by Tom Sharpe
Skullion crossed the iron footbridge and came to Rhyder Street. A tiny street of terraced houses hidden among the large Victorian villas of Chesterton so that even here Skullion could feel himself not far removed from the boathouses and the homes of professors. He went inside and took off his coat and put the suitcase on the kitchen table. Then he sat down and took his shoes off. He made a pot of tea and sat at the kitchen table wondering what to do. He’d go and see the bank manager in the morning about his legacy from Lord Wurford. He fetched a tin of boot polish and a duster and began to polish the toecaps of his shoes. And slowly, as each toecap began to gather lustre under the gentle circling of his finger, Skullion lost the sense of hopelessness that had been with him since the Dean had left him standing in New Court. Finally, taking a clean duster, he gave a final polish to the shoes and held them up to the light and saw reflected in their brilliance something remote that he knew to be his face. He got up and put the duster and the tin of polish away and made himself some supper. He was himself again, the Porter of Porterhouse, and with this restoration of his own identity there came a new stubbornness. He had his rights. They couldn’t turn him out of his own home and his job. Something would happen to stop them. As he moved about the house his mind became obsessed with Them. They had always been there hedged with respect and carrying an aura of authority and trust so that he had felt himself to be safe from Them but it was different now. The old loyalty was gone and Skullion had lost all sense of obligation to Them. Looking back over the years since the war he could see that there’d been a steady waning of respect. There’d been no real gentlemen since then, none that he’d had much time for, but if each succeeding year had disillusioned him a little more with the present, it had added a deal of deference to the more distant past. It was as though the war had been the fulcrum of his regard. Lord Wurford, Dr Robson, Professor Dunstable, Dr Montgomery, they had gained in lustre out of sheer contrast with the men who had come after them. And Skullion himself had been exalted with them because he had known and served them.
At ten o’clock he went to bed and lay in the darkness unable to sleep. At midnight he got up and shuffled downstairs almost automatically and opened the front door. It had stopped raining and Skullion shut the door again after peering up and down the street. Then, reassured by this act of commemoration, he lit the gas fire in the front room and made himself a pot of tea. At least he had still got his legacy. He’d go to the bank in the morning.
*
The bank manager saw Skullion at ten o’clock. ‘Shares?’ he said. ‘We have an investment department and we could advise you of course.’ He looked down at the details of Skullion’s deposit account. ‘Yes, five thousand pounds is quite sufficient but don’t you think it would be wiser to put the money into something less speculative?’
Skullion shifted his hat on his knees and wondered why no one seemed to listen to what he said. ‘I don’t want to buy any shares. I want to buy a house,’ he said.
The manager looked at him approvingly. ‘A much better idea. Put your money in property especially in these days of inflation. You have a property in mind?’
‘It’s in Rhyder Street,’ said Skullion.
‘Rhyder Street?’ The manager raised his eyebrows and pursed his mouth. ‘That’s a different matter. It’s being sold as a lot, you know. You can’t buy individual houses in Rhyder Street, and quite frankly I don’t suppose your five thousand would match some of the other bids.’ He permitted himself a chuckle. ‘In fact it’s doubtful if five thousand would get you anything in Cambridge. You’d have to raise a mortgage, and at your age that’s not an easy matter.’
Skullion produced the envelope containing his shares. ‘I know that,’ he said. ‘That’s why I want to sell these shares. There are ten thousand. I think they’re worth a thousand pounds.’
The manager took the envelope. ‘We must just hope they’re worth a little more than that,’ he said. ‘Now then …’ His condescendingly cheerful tone stuttered out. ‘Good God!’ he said, and stared at the sheaf of shares before him. Skullion shifted guiltily on his chair, as if he personally took the blame for whatever it was about the pieces of paper that caused the manager to stare in such amazement. ‘Amalgamated Universal Stores. But this is quite extraordinary. How many did you say?’ The manager was on his feet now twittering.
‘Ten thousand,’ said Skullion.
