Grantchester Grind (8 page)

At Transworld Television Productions Kudzuvine had news for the Bursar. ‘Mr Hartang
wants to see the College, Professor,’ he said. ‘He’s got to see for himself what he’s
funding. Right?’

‘Most definitely,’ said the Bursar. ‘He is very welcome to come up and look around at
any time.’

‘Fine. Fine. Only trouble is he don’t move except by Lear jet or his 125 and you don’t
have no landing field.’

‘We’ve got Marshalls’ airport. He could always land there and it’s only a few miles
away. We’ll find a car for him.’

‘Sure. Only happens he’s in Bangkok and he’s got business. Schedules as tight as a
turtle’s asshole and is that tight. Drown if it wasn’t. You know that. We did a movie one
time on turtles some fucking island…Gal something.’

‘Galapagos,’ said the Bursar.

‘Right first time. Got to hand it to you, Prof, you know your geology. Galap…What did you
call it?’

‘Galapagos. It’s where Darwin first’

Kudzuvine wasn’t having it. ‘Wrong. That’s Australia some place. So he don’t come to your
Porterhouse. It goes to Hartang.’

‘I don’t see how that’s possible,’ said the Bursar, now thoroughly mystified. ‘I mean
you can’t move buildings. It’s out of the question. It really is, you know. We’d be
delighted to have him come up’

‘You’re not hearing me, Prof. What sort of business are we in? Transworld?’

‘Transworld? Yes, I know that, but there are limits, you know, and frankly’

‘Transworld Television Productions,’ said Kudzuvine. ‘Satellite transmission.
Okay?’

‘Ah, yes,’ said the Bursar, feeling slightly less insane. ‘I see what you mean.’

‘There in one, Prof baby, there in one. We make the movie and E.H. sees it. Bangkok or
Lima, Peru or whatever, no sweat. Agreed?’

‘Of course, of course. If that is what Mr Hartang wants, you are very welcome to come up
with a video camera and take pictures of the College. I can’t see any problems about
that.’

‘Great,’ said Kudzuvine. ‘So now we’ve got to pick a time.’

‘Well, any time really, though at the moment the undergraduates are studying for
Tripos and it would be better’

‘Studying for tripods? You got students studying for tripods? I didn’t know…’

‘Tripos exams. They are in three parts. Prelims, Part One and Part Two. Quite different
from Oxford where they only take one exam at the end of the third year.’

‘One?’ said Kudzuvine, now as mystified as the Bursar had been a few moments before.
‘Like monopods? Hell, that’s really something. Three years to study for monopods. This
system of yours is something else.’

‘All I’m trying to tell you,’ said the Bursar, ‘is that it would be better if you could
wait until after the exams and come up in June when we have May Balls. They are dances.’

‘Why do you have May Balls in June?’ demanded Kudzuvine.

‘After the Bumps–’

But Kudzuvine had had enough. Bumps was too much. ‘Like stick with these balls,’ he said.
‘It’s safer.’

The Bursar agreed. He found trying to explain Cambridge customs almost impossible
‘We don’t have a May Ball every year,’ he said. ‘They are very expensive to organize and
the tickets cost £150. There are marquees…tents.’ The thought that Kudzuvine might confuse
marquees with someone noble in France was too awful. ‘And we have two bands and’

‘This is terrific, baby. This is it. Man, we’ve got it made. Shit, E.H. is going to love
it. I mean he’s wild about parties and balls and stuff. We film this you’ll have all the
fucking funds you need to put you in orbit.’

The Bursar backed away from this enthusiasm. Funds were all he required. ‘You mean
you’d come up with a camera and film the May Ball? I’m sure that could be arranged.’

‘Arranged? I’ll say it will be arranged, you’d better believe it. What’s today?’

‘Wednesday,’ said the Bursar.

‘Right. We’ll be up Sunday for a look-see. You know. Got to get the scenes right. Around 8
a.m. I’ll be there.’

‘I’m not sure…’

‘You don’t have to be sure, Prof Bursar. You leave it to old K.K. No sweat.’

And once more the Bursar found himself being helped into a taxi and driven to
Liverpool Street Station. As usual after a meeting with Kudzuvine he was feeling
distinctly uneasy and not very well.

But if Wednesday was bad, Sunday was absolutely awful. The Bursar seldom went to
Early Communion, preferring to put in an appearance at Matins or Evensong, but in the
knowledge that he was going to have to show Kudzuvine the College and in the process show
the College Kudzuvine, and also knowing that Porterhouse preferred its Americans quiet
and with some modicum of sophistication, the Bursar offered up a little prayer to the
Almighty to see him safely and happily through the day. From the results, God had been in
no mood to listen. The Bursar came out of Chapel just before 8 a.m. to find Walter and
three other porters trying to prevent a number of men, and perhaps women, all dressed in
brown polo-neck sweaters, black blazers, white socks, moccasins and those dark blue
glasses, from opening the whole of the Main Gate so that they could back a video truck into
Old Court.

