to you,’ the blonde said. ‘Just anything you say.’

  ‘Very good of you to say so,’ said the General and went upstairs, wondering not for the first time what it was about Americans that made them such amazing experts in some of life’s most complicated operations and absolute ignoramuses in simple matters like geography. He put it down to specialization. That and not being European. Not that Myrtle Ransby was any brighter. God alone knew what she’d have made of penology.

  28

  At Porterhouse there were frequent occasions when the grosser tastes of past Masters seemed never to have gone away. This was particularly true on Thursday nights. Thursday dinner was always a very good one. Friday was fish day, fish for lunch and fish again for dinner originally for religious reasons but now simply a tradition followed implacably by the Chef. However, fish being an insubstantial dish when filleted or with too many bones to make for large mouthfuls and easy eating, on Thursday nights the Fellows could fill up on meat and something especially nutritious and with body to it. And on the second Thursday after Easter Canards pressés à la Porterhouse was always on the menu. It was on Thursday that General Sir Cathcart D’Eath came to dine in College. ‘Got to put in an appearance for the good of the Society, that great community of Old Porterthusians whose spirit spans the continents,’ he boomed in the Combination Room where the Fellows had gathered for sherry. There was one of those sudden silences that inflicts itself at random on such gatherings.

  The Chaplain broke it. ‘What did Cathcart say?’ he yelled. He had forgotten to turn his hearing aid on.

  Dr Buscott took the opportunity he had been waiting for ever since the General had mistaken him for a junior porter and had told him to get his hair cut or lose his job. ‘General Sir Cathcart D’Eath,’ he announced in tones that would have done credit to a toastmaster at a rowdy banquet, ‘General Sir Cathcart D’Eath, KCMG, etcetera, has just stated that the spirit
of the Old Porterthusians spans the continents.’

  ‘What on earth can he mean?’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ said Dr Buscott, and moved away into the company of his fellow scientists where he felt safer.

  The Senior Tutor prevailed upon the General to have some more Amontillado. ‘It’s the Special Old one, you know. We only bring it out on certain occasions,’ he said.

  ‘Where’s the Dean?’ asked the General, who felt like saying he hadn’t come to be insulted by long-haired louts who only deemed his DSO worth an etcetera. In any case he had a special reason for being there that night. He was hoping to meet Dr Osbert and assess his suitability for the ordeal of Myrtle Ransby. ‘No use wasting a perfectly foul old bag on some swine of a sexual athelete who doesn’t mind being filmed under half a ton of lard trussed up in rubber. Got to gauge his psychology, don’t you know. Some chaps like that sort of thing,’ he had said to his secretary, who already knew it. Now, clutching his sherry, he peered round the exceptionally crowded Combination Room in search of the Dean.

  ‘I don’t seem to see him here,’ the Senior Tutor commented. ‘Mind you, he’s been a bit off colour lately. We all have. Those terrible American TV people and the damage to the Chapel, you know.’

  ‘Well of course,’ the General boomed, ‘but the rumour I’ve heard is that the compensation is going to be enormous. Bound to be. Kentucky Fry tells me they’re worth billions.’

  ‘Kentucky Fry?’ said the Senior Tutor. ‘I can’t for the life of me understand how people can stomach that stuff. I made the mistake one night in London somewhere. Most indigestible.’