Porterhouse Blue

Zipser opened the door.

“I haven’t got all day,” Mrs Biggs said brushing past him provocatively.

“I’m sorry to have kept you,” said Zipser sarcastically.

“Kept me indeed. Listen to who’s talking. And what makes you think I’d mind being kept?”

Zipser blushed. “That’s hardly what I meant,” he said hotly.

“Very complimentary I’m sure,” said Mrs Biggs, regarding him with arch disapproval. “Got out of bed the wrong side this morning, did we?”

Zipser noted the plural with a delicious shudder and lowered his eyes. Mrs Biggs’ boots, porcinely tight, entranced him.

“Mr Skullion’s got a black eye this morning,” the bedder continued. “A right purler. Not before time either. I says to him, ‘Somebody’s been taking a poke at you.’ You know what he says?” Zipser shook his head. “He says, ‘I’ll thank you to keep your comments to yourself, Mrs Biggs.’ That’s what he says. Silly old fool. Don’t know which century he’s living in.” She went into the other room and Zipser followed her. He put a kettle on to make coffee while Mrs Biggs bustled about picking things up and putting them down again in a ma

“I want you,” he said and was saved the final embarrassment by the vacuum-cleaner which roared into life.

“What’s that you said?” Mrs Biggs shouted above the din. She was holding the suction pipe against a cushion on the armchair. Zipser turned purple.

“Nothing,” he bawled, and fell back into his corner.

“Bag’s full,” said Mrs Biggs, and switched the machine off.

In the silence that followed Zipser leant against the wall, appalled at his terrible avowal. He was about to make a dash for the door when Mrs Biggs bent over and undid the clips on the back of the vacuum-cleaner. Zipser stared at the backs of her knees. The boots, the creases, the swell of her thighs, the edge of her stockings, the crescent…

“Bag’s full,” Mrs Biggs said again. “You can’t get any suction when the bag’s full.”

She straightened up holding the bag grey and swollen… Zipser shut his eyes. Mrs Biggs emptied the bag into the waste-paper basket. A cloud of grey dust billowed up into the room.

“Are you feeling all right, dearie?” she asked, peering at him with motherly concern. Zipser opened his eyes and stared into her face.

“I’m all right,” he managed to mutter trying to take his eyes off her lips. Mrs Biggs’ lipstick gleamed thickly. “I didn’t sleep well. That’s all.”

“Too much work and not enough play makes Jack a dull boy,” said Mrs Biggs holding the bag limply. To Zipser the thing had an erotic appeal he dared not analyse. “Now you just sit down and I’ll make you some coffee and you’ll feel better.” Mrs Biggs’ hand grasped his arm and guided him to a chair. Zipser slumped into it and stared at the vacuum-cleaner while Mrs Biggs, bending once again and even more revealingly now that Zipser was sitting down and closer to her, inserted the bag into the back of the machine and switched it on. A terrible roar, and the bag was sucked into the interior with a force which corresponded entirely to Zipser’s feelings. Mrs Biggs straightened up and went through to the gyp room to make coffee while Zipser shifted feebly in the chair. He couldn’t imagine what was happening to him. It was all too awful. He had to get away. He couldn’t go on sitting there while she was in the room. He’d do something terrible. He couldn’t control himself. He’d say something. He was about to get up and sneak out when Mrs Biggs came back with two cups of coffee.

“You do look fu

“Yes,” said Zipser obediently. Mrs Biggs sat down opposite him and sipped her coffee. Zipser tried to keep his eyes off her legs and found himself gazing at her breasts.

“Do you often get taken queer?” Mrs Biggs enquired.

“Queer?” said Zipser, shaken from his reverie by the accusation. “Certainly not.”

“I was only asking,” said Mrs Biggs. She took a mouthful of coffee with a schlurp that was distinctly suggestive. “I had a young man once,” she continued, “just like you. Got took queer every now and then. Used to throw himself about and wriggle something frightful. Took me all my time to hold him down, it did.”

Zipser stared at her frenziedly. The notion of being held down while wriggling by Mrs Biggs was more than he could bear. With a sudden lurch that spilt his coffee Zipser hurled himself out of the chair and dashed from the room. He rushed downstairs and out into the safety of the open air. “I’ve got to do something. I can’t control myself. First Skullion and now Mrs Biggs.” He walked hurriedly out of Porterhouse and through Clare towards the University Library.

Alone in Zipser’s room, Mrs Biggs switched on the vacuum-cleaner and poked the handle round the room. As she worked she sang to herself loudly, “Love me tender, love me true.” Her voice, raucously off key, was drowned by the roar of the Electrolux.

The Dean spent the morning writing letters to members of the Porterhouse Society. As the Society’s secretary he attended the a