by Tom Sharpe
*
The Dean arrived back at Porterhouse in Sir Cathcart’s Rolls-Royce at two o’clock. He was spiritually restored though physically taxed by the day’s excitements and Sir Cathcart’s brandy. He knocked on the main gate and Skullion, who had been waiting up obediently for him, opened the postern and let him in.
‘Need any help, sir?’ Skullion asked as the Dean tottered through.
‘Certainly not,’ said the Dean thickly and set off across the Court. Skullion followed him at a distance like a good dog and saw him through the Screens before turning back to his Porter’s Lodge and bed. He had already shut the door and gone through into his backroom when the Dean’s strangled cry sounded from the New Court. Skullion heard nothing. He took off his collar and tie and climbed between the sheets. ‘Drunk as a lord,’ he thought fondly, and closed his eyes.
*
The Dean lay in the snow and cursed. He tried to imagine what he had slipped on. It certainly wasn’t the snow. Snow didn’t squash like that. Snow certainly didn’t explode like that and even in these days of air pollution snow didn’t smell of gas like that. The Dean eased himself on to a bruised hip and peered into the darkness. A strange rustling sound in which a sort of wheeze and the occasional squeak were intermingled came from all sides. The Court seemed to be alive with turgid and vaguely translucent shapes which gleamed in the starlight. The Dean reached out tentatively towards the nearest one and felt it bounce delicately away from him. He scrambled to his feet and kicked another. A ripple of rustling, squeaking, jostling shapes issued across the Court. ‘That damned brandy,’ muttered the Dean. He waded through the mass to the door of his staircase and stumbled upstairs. He was feeling distinctly ill. ‘Must be my liver,’ he thought, and slumped into a chair with the sudden resolution to leave brandy well alone in future. After a bit he got up and went to the window and looked out. Seen from above the Court looked empty, white with snow but otherwise normal. The Dean shut the window and turned back into the room. ‘I could have sworn there were …’ He tried to think just what he could have sworn the Court was filled with, but couldn’t think of anything appropriate. Balloons were as near as he could get, but balloons didn’t have that awful translucent ectoplasmic quality about them.
He went into his bedroom and undressed and put on his pyjamas and got into bed but sleep was impossible. He had dozed too long at Sir Cathcart’s, and besides, he was haunted by his recent experience. After an hour the Dean got out of bed again and put on his dressing-gown and went downstairs. At the bottom he peered out into the Court. There was the same indelicate squeaking sound but apart from that the night was too dark to see anything clearly. The Dean stepped out into the Court and banged into one of the objects. ‘They are there after all,’ he muttered and reached down to pick whatever it was up. The thing had a soft vaguely oily feel about it and scuttled away as soon as the Dean’s fingers tightened on it. He tried another and missed and it was only at the third attempt that he managed to obtain a grip. Holding the thing by its tail the Dean took it into the lighted doorway and looked at it with a growing sense of disgust and outrage. He held it head down and the thing righted itself and turned head up. Holding it thus he went out into the Court and through the Screens to Old Court and the Porter’s Lodge.
*
To Skullion, emerging sleepily from his backroom, the sight of the Dean in his dressing-gown holding the knotted end of an inflated contraceptive had about it a nightmare quality that deprived him of his limited amount of speech. He stood staring wild-eyed at the Dean while on the periphery of his vision the contraceptive wobbled obscenely.
‘I have just found this in New Court, Skullion,’ said the Dean, suddenly conscious that there was a certain ambiguity about his appearance.
‘Oh ah,’ said Skullion in the tone of one who has his private doubts. The Dean let go of the contraceptive hurriedly.
‘As I was saying …’ he began only to stop as the thing slowly began to ascend. Skullion and the Dean watched it, hypnotized. The contraceptive reached the ceiling and hovered there. Skullion lowered his eyes and stared at the Dean.
‘There seem to be others of that ilk,’ continued the Dean.
‘Oh ah,’ said Skullion.
‘In the New Court,’ said the Dean. ‘A great many others.’
‘In the New Court?’ said Skullion slowly.
‘Yes,’ said the Dean. In the face of Skullion’s evident doubts he was beginning to feel rather heated. So was the contraceptive. The draught from the door had nudged it next to the light bulb in the ceiling and as the Dean opened his mouth to say that the New Court was alive with the things, the one above their heads touched the bulb and exploded. In fact there were three explosions. First the contraceptive blew. Then the bulb, and finally and most alarmingly of all the gas ignited. Blinded momentarily by the flash and bereft of the light of the bulb, the Dean and Skullion stood in darkness while fragments of glass and rubber descended on them.
‘There are more where that one came from,’ said the Dean finally, and led the way out into the night air. Skullion groped for his bowler and put it on. He reached behind the counter for his torch and followed the Dean. They passed through the Screens and Skullion shone his torch into New Court.
Huddled like so many legless animals, some two hundred contraceptives gleamed in the torchlight. A light dawn breeze had risen and with it some of the more inflated contraceptives, so that it seemed as though they were attempting to mount their less active neighbours while the whole mass seethed and rippled. One or two were to be seen nudging the windows on the first floor.
