Porterhouse Blue

Sir Godber looked at him keenly. The hint of malice he detected was most encouraging. “A wonderful character, the Dean,” he said, “though a trifle hidebound.”

“A genuine eccentric,” agreed Carrington drily. It was evident from his ma

“My dear,” said Sir Godber, “I’d like you to meet Cornelius Carrington.”

Carrington found himself gazing into the arctic depths of Lady Mary’s eyes.

“How do you do?” said Lady Mary, her sympathies strained by the evident ambiguities of Carrington’s sexual nature.

“He’s thinking of doing a programme on the College,” Sir Godber said, pouring the driest of sherries.

“How absolutely splendid,” Lady Mary barked. “I found your programme on spina bifida most invigorating. It really is time we put some backbone into those people at the Ministry of Health.”

Carrington shivered at the forcefulness of Lady Mary’s enthusiasm. It filled him with that nostalgia for the nursery that was the hidden counterpart of his own predatory nature. The nursery with Lady Mary as the na

“Of course it’s the same with the dental service,” Lady Mary snarled telepathically. “We should put some teeth into it.” She smiled and Carrington glimpsed the dry tongue.

“I imagine you must find this a great change from London,” he said.

“It’s quite extraordinary,” said Lady Mary still blossoming under the warmth of his asexual attention. “Here we are only fifty miles from London and it seems like a thousand.” She pulled herself together. He was still a man for all that.

“What sort of thing were you thinking of doing on the College?” she asked. On the sofa Sir Godber blended with the loose cover.

“It’s really a question of presentation,” Carrington said vaguely. “One has to show both sides, naturally…”

“I’m sure you’ll do that very well,” said Lady Mary.

“And leave it to the viewers to make up their own minds,” Carrington went on.

“I think you’ll have difficulty persuading the Dean and the Fellows to cooperate. You’ve no idea what a reactionary lot they are,” Lady Mary said. Carrington smiled.

“My dear,” said Sir Godber, “Carrington is a Porterhouse man himself.”

“Really,” said Lady Mary, “in that case I must congratulate you. You’ve come out of it very well.” They went in to lunch and Lady Mary talked enthusiastically about her work with the Samaritans over a pilchard salad while Carrington slowly wilted. By the time he left the Lodge carrying with him their benediction on the programme Carrington had begun to feel he understood the Master’s longing for a painless, rational and fully automated future free from disease, starvation and the miseries of war and personal incompatibility. There would be no place in it for Lady Mary’s terrifying philanthropy.

He dawdled throughout the College grounds, gazed at the goldfish in the pond, patted the busts in the library, and posed in front of the reredos in the chapel. Finally he made his way to the Porter’s Lodge to reassure himself that Skullion was still agreeable to stating his grievances before three million viewers. He found the Porter less pessimistic than he’d hoped.

“I told them,” he said, “I told them they’d got to do something.”

“Told whom?” Carrington asked, grammatically influenced by his surroundings.

“Sir Cathcart and the Dean.”

Carrington breathed a sigh of relief. “They should certainly see that you’re reinstated,” he said, “but just in case they don’t, you can always find me at the Blue Boar.”

He left the office and made his way to the hotel. There was really nothing to worry about. An appeal by the Dean to Sir Godber’s better feelings was hardly likely to advance the Porter’s cause but, just in case, Carrington phoned the Cambridge Evening News and a

A second call to the Students Radical Alliance a

“Ah, Bursar,” he said, “just wanted a word with you. What’s all this I hear about Skullion being sacked?” The Bursar looked at him vindictively. He had had about all he could take of Skullion for one afternoon.

“It would appear that you have been misinformed,” he said with considerable restraint, “Skullion has not been sacked. I have merely suggested to him that it is time he looked round for other employment. He’s getting on and he’s due for retirement shortly. If he can find another job in the meantime it would be sensible for him to take it.” He paused for a moment to allow the Dean to digest this version before continuing. “However, that was yesterday. What has happened today puts the matter in an entirely different light. I have sent for Skullion and I do intend to sack him.”

“You do?” said the Dean, who had never before seen the Bursar so forthright.

“I have just received a complaint from a diplomat from Zaire who says that he was thrown out of the College by Skullion, who, if I understood him aright, called him among other things a nigger.”

“Quite right and proper,” said the Dean, who had been trying to figure out where Zaire was. “The College is private property and Skullion doubtless had good reasons for chucking the blighter out. Probably committing a public nuisance.”

“He called him a nigger,” said the Bursar.