‘Ten thousand?’ The manager sat down again. He picked up the phone and rang the investment department. ‘Amalgamated Universal Stores. What’s the current selling price?’ There was a pause while the manager studied Skullion with a new incredulous respect. ‘Twenty-five and a half?’ He put the phone down and stared at Skullion.
‘Mr Skullion,’ he said at last, ‘this may come as something of a shock to you. I don’t quite know how to put it, but you are worth a quarter of a million pounds.’
Skullion heard the words, but they had no visible effect upon him. He sat unmoved upon his chair and stared numbly at the bank manager. It was the manager himself who seemed most affected by the sudden change in Skullion’s status. He laughed nervously and with a slight hysteria.
‘I don’t think there’s much doubt that you can make a bid for Rhyder Street now,’ he said at last but Skullion wasn’t listening. He was a rich man. It was something he had never dreamed of being.
‘There must have been dividends,’ said the manager. Skullion nodded. ‘In the building society.’ He got up and put the chair back against the wall. He looked at the shares which represented his fortune. ‘You’d better put them back into the safe,’ he said.
‘But …’ began the manager. ‘Now Mr Skullion, sit down and let’s discuss this matter. Rhyder Street? There’s no need to think of Rhyder Street now. We can sell these shares and … or at least some of them and you can purchase a decent property and settle down to a new life.’
Skullion considered the suggestion. ‘I don’t want a new life,’ he said grimly. ‘I want my old one back.’
He left the manager standing behind his desk and went out into Sydney Street. In his office the bank manager sat down, his mind crowded with cheap images of wealth, cruises and cars and bright suburban bungalows, ideas he had thought disreputable before. To Skullion, standing on the pavement, such things meant nothing. He was a rich man and the knowledge did nothing to ease his resentment. If anything it increased it. He had been cheated somehow. Cheated by his own ignorance and the loyalty he had given Porterhouse. The Master, the Dean, even General Sir Cathcart D’Eath, were the legatees of his new bitterness. They had misused him. He was free now, without the fear of dismissal or unemployment to mitigate his hatred. He went down Green Street towards the Blue Boar.
17
During the next two days Cornelius Carrington was intensely busy. His dapper figure trotted across lawns and up staircases with a retinue of cameramen and assistants. Corners of Porterhouse that had remained obscure for centuries were suddenly illuminated by the brightest of lights as Carrington adorned his commentary with architectural trimmings. Everyone cooperated. Even the Dean, convinced that he was heaping coals of fire on the Master’s head, consented to discuss the need for conservatism in the intellectual climate of the present day. Standing beneath a portrait of Bishop Firebrace, Master 1545–52, who had, as Carrington was at some pains to point out in his added commentary, played a notable role in suppressing Kett’s Rebellion, the Dean launched into a ferocious attack on permissive youth and extolled the celibacy of previous generations of undergraduates. In contrast, the Chaplain was driven to admit that what many supposed to have been a nunnery before it was burnt down in 1541 had in fact been a brothel during the fifteenth century. The camera dwelt at length on foundations of the ‘nunnery’ still visible in parts in the Fellows’ Garden while Carrington expressed surprise that a college like Porterhouse should have allowed such sexual laxity so many centuries before. The Senior Tutor was filmed cycling along the towpath by Fen Ditton coaching an eight, and was then interviewed
in Hall on the dietary requirements of athletes. Carrington wheedled out of him the fact that the annual Feast cost over £2,000 and then went on to ask if the College made any contribution to Oxfam. At this point, forgetful of his electronic audience, the Senior Tutor told him to mind his own business and stalked out of the Hall trailing the broken lead of his throat microphone. Sir Godber was treated more gently. He was allowed to stroll across New Court and through the Screens discoursing on the need for a progressive and humanitarian role for Porterhouse. Pausing to look far-sightedly across the thirty feet that separated him from the end wall of the Library, the Master spoke of the emotional–intellectual symbiosis that was a part of university experience, he lowered his head and addressed a crocus on the catharsis of sexual union, he raised his eyes to a fifteenth-century chimney and esteemed the compassion of the young, their energetic concern and the rightness of their revulsion at the outmoded traditions that … He waxed eloquent on meaningful relationships and urged the abolition of exams. Above all he praised youth. The elderly, by which he evidently meant anyone over thirty-five, must not stand in the way of young men and women whose minds and bodies were open … Even Sir Godber faltered at this point and Carrington steered him back to the subject of social compassion, which he saw as the true benefit of a university education. The Master agreed that a sense of social justice was indeed the hallmark of the educated mind. Carrington stopped the cameras and Sir Godber made his way back to the Master’s Lodge, certain that he had ended on the right note. Carrington thought so too. While his cameramen took close-ups of the heraldic beasts on the front of the main gate and panned along the spikes that guarded the back wall, Carrington drove over to Rhyder Street and spent an hour closeted with Skullion. ‘All I want you to do is to come back to the College and talk about your life as Head Porter,’ he told him. Skullion shook his head. Carrington tried again. ‘We’ll take some shots of you outside the main gate and then you can stand in the street and I’ll ask you a few questions. You don’t have to go into the College itself.’ Skullion remained adamant.