‘Gawd,’ said Skullion irreverently.
‘I want them cleared away before it gets light, Skullion,’ said the Dean. ‘No one must hear about this. The College reputation, you understand.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Skullion. ‘I’ll clear them away. Leave it to me.’
‘Good, Skullion,’ said the Dean and with one last disgusted look at the obscene flock went up the stairs to his rooms.
*
Mrs Biggs had a bath. She had poured bath salts into the water and the pink suds matched the colour of her frilly shower cap. Bath night for Mrs Biggs was a special occasion. In the privacy of her bathroom she felt liberated from the constraints of commonsense. Standing on the pink bath mat surveying her reflection in the steamed-up mirror it was almost possible to imagine herself young again. Young and fancy free, and she fancied Zipser. There was no doubt about it and no doubt too that Zipser fancied her. She dried herself lovingly and put on her nightdress and went through to her bedroom. She climbed into bed and set the alarm clock for three. Mrs Biggs wanted to be up early. She had things to do.
In the early hours she left the house and cycled across Cambridge. She locked the bicycle by the Round Church and made her way on foot down Trinity Street to the side entrance of Porterhouse and let herself in with a key she had used in the old days when she had bedded for the Chaplain. She passed through the passage by the Buttery and came out by the Screens and was about to make her way across New Court when a strange sound stopped her in her tracks. She peered round the archway. In the early morning light Skullion was chasing balloons. Or something. Not chasing. Dancing seemed more like it. He ran. He leapt. He cavorted. His outstretched arms reached yearningly towards whatever it was that floated jauntily beyond his reach as if to taunt the Porter. Backwards and forwards across the ancient court the strange pursuit continued until just as it seemed the thing was about to escape over the wall into the Fellows’ Garden there was a loud pop and whatever it was or had been hung limp and tatterdemalion upon the branches of a climbing rose like some late-flowering bloom. Skullion stopped, panting, and stared up at the object of his chase and then, evidently inspired by its fate, turned and hurried towards the Screens. Mrs Biggs retreated into the darkness of the Buttery passage as Skullion hurried by and then, when she could see him heading for the Porter’s Lodge, emerged and tiptoed through the contraceptives to the Bull Tower. Around h
er feet the contraceptives squeaked and rustled. Mrs Biggs climbed the staircase to Zipser’s room with a fresh sense of sexual excitement brought on by the presence of so many prophylactics. She couldn’t remember when she had seen so many. Even the American airmen with whom she had been so familiar in the past had never been quite so prolific with their rubbers, and they’d been generous enough in all conscience if her memory served her aright. Mrs Biggs let herself into Zipser’s room and sported the oak. She had no intention of being disturbed. She crossed to Zipser’s bedroom and went inside. She switched on the bedside light.
Zipser awoke from his troubled sleep and blinked. He sat up in bed and stared at Mrs Biggs brilliant in her red coat. It was evidently morning. It didn’t feel like morning but there was Mrs Biggs so it must be morning. Mrs Biggs didn’t come in the middle of the night. Zipser levered himself out of bed.
‘Sorry,’ he mumbled groping for his dressing-gown. ‘Must have overslept.’ Zipser’s eye caught the alarm clock. It seemed to indicate half-past three. Must have stopped.
‘Shush,’ said Mrs Biggs with a terrible smile. ‘It’s only half-past three.’
Zipser looked at the clock again. It certainly said half-past three. He tried to equate the time with Mrs Biggs’ arrival and couldn’t. There was something terribly wrong with the situation.
‘Darling,’ said Mrs Biggs, evidently sensing his dilemma. Zipser looked up at her open-mouthed. Mrs Biggs was taking off her coat. ‘Don’t make any noise,’ she continued, with the same extraordinary smile.
‘What the hell is going on?’ asked Zipser. Mrs Biggs went into the other room.
‘I’ll be with you in a minute,’ she called out in a hoarse whisper.
Zipser stood up shakily. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked.
There was a rustle of clothes in the other room. Even to Zipser’s befuddled mind it was evident that Mrs Biggs was undressing. He went to the door and peered out into the darkness.
‘For God’s sake,’ he said, ‘you mustn’t do that.’
Mrs Biggs emerged from the shadows. She had taken off her blouse. Zipser stared at her enormous brassière.
‘Darling,’ she said. ‘Go back to bed. You mustn’t stand and watch me. It’s embarrassing.’ She gave him a push which sent him reeling on to the bed. Then she shut the door. Zipser sat on his bed shaking. The sudden emergence of Mrs Biggs at half-past three in the morning from the shadows of his own private fantasies into a real presence terrified him. He tried to think what to do. He couldn’t shout or scream for help. Nobody would believe he hadn’t invited her to … He’d be sent down. His career would be finished. He’d be disgraced. They’d find the French letters up the chimney. Oh God. Zipser began to weep.
