Zipser, staring into the mirror, saw Mr Turton look up and his own face turn bright red.
“Certainly not,” he muttered. “What on earth makes you think that?” It was not a wise remark and Zipser regretted it before he had finished mumbling.
“Well, for one thing,” the barber went on, responding to this challenge to his powers of observation, “you’ve still got powder on your neck.” Zipser said shortly that he’d had a bath and used talcum powder.
“Oh quite,” said the barber sarcastically, “and I suppose all these clipper shavings…”
“Listen,” said Zipser conscious that Mr Turton had still not turned back to Titbits and was listening with interest, “if you don’t want to cut my hair…” The buzz of the clippers interrupted his protest. Zipser stared angrily at his reflection in the mirror and wondered why he was being dogged by embarrassing situations. Mr Turton was eyeing the back of his head with a new interest.
“I mean,” said the barber putting his clippers away, “some people like having their hair cut.” He winked at Mr Turton and in the mirror Zipser saw that wink. The scissors clicked round his ears and Zipser shut his eyes to escape the reproach he saw in them in the mirror. Everything he did now seemed tinged with catastrophe. Why in God’s name should he fall in love with an enormous bedder? Why couldn’t he just get on with his work, read in the library, write his thesis and go to meetings of CUNA?
“Had a customer once,” continued the barber remorselessly, “who used to have his hair cut three times a week. Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Regular as clockwork. I asked him once, when he’d been commg for a couple of years mind you, I said to him, ‘Tell me, Mr Hattersley, why do you come and have your hair cut so often?’ Know what he said? Said it was the one place he could think. Said he got all his best ideas in the barber’s chair. Weird when you think about it. Here I stand all day clipping and cutting and right in front of me, under my hand you might say, there’s all those thoughts going on unbeknown to me. I mean I must have cut the hair on over a hundred thousand heads in my time. I’ve been cutting hair for twenty-five years now and that’s a lot of customers. Stands to reason some of them must have been having some pretty peculiar thoughts at the time. Murderers and sex maniacs I daresay. I mean there would be, wouldn’t there in all that number? Stands to reason.”
Zipser shrank in the chair. Mr Turton had lost all interest in Titbits now.
“Interesting theory,” he said encouragingly. “I suppose statistically you’re right. I’ve never thought of it that way before.”
Zipser said it took all sorts to make a world. It seemed the sort of trite remark the occasion demanded. By the time the barber had finished, he had given up all thought of asking for contraceptives. He paid the thirty pence and staggered out of the shop. Mr Turton smiled and took his place in the chair.
It was almost lunchtime.
Chapter 7
“I think we can dispense with formalities,” the Master said sitting forward in his chair and looking down the long mahogany table. On his left the Bursar fiddled with his pen while on his right the Chaplain, accorded this position by virtue of his deafness, nodded his agreement. Down the long table the faces of the Council reflected their displeasure at this sudden meeting.
“It would appear to me,” said the Dean, “that we have already dispensed with such formalities as we are used to. I can see no virtue in ridding ourselves of the few that are left.”
The Master regarded him closely. “Bear with me. Dean,” he said, aware that he was relapsing from his carefully rehearsed down-to-earth manner into the vernacular of academic bitchiness. He pulled himself up. “I have called this meeting,” he continued with a nasty smile, “to discuss in detail the changes in the College I mentioned in my speech on Tuesday night. I shan’t keep you long. When I have finished you can go away and think about my suggestions.” A ripple of indignation at the effrontery of his remark ran round the table. The Dean in particular lost his cool.
“The Master seems to be under some misapprehension as to the purpose of the College Council,” he said. “May I remind him that it is the governing body of the College. We have been summoned here this afternoon at short notice and we have come at considerable inconvenience to ourselves…” The Master yawned. “Quite so. Quite so,” he murmured. The Dean’s face turned a deeper shade of puce. A virtuoso in the art of the discourteous aside, he had never been subjected to such disrespect.
“I think,” said the Senior Tutor stepping into the breach, “that it should be left to the Council to decide whether or not the Master’s proposals merit discussion this afternoon.” He smiled unctuously at the Master.
“As you wish,” said Sir Godber. He looked at his watch. “I shall be here until three. If after that you have things you wish to discuss, you will have to do so without me.” He paused. “We can meet again tomorrow or the next day. I shall be available in the afternoon.”
He looked down the table at the suffused faces of the Fellows and felt satisfied. The atmosphere was just what he had wanted for the announcement of his plans. They would react predictably and with a violence that would disarm them. Then when it would appear to be all over he would nullify all their protests with a threat. It was a charming prospect made all the more pleasing by the knowledge that they would misinterpret his motives. They would, they would. Obtuse men, small men for whom Porterhouse was the world and Cambridge the universe. Sir Godber despised them, and it showed.
“If we are all agreed then,” he continued, ignoring the tittubation of the Dean who had been nerving himself to protest at the Master’s incivility and leave the meeting, “let me outline the changes I have in mind. In the first place, as you are all aware. Porterhouse’s reputation has declined sadly since… I believe the rot set in in 1933. I have been told there was a poor intake of Fellows in that year. Correct me if I’m wrong.”
It was the turn of the Senior Tutor to stiffen in his seat. 1933 had been the year of his election.
“Academically our decline seems to have set in then. The quality of our undergraduates has always seemed to me to be quite deplorable. I intend to change all that. From now on, from this year of Grace, we shall accept candidates who possess academic qualifications alone.” He paused to allow the information to sink in. When the Bursar ceased twitching in his chair, he continued. “That is my first point. The second is to announce that the College will become a coeducational institution from the beginning of the forthcoming academic year. Yes, gentlemen, from the beginning of next year there will be women living in Porterhouse.” A gasp, almost a belch of shock, broke from the Fellows. The Dean buried his face in his hands and the Senior Tutor put both his hands on the edge of the table to steady himself. Only the Chaplain spoke.
“I heard that,” he bellowed, his face radiant as if with divine revelation, “I heard it. Splendid news. Not before time either.” He relapsed into silence. The Master beamed. “I accept your approval, Chaplain,” he said, “with thanks. It is good to know that I have support from such an unexpected quarter. Thirdly…”
“I protest,” shouted the Senior Tutor, half rising to his feet. Sir Godber cut him short.
“Later,” he snapped and the Senior Tutor dropped back into his seat. “Thirdly, the practice of dining in Hall will be abandoned. A self-service canteen run by an outside catering firm will be established in the Hall. There will be no High Table. All forms of academic segregation will disappear. Yes, Dean…?”
But the Dean was speechless. His face livid and congested he had started to protest only to slump in his chair. The Senior Tutor hurried to his side while the Chaplain, always alert to the possibilities provided by a stricken audience, bellowed words of comfort into the insensible Dean’s ear. Only the Master remained unmoved.