Tom Sharpe - Porterhouse Blue

“What do you want?” Skullion would ask in a tone that suggested that he would like the Bursar to ask for a black eye. It was the only thing Skullion, it appeared, was prepared to give him. His mail certainly wasn’t. It regularly arrived two days late and Skullion’s inability on the telephone switchboard to put the Bursar’s calls through to the right number exacerbated the Bursar’s sense of isolation. Only the Master seemed happy to see him now and the Bursar spent much of his time in consultation with Sir Godber in the Master’s Lodge, conscious that even here he was not wholly welcome, if Lady Mary’s manner was anything to go by. Between the Scylla of Skullion and the Charybdis of Lady Mary, not to mention the dangers of the open sea in the shape of the Fellows at High Table, the Bursar led a miserable existence made no less difficult by Sir Godber’s refusal to accept the limitations placed on his schemes by the financial plight of the College. It was during one of their many wrangles about money that the Bursar mentioned Skullion’s new abruptness.

“Skullion costs us approximately a thousand pounds a year,” he said. “More if you take the loss on the house in Rhyder Street. Altogether the College servants mean an annual outflow of £15,000.”

“Skullion certainly isn’t worth that,” said the Master, “and besides I find his attitude decidedly obnoxious.”

“He has become very uncivil,” agreed the Bursar.

“Not only that but I dislike the proprietary attitude he takes to the College,” the Master said. “Anyone would think he owns the place. He’ll have to go.”

For once the Bursar did not disagree. As far as he was concerned Porterhouse would be a pleasanter place when Skullion no longer exercised his baleful influence in the Porter’s Lodge.

“He’ll be reaching retiring age in a few years’ time,” he said. “Do you think we should wait…”

But Sir Godber was adamant. “I don’t think we can afford to wait,” he said. “It’s a simple question of redundancy. There is absolutely no need for two porters, just as there is no point in employing a dozen mentally deficient kitchen servants where one efficient man could do the job.”

“But Skullion is getting on. He’s an old man,” said the Bursar, who saw looming before him the dreadful task of telling Skullion that his services were no longer required.

“Precisely my point. We can hardly sack the under-porter, who is young, simply to satisfy Skullion, who, as you say yourself, will be retiring in a few years’ time. We really cannot afford to indulge in sentimentality, Bursar. You must speak to Skullion. Suggest that he look around for some other form of employment. There must be something he can do.”

The Bursar had no doubts on that score and he was about to suggest deferring Skullion’s dismissal until they should see what the sale of Rhyder Street raised by way of additional funds when Lady Mary put a spoke in his wheel.

“I can’t honestly see why the porter’s job shouldn’t be done by a woman,” she said. “It would mark a significant break with tradition and really the job is simply that of a receptionist.”

Both Sir Godber and the Bursar turned and stared at her.

“Godber, don’t goggle,” said Lady Mary.

“My dear…” Sir Godber began, but Lady Mary was in no mood to put up with argument.

“A woman porter,” she insisted, “will do more than anything else to demonstrate the fact that the College has entered the twentieth century.”

“But there isn’t a college in Cambridge with a female porter,” said the Bursar.

“Then it’s about time there was,” Lady Mary snapped. The Bursar left the Master’s Lodge a troubled man. Lady Mary’s intervention had ended once and for all his hopes of deferring the question of Skullion until the Porter had either made himself unpopular with the other Fellows by his manner or had come to his senses. The thought of having to tell the Head Porter that his services were no longer required daunted the Bursar. For a brief moment he even considered consulting the Dean but he was hardly likely to get any assistance from that quarter. He had burnt his bridges by siding with the Master. He could hardly change sides again. He entered his office and sat at his desk. Should he send Skullion a letter or speak to him personally? He was tempted by the idea of an impersonal letter but his better feelings prevailed over his natural timidity. He picked up the phone and dialled the Porter’s Lodge.

“Best to get it over with quickly,” he thought, waiting patiently for Skullion to answer.

The summons to the Bursar’s office caught Skullion in a rare mood of melancholy and self-criticism. The melancholy was not rare, but for once Skullion was not thinking of himself so much as of the College. Porterhouse had come down in the world since he had first come to the Porter’s Lodge and in his silent commune with the gas fire Skullion had come to feel that he had been a little unjust in his treatment of the Dean and Fellows. They couldn’t help what Sir Godber did. It was all the Master’s fault. No one else was to blame. It was in this brief mood of contrition that he answered the phone.

“Wonder what he wants?” he muttered as he crossed the Court and knocked on the Bursar’s door.

“Ah, Skullion,” said the Bursar with a nervous geniality, “good of you to come.”

Skullion stood in front of the desk and waited. “You wanted to see me,” he said.

“Yes, yes. Do sit down.” Skullion chose a wooden chair and sat down.

The Bursar shuffled some papers and then looked fixedly at the doorknob which he could see slightly to the left of the porter.

“I don’t really know how to put this,” he began, with a delicacy of feeling that was wasted on Skullion.

“What?” said the Porter.

“Well to put the matter in perspective, Skullion, the College financial resources are not all that they should be,” the Bursar said.

“I know that.”

“Yes. Well, for some years now we’ve been considering the advisability of making some essential economies.”

“Not in the kitchen I hope.”

“No. Not in the kitchen.”

Skullion considered the matter. “Wouldn’t do to touch the kitchen,” he said. “Always had a good kitchen the College has.”

“I can assure you that I am not talking about the kitchen,” said the Bursar, still apparently addressing the doorknob.

“You may not be talking about it but that’s what the Master has in mind,” said Skullion. “He’s going to have a self-service canteen. Told the College Council he did.”

For the first time the Bursar looked at Skullion. “I really don’t know where you get your information from…” he began.

“Never you mind about that,” said Skullion. “It’s true.”

“Well… perhaps it is. There may be something in what you say but that’s not…”

“Right,” interrupted Skullion. “And it’s all wrong. He shouldn’t be allowed to do it.”

“To be perfectly honest, Skullion,” said the Bursar, “there are some changes envisaged on the catering side.”

Skullion scowled. “Told you so,” he said.

“But I really didn’t ask you here to discuss…”

“Could always raise money in the old days by asking the Porterhouse Society. Haven’t tried that yet, have you?”

The Bursar shook his head.

“Lot of rich gentlemen still,” Skullion assured him. “They wouldn’t want to see changes in the kitchen. They’d chip in if they knew he was going to put a canteen in. You ask them before you do anything.”

The Bursar tried to think how to bring the conversation back to its original object.

“It isn’t simply the kitchen, you know. There are other economies we have to make.”