Porterhouse Blue

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.

Chapter 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 nu

“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 u

“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 a

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 masterstroke. 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.