‘You can’t bring that thing in here,’ Walter was saying, ‘you’ve got no permission.’

‘We got Professor Bursar’s permission,’ said the familiar loud voice. ‘You telling us
Professor Bursar got no authority round here?’

Walter stared dementedly round at the identical faces, evidently trying to figure
out which one to answer. ‘I’m…I’m…I’m telling you you can’t bring that thing in here is what
I’m telling you. It isn’t right,’ he shouted.

Kudzuvine poked his waistcoat with a large forefinger. ‘Listen, baby,’ he said
nastily (Walter was fifty-eight), ‘listen, baby. I’m asking you a question. I’m asking
you Professor Bursar got authority round here? Yes or no?’

‘No, no,’ said Walter, ‘of course he hasn’t. We haven’t got a Professor Purser. You’ve
come to the wrong college. Why don’t you go along to…well, wherever you’re meant to be
and–’

‘Porterhouse,’ said Kudzuvine. ‘Porterhouse is where we’re meant to be.’

‘Are you sure you don’t mean Peterhouse?’ asked Walter. ‘Peterhouse is down past
Queens’ and Pembroke. It’s on the right.’

‘You telling me I don’t know where I’m meant to be? Eight fucking a.m. I told Professor
Bursar and now you’re telling me you haven’t got a Professor Bursar?’

‘Yes. I mean no…and leave them bolts alone. They haven’t been undone since Her Majesty. God
Almighty.’ Walter looked round frantically for help from higher authority and spotted
the Bursar and several earnest undergraduates standing by the Chapel. ‘We’ve got a
Bursar but not a Professor–’

Kudzuvine turned and followed his gaze. ‘What did I say?’ he yelled. ‘Professor Bursar,
course you’ve got Professor Bursar. Hey Prof, you look great.’ The Bursar was wearing a
gown for Chapel, as was Porterhouse custom. Kudzuvine turned back to the group of Transworld
operatives. ‘Hey, you guys look at that for costume. Like for fucking real. Monks, man,
monks. And look at this one!’ The Chaplain had emerged from the Chapel and was peering
happily at them. ‘I mean who needs characters with these around? We got it made.’

The Bursar hurried forward. He had to stop the bloody man before the Senior Tutor
appeared in his dressing-gown or something. ‘For Heaven’s sake, keep your voice down,’ he
said, grasping Kudzuvine by the sleeve. And you can’t bring whatever that thing is in. It
is but of the question.’

‘It is?’ said Kudzuvine, now almost whispering. ‘Why?’

The Bursar looked round for some practical reason and found it. ‘The lawn,’ he said.
‘The lawn. You can’t drive that in on the lawn.’

Kudzuvine and the group turned their startled attention to the Old Court lawn. ‘The
lawn?’ he said, evidently awed. ‘So what’s so special with the lawn?’

‘It’s hundreds of years old,’ said the Bursar suddenly inspired. ‘It’s…it’s protected
species. No one is allowed even to walk on it,’

Kudzuvine shook his head in disbelief. ‘No one is allowed to walk on it for hundreds of
years? So how come it’s so short and green and stuff Cuts itself too?’

‘No, of course not. The College gardeners cut it but only dons are allowed to walk on
it.’

‘Jesus,’ said Kudzuvine. ‘Got a lawn hundreds of years old. That I understand. Whole
place looks like it’s been here hundreds of years, maybe thousands. Mr Hartang is going to
love this.’

‘I daresay he will,’ said the Bursar, finally beginning to feel he had the situation
slightly in hand. ‘But not if you bring that truck thing in with those cables and ruin
it.’

‘Yeah, you could be right at that,’ Kudzuvine admitted. ‘Okay, you guys, leave it in the
street.’

‘And I don’t think that’s a very good idea either,’ the Bursar continued. ‘The police
will–’

‘So we move it some place else. Where’s the campus parking lot?’

The Bursar tried to think. It had never crossed his mind that Porterhouse might have a
campus or even be one. Walter came to his rescue. ‘You can always try the Lion Yard,’ he
muttered. ‘Though if you ask me I don’t think you’ll get it in.’

Kudzuvine turned his attention away from the lawn. ‘Did you say…You did say the Lion’s
Yard?’ he asked. Awe wasn’t an adequate word now. Horror was more like it.

‘He means the car park…the parking lot,’ the Bursar explained. ‘It has nothing to do
with the College. And I assure you there are no lions in it.’