In the front room Mrs Biggs divested herself of her bra and panties. It was terribly cold. She went to the window to shut it when a faint popping noise from below startled her. Mrs Biggs peered out. Skullion was running round the Court with a stick. He appeared to be spearing the contraceptives. ‘That’ll keep him busy,’ Mrs Biggs thought happily, and shut the window. Then she crossed to the gas fire and lit it. ‘Nice to get dressed in the warm,’ she thought, and went into the bedroom. Zipser had got back into bed and had switched off the light.
‘Wants to spare me,’ Mrs Biggs thought tenderly and climbed into bed. Zipser shrank from her but Mrs Biggs had no sense of his reluctance. Grasping him in her arms she pressed him to her vast breasts. In the darkness Zipser squeaked frantically and Mrs Biggs’ mouth found his. To Zipser it seemed that he was in the grip of a great white whale. He fought desperately for air, surfaced for a moment and was engulfed again.
*
Skullion, who had returned from the Porter’s Lodge armed with a broom handle to which he had taped a pin, hurled himself into the shoal and struck about him with a fury that was only partially explained by having to work all night. It was rather the effrontery of the things that infuriated him. Skullion had little use for contraceptives at the best of times. Unnatural, he called them, and placed them in the lower social category of things along with elastic-sided boots and made-up bow ties. Not the sort of attire for a gentleman. But even more than their humble origins, he was infuriated by the insult to Porterhouse that the presence of so great and so inflated a number represented. The Dean’s admonition that news of the infestation must not leak out was wasted on Skullion. He needed no telling. ‘We’d be the laughing-stock of the University,’ he thought, lancing a particularly large one. By the time dawn broke over Cambridge Skullion had cleared New Court. One or two had escaped into the Fellows’ Garden and he went through the archway in the wall and began spiking the remainder. Behind him the Court was littered with tattered latex, almost invisible against the snow. ‘I’ll wait until it’s a bit lighter to pick them up,’ he muttered. ‘Can’t see them now.’ He had just run a small but agile one to earth in the rose garden when a full rumbling noise at the top of the Tower made him turn and look up. Something was going on in the old chimney. The chimney pot at the top was shaking. The brickwork silhouetted against the morning sky appeared to be bulging. The rumbling stopped, to be succeeded by an almighty roar as a ball of flame issued from the chimney and billowed out before ascending above the College. Below it the chimney toppled sideways, crashed on to the roof of the Tower and with a gradually increasing rumble of masonry the fourteenth-century building lost its entire façade. Behind it the rooms were clearly visible, their floors tilted horribly and sagging. Skullion stood mesmerized by the spectacle. A bed on the first floor slid sideways and dropped on to the masonry below. Desks and chairs followed suit. There were shouts and screams. People poured out of doorways and windows opened all round the Court. Skullion ignored the screams for help. He was busy chasing the last few remaining contraceptives when the Master, clad in his dressing-gown, emerged from the Master’s Lodge and hurried to the scene of the disaster. As he rushed across the garden he found Skullion trying to spear a contraceptive floating in the fishpond.
‘Go and open the main gates,’ the Master shouted at him.
‘Not yet,’ said Skullion taciturnly.
‘What do you mean, not yet?’ the Master demanded. ‘The ambulance men and the fire brigade will want to get in.’
‘Not having any strangers in College till I’ve cleared these things up. Wouldn’t be right,’ said Skullion.
The Master stared at the floating contraceptive furiously. Skullion’s obstinacy enraged him. ‘There are injured people in there,’ he screamed.
‘So there are,’ said Skullion, ‘but there’s the College reputation to be thought of too.’ He leant across the pond and burst the floating bubble. Sir Godber turned and ran on to the scene of the accident. Skullion turned and followed him slowly. ‘Got no sense of tradition,’ he said sadly, and shook his head.
10
‘These sweetbreads are delicious,’ said the Dean at dinner. ‘The coroner’s inquest has given me a considerable appetite.’
‘Very tactfully handled,’ said the Senior Tutor. ‘I must admit I had anticipated a less magnanimous verdict. As it is, suicide never hurt anyone.’
‘Suicide?’ shouted the Chaplain. ‘Did I hear someone say suicide?’ He looked up expectantly. ‘Now there’s a topic we could well consider.’
‘The Coroner has already done so at some length, Chaplain,’ the Bursar bawled in his ear.
‘Very good of him too,’ said the Chaplain.
‘The Senior Tutor has just made that point,’ the Bursar explained.
‘Has he now? Very interesting,’ said the Chaplain, ‘and about time too. Haven’t had a decent suicide in College for some years now. Most regrettable.’
‘I must say I can’t see why the decline of the fashion should be so regrettable, Chaplain,’ said the Bursar.
‘I think I’ll have a second helping of sweetbreads,’ said the Dean.
The Chaplain leant back in his chair and looked at them over his glasses. ‘In the old days hardly a week went by without some poor
fellow taking the easy way out. When I first came here as Chaplain I used to spend half my time attending inquests. Come to think of it, there was a time when we were known as the Slaughterhouse.’
‘Things have changed for the better since then,’ said the Bursar.
‘Nonsense,’ said the Chaplain. ‘The fall in the number of suicides is the clearest indication of the decline of morality. Undergraduates don’t seem to be as conscience-stricken as they were in my young days.’