‘You’ll do me in London or you won’t do me at all,’ he insisted.
‘In London?’
‘Haven’t been to London for thirteen years,’ said Skullion.
‘We can take you up to London for a day if you like but it would be much better if we filmed the interview here. We can do it here in your own home.’ Carrington looked round the dingy kitchen approvingly. It had just that element of pathos he required.
‘Wouldn’t look good,’ said Skullion. Under his breath Carrington cursed the old fool.
‘I’m not having myself on film either,’ Skullion continued.
‘Not having yourself on film?’
‘I want to go out live,’ said Skullion.
‘Live?’
‘In a studio. Like they do on Panorama. Always wanted to see what it was like in a studio,’ Skullion went on. ‘It’s more natural, isn’t it?’
‘No,’ said Carrington, ‘it’s extremely unnatural. It’s hot and you have large cameras …’
‘That’s the way I want it,’ Skullion said, ‘I’m not doing it any other way. Live.’
‘All right,’ Carrington said finally, ‘if you insist. We’ll have to rehearse it first, of course. I’ll put questions to you and you’ll reply. We’ll run through it so that there aren’t any mistakes.’ He left the house in some annoyance, troubled by Skullion’s persistence and conscious that without Skullion the programme would lack dramatic impact. If Skullion wanted to go to London and if, in his superstitious way, he objected to being ‘put on film’ he would have to be placated. In the meantime the cameramen could film Rhyder Street and at least the exterior of the Head Porter’s home. He drove back to Porterhouse and collected the camera crew. Only one interview left now, that with General Sir Cathcart D’Eath at Coft Castle.
*
A week later Carrington and Skullion travelled to London together. Carrington had spent the week editing the film and adding his commentary but all the time he had been harassed by a nagging suspicion that there was something wrong, not with the programme as he had finally concocted it but with Skullion. The petulance that had attracted Carrington to him in the first place had gone out of him. In its stead there was a stillness and an impression of strength. It was as though Skullion had gained in stature since his dismissal and was pursuing interests he knew to be his own and no one else’s. Carrington did not mind the change. In its own way it would heighten the effect Skullion would have on the millions who would watch him. Carrington had even found reason to congratulate himself on the Porter’s insistence that he appear live in the studio. His rugged face, with its veined nose and heavy eyebrows, would stand out against the artificiality of the studio and give his appearance a sense of immediacy that was lacking in the interviews filmed in Cambridge. Above all, Skullion’s inarticulate answers would stir the hearts of his audience. Across the country men and women would sit forward in their chairs to listen to his pitiable story, conscious that they were witnessing an authentic human drama. Coming after the radical platitudes of Sir Godber and the reactionary vehemence of the Dean, Skullion’s transparent honesty would emphasize the homely virtues in which they and Cornelius Carrington placed so much faith. And finally there would come the master-stroke. From the gravel drive in front of Coft Castle, General Sir Cathcart D’Eath would offer Skullion a home and the camera would pan to a bungalow where the Head Porter could see his days out in peace. Carrington was proud of that scene. Coft Castle was suburbia inflated and transplanted to the countryside and the General himself the epitome of a modern English gentleman. It had taken a good deal of editing to achieve that result, but Carrington’s good sense had prevailed over Sir Cathcart’s wilder flights of abuse. He had to admit that the Sealyham had helped to inject a note of sympathy into Sir Cathcart’s conversation. Carrington had spotted the dog playing on the lawn and had asked the General if he was fond of dogs.
