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 annual dinners in London and Edinburgh and corresponded regularly with members, a great many of whom lived in Australia or New Zealand, and for whom the Dean’s letters formed a link with their days at Porterhouse on which they had traded socially ever since. For the Dean himself the very remoteness of most of his correspondents, and particularly their tendency to assume that nothing had changed since their undergraduate days, was a constant reassurance. It allowed him to pretend to an omnipotent conservatism that had little connection with reality. After the new Master’s speech it was not easy to maintain that pretence, and the Dean’s pen held in his mottled hand crawled slowly across the paper like some literate but decrepit tortoise. Every now and then he would lift his head and look for inspiration into the clear-cut features of the young men whose photographs cluttered his desk and stared with sepia arrogance from the walls of his room. The Dean recalled their athleticism and youthful indiscretions, the shopgirls they had compromised, the tailors they had bilked, the exams they had failed, and from his window he could look down on to the fountain where they had ducked so many homosexuals. It had all been so healthy and naturally violent, so different from the effete aestheticism of today. They hadn’t fasted for the good of the coolies in India or protested because an anarchist was imprisoned in Brazil or stormed the Garden House Hotel because they disapproved of the government in Greece. They’d acted in high spirits. Wholesomely. The Dean sat back in his chair remembering the splendid riot on Guy Fawkes Night in 1948. The bomb that blew the Senate House windows out. The smoke bomb down the lavatory in Market Square that nearly killed an old man with high blood pressure. The lamp glass littering the streets. The bus being pushed backwards. The coppers’ helmets flying. The car they’d overturned in King’s Parade. There’d been a pregnant woman in it, the Dean recalled, and afterwards they’d all chipped in to pay her for the damage. Good-hearted lads. They didn’t make them like that any more. Quickened by the recollection, his pen scrawled swiftly across the page. It would take more than Sir Godber Evans to change the character of Porterhouse. He’d see to that. He had just finished a letter and was addressing the envelope when there was a knock on the door.
“Come in,” the Dean called. The door opened and Skullion came in, holding his bowler hat in one hand.
“Morning, sir,” Skullion said.
“Good morning, Skullion,” the Dean said. The ritual of twenty years, the porter’s daily report, always began with pleasantries. “Heavy fall of snow during the night.”
“Very heavy, sir. Three inches at least.”
The Dean licked the envelope and fastened it down.
“Nasty eye you’ve got there, Skullion.”
“Slipped on the path, sir. Icy,” Skullion said. “Very slippery.”
“Slippery? Got away, did he?” the Dean asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good for him,” said the Dean. “Nice to know there are still some undergraduates with spirit about. Nothing else to report?”
“No, sir. Nothing to report. Nothing except Cheffy, sir.”
“Cheffy? What’s the matter with him?”
“Well, it’s not just him, sir. It’s all of us. Very upset about the Master’s speech,” Skullion said carefully, treading the tightrope between speaking out of turn and rightful protest. There were things you could say to the Dean and there were things you couldn’t. Reporting the Chef’s sense of outrage seemed a safe way of expressing his own feelings.
The Dean swung his chair round and looked out of the window to evade the difficulty. He relied on Skullion’s information but there was always the danger of condoning insubordination or at least encouraging a familiarity detrimental to good discipline. But Skullion wasn’t the man to take advantage of the situation. The Dean trusted him.
“You can tell the Chef there’ll be no changes,” he said finally. “The Master was just feeling his way. He’ll learn.”
“Yes sir,” said Skullion doubtfully. “Very upsetting that speech, sir.”
“Thank you, Skullion,” said the Dean dismissively.
“Thank you, sir,” Skullion said and left the room.
The Dean swung his chair round to his desk and took up his pen again. Skullion’s resentment had inspired him with a new determination to block Sir Godber’s schemes. There were all the OPs, for instance. Their opinion and influence could be decisive properly organized. It might be as well to inform that opinion now.
Skullion went back to the Lodge and sorted out the second mail. His conversation with the Dean had only partially restored his confidence. The Dean was getting old. His voice didn’t carry the same weight any more in the College Council. It was the Bursar who was listened to, and Skullion had his doubts about him. He took the New Statesman and the Spectator and read The Times, not the Telegraph like the other dons. “Neither fish, flesh, fowl nor good red herring,” Skullion summed him up with his usual political acumen. If the Master got at him there was no saying which way he’d jump. Skullion began to think it might be time for him to pay a visit to General Sir Cathcart D’Eath at Coft. He usually went there on the first Tuesday of every month, a ritual visit with news of the College and also to have a word with a reliable stable boy in Sir Cathcart’s racing stables whose information had in the past done much to supplement Skullion’s meagre income. Sir Cathcart had been one of Skullion’s Scholars and the debt had never been wholly repaid. “Taking the afternoon off,” he told Walter the under-porter when he finished sorting the mail and Walter had put Dr Baxter’s weekly issue of The Boy back into its plain envelope.
“What? Going fishing?” Walter asked.
“Never you mind where I’m going,” Skullion told him. He lit his pipe and went into the back room to fetch his coat and presently was cycling with due care and attention over Magdalene Bridge towards Coft.
Zipser sat on the third floor of the north wing of the University Library trying to bring his mind to bear on The Influence of Pumpernickel on the Politics of 16th-Century Osnabruck but without success. He no longer cared that it had been known as bonum paniculum and his interest in Westphalian local politics had waned. The problem of his feelings for Mrs Biggs was more immediate.
He had spent an hour in the stacks browsing feverishly through textbooks of clinical psychology in search of a medical explanation of the symptoms of irrational violence and irrepressible sexuality which had manifested themselves in his recent behaviour. From what he had read it had begun to look as if he were suffering from a multitude of different diseases. On the one hand his reaction to Skullion suggested paranoia, “violent behaviour as a result of delusions of persecution”, while the erotic compulsion of his feelings for Mrs Biggs was even more alarming and seemed to indicate schizophrenia with sadomasochistic tendencies. The combination of the two diseases, paranoid schizophrenia, was apparently the worst possible form of insanity and quite incurable. Zipser sat staring out of the windows at the trees in the garden beyond the footpath and contemplated a lifetime of madness. He couldn’t imagine what had suddenly occasioned the outbreak. The textbooks implied that heredity had a lot to do with it, but apart from an uncle who had a passion for concrete dwarves in his front garden and who his mother had said was a bit touched in the head, he couldn’t think of anyone in the family who was actually and certifiably insane.