Porterhouse Blue

“If the man is a nigger, I see no reason why Skullion shouldn’t call him one.”

“The Race Relations Board might not view the matter quite so leniently.”

“Race Relations Board? What the devil has it got to do with them?” asked the Dean.

“The fellow said he was going to complain to them. He also mentioned the Foreign Secretary.”

The Dean capitulated. “Dear me,” he muttered, “we can’t have the College involved in a diplomatic incident.”

“We certainly can’t,” said the Bursar. “Skullion will just have to go.”

“I suppose you’re right,” said the Dean, and took his leave. Outside in the Court he found the Porter waiting in the rain.

“This is a bad business, Skullion,” he said mournfully. “A very bad business. There’s nothing I can do for you now I’m afraid. A bad business,” and still shaking his head he made his way across the lawn to his staircase. Behind him Skullion stood in the falling dusk with a new and terminal sense of betrayal. There was evidently no point in seeing the Bursar, He turned and plodded back to the Porter’s Lodge and began to pack his odds and ends.

The Bursar sat on in his office waiting. He phoned the Porter’s Lodge but there was no reply. Finally he typed a letter to Skullion and posted it on the way home.

It was still raining when Skullion left the Porter’s Lodge with his few belongings in a battered suitcase. The rain gathered on his bowler and flecked his face so that it was difficult even for him to know if there were tears ru

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 toe-caps 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 stubbor

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 a little 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 bis 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.”