‘Always been fond of ’em,’ Sir Cathcart had replied. ‘Loyal friend, obedient, go anywhere with you. Nothing to touch ’em.’
‘If you found a stray you’d give him a home?’
‘Certainly,’ said Sir Cathcart. ‘Glad to. Couldn’t leave him to starve. Plenty of room here. Have the run of the place. Decent quarters.’
Since in the edited version Sir Cathcart’s hospitality appeared to refer to Skullion, Carrington felt that he could congratulate himself on a brilliant performance. All it had needed had been the substitution of ‘If Skullion needed a place to live you’d offer him a home?’ for ‘If you found a stray you’d give him a home?’ The General was unlikely to deny his invitation. The consequences to his image as a public benefactor would be too enormous.
As they drove to London Carrington coached Skullion in his role. ‘Remember to look straight into the camera. Just answer my questions simply.’ In the darkness Skullion nodded silently.
‘I’ll say, “When did you first become a porter?” and you’ll say, “In 1928.” You don’t have to elaborate. Do you understand?’
‘Yes,’ said Skullion.
‘Then I’ll say, “You’ve been the Head Porter of Porterhouse since 1945?” and you’ll say “Yes.”’
‘Yes,’ said Skullion.
‘Then I’ll go on, “So you’ve been a College servant for forty-five years?” and you’ll say, “Yes.” Is that clear?’
‘Yes,’ said Skullion.
‘Then I’ll say, “And now you’ve been sacked?” and you’ll say, “Yes.” I’ll say, “Have you any idea why you’ve been sacked?” What will you say to that?’
‘No,’ said Skullion. Carrington was satisfied. The General might just as well have been talking about Skullion when he said that dogs were obedient. Carrington relaxed. It was going to go well.
They crossed London to the studio and Skullion was shepherded by an assistant to the entertainment room in the basement while Carrington disappeared into a lift. Skullion looked around him suspiciously.
The room looked like a rather large air-raid shelter.
‘Do sit down, Mr Skullion,’ said the young man. Skullion sat on the plastic sofa and took off his bowler hat, while the young man unlocked what looked like a built-in wardrobe and wheeled out a large box. Skullion scowled at the box.
‘What’s that?’ he enquired.
‘It’s a sort of portable bar. It helps to have a drink before one goes up to the studio.’
‘Ah,’ said Skullion and watched the young man unlock the box. A formidable array of bottles gleamed in the interior.
‘What would you care for? Whisky, gin?’
‘Nothing,’ said Skullion.
‘Really,’ twittered the young man. ‘That’s most unusual. Most people need a drink especially if they’re going on live.’
‘You have one if you want one,’ Skullion said. ‘Mind if I smoke?’ He took out his pipe and filled it slowly. The young man looked doubtfully at the portable bar.
‘Are you sure you wouldn’t care for a drink?’ he asked. ‘It does help, you know.’
Skullion shook his head. ‘Have one afterwards,’ he said, and lit his pipe. The young man locked the bar and put it back into the wardrobe.
‘Is this your first time?’ he asked, evidently anxious to put Skullion at his ease.
Skullion nodded and said nothing.
He was still saying nothing when Cornelius Carrington came down to collect him. The room was filled with the acrid smoke from Skullion’s pipe and the young man was sitting at the far end of the plastic sofa in a state of considerable agitation.