‘There are,’ said Walter. ‘There’s a great big red one.’

The Bursar looked at him and shook his head. He had never liked Skullion as Head Porter
but there were times when he wished he was back. Skullion would never have allowed this
situation to develop. ‘Yes, Walter, but it’s a stone one. A statue,’ he explained with
difficult patience. ‘It’s called the Lion Yard after the lovely old pub that used to
stand there.’

‘Oh, I remember the Lion so well,’ said the Chaplain, who had joined the gathering
outside the Porter’s Lodge. ‘Such a shame they knocked it down. It had a delightful
walkway, almost an arcade with leather sofas on either side and little insurance
offices and shipping agents behind them. I used to sit there and have coffee in the
morning. And of course there was a bar. And I seem to remember some enterprising young
man from Magdalene ran a sort of casino there with a roulette wheel. Such fun.’

Kudzuvine and the other polo-necks stood in silent admiration and stared through
their blue sunglasses. It was obvious they had never seen or heard anything like this
before.

‘Ah well, I must leave you good people,’ the Chaplain said. ‘Breakfast calls. Spiritual
sustenance is one thing but, to change the emphasis of Our Lord’s words slightly towards
the practical, “Man cannot live by wine and biscuit alone” We are corporeal beings
after all. So nice meeting you.’ He tottered off in the direction of the Dining Hall
following the scent of porridge and bacon and eggs and good coffee.

For the next twenty minutes, in the almost serene atmosphere that had been induced by
the Chaplain’s nostalgia, the Bursar got Kudzuvine to have the video van parked away from
the College.

‘We’ll clear a space by the bicycle sheds, when you need to use it,’ he explained,
‘though I must say I never visualized such…well, it’s like a pantechnicon.’

It was a most unfortunate word to use. Kudzuvine seized on it. ‘Professor Bursar,
have you said it?’ he bawled.

‘Well, I think so…’ tire Bursar began, but Kudzuvine had grabbed him by the arm.

‘Pantechnicon it could be but that’s small stuff. We go straight into thirty-five or
maybe even seventy mill. We’ve got this Ball, see, and everyone dancing out in the open
air…’ He paused and looked puzzled. ‘Where do they dance?’

The Bursar smiled. It was to be his last smile for some time. ‘Well, mostly in the Hall of
course,’ he said. ‘They clear the tables out, you know.’

‘The Hall? Show me,’ said Kudzuvine.

The Bursar led the way to the Screens and the Transworld Television team came bunched
behind, gaping. ‘These are the Screens,’ he explained. ‘On our left are the kitchens…well
actually they are down below but the steps lead down to the Buttery. Now the
Buttery–’

‘Hold it there. Hold it,’ Kudzuvine said, almost pleading. ‘You mean you got a place you
make your own butter? You mean in wooden churns with fucking handles and milkmaids
and…This is beyond incredible. It’s wayer out than way. Jesus, that I should have been so
privileged. And you said you didn’t use quills.’

‘I don’t, as a matter of fact,’ said the Bursar coldly. He still felt very bitter about
Mr Skundler’s rudeness and the notion that he had to catch a goose every time he made a
single entry. And the Buttery isn’t for butter. It is where the bread and ale, and of
course in years gone by some butter, was kept. Nowadays one buys one’s sherry and wine there
and the undergraduates can order beer or wine with their meals.’

Kudzuvine’s mouth was hanging open. ‘You mean you actually encourage kids to get
alcoholic in there? I don’t know what to say? This isn’t happening. It can’t be.’

‘Not alcoholic Just sensible drinking. It’s all part of their education,’ said the
Bursar, who wished Kudzuvine’s last two remarks had been true.

But Kudzuvine’s short attention span had switched to the Hall itself, where a waiter
had just come through for more coffee. ‘Take a look at this, you guys,’ he said and went in.
Behind him the Bursar cringed. A small number of undergraduates were having breakfast
and looked up in annoyance at the intrusion. Kudzuvine didn’t notice. He was gazing in
rapture at the portraits of past Masters hanging on the panelled walls and seemed
particularly enraptured by Dr Anderson (1669-89) and Jonathan Riderscombe (1740-48),
both of whom were decidedly fat.

‘Shit,’ said Kudzuvine, clearly now on some sort of higher than high. ‘No wonder the
place is called Porterhouse. It’s a wonder it isn’t Porkerhouse the way those guys look.
And we think we’ve got obesity problems. That’s human foie gras up there. I mean you can’t
get that way naturally. You’ve got to be force fed. And what’s with their cholesterol
level? Must been way off the scale like they sweated the stuff. And with pork-bellies like
those they can’t ever have seen their John Henries. Except in the mirror of course. And
look at the roof…’