Grantchester Grind Read Free Page B

did not remove the surgical glove.

    ‘Skullion? Can’t say I’m entirely surprised All that sitting about in a wheelchair and so

    on and widdling into a bag is bound to have an effect in the end. Of course we could

    operate, but that can cause problems you know. Sometimes one ejaculates backwards into

    the bladder.’
    ‘I hardly think Skullion…the Master is likely to ejaculate anywhere,’ said the Dean

    bitterly, ‘particularly as he doesn’t need a prostate operation. What I want you to tell

    me is your opinion on the Master’s general fitness.’
    The doctor nodded. He still hadn’t removed the surgical glove. ‘General fitness, eh?

    Well, that’s a different matter altogether. I mean at our age we can hardly expect to

    be entirely fit and–’
    ‘I am talking about the Master, Skullion, for goodness sake,’ the Dean snapped. ‘His

    general fitness.’
    ‘Point taken,’ said the doctor. ‘And I have to say that he is not at all well. The

    Porterhouse Blue he had, you know, was a very bad one It’s amazing he survived at all. He

    must have the constitution of an ox.’
    The Dean eyed him very unpleasantly. ‘And would you assess his ability to perform his

    duties as Master of the College at the same bovine level?’ he asked.
    ‘Ah, there you have me, Dean. I have never really known what a Master’s duties are,

    apart from dining in Hall and being around for official occasions and so on. Otherwise

    there is practically damnall to do as far as I can see. Skullion has proved that, hasn’t

    he?’
    The Dean made a final attempt to get an answer that made sense. ‘And how long do you

    think he’s got? Got to live, I mean.’
    ‘There you have me again,’ said the doctor. ‘It is almost impossible to say. Only a

    matter of time, of course.’
    But the Dean had had enough. ‘Have you ever known when it wasn’t?’ he asked and stood

    up.
    ‘Wasn’t? Wasn’t what?’
    ‘A matter of time. From the day we are born, for instance’ And leaving Dr MacKendly to

    work that out–the doctor’s speciality was rugby knees, not metaphysics–the Dean went down

    the steps into King’s Parade and walked back to Porterhouse in a very nasty temper. Around

    him tourists stared into shop windows or sat on the wall under King’s College Chapel or

    photographed the Senate House. The Dean disregarded them. They belonged to a world he had

    always despised.
    Two days later, explaining that he had a sick relative in Wales to visit, the Dean set

    off in search of a new Master for Porterhouse Something told him he had to hurry. It was a

    gut feeling, but such a feeling seldom let him down.
    The feelings that Mr Lapline had in his stomach were by now so acute that it was some two

    weeks before Goodenough had sufficient time to spare from his partner’s work to travel to

    Cambridge to meet the Senior Tutor for lunch at the Garden House Hotel overlooking the

    Cam. ‘I’d have invited you to my club in London, but it gets very crowded these days and we

    can talk more privately here. Besides, it is always a pleasure to visit Cambridge and

    I’m sure you’re a very busy man. I hope you don’t mind lunching here?’
    The Senior Tutor didn’t in the least mind. He had heard good things about the Garden

    House, and Wednesday lunch in Hall tended to be rather meagre. He accepted a very large

    pink gin and studied the menu while Goodenough spoke about his nephew in the Leander Club,

    his own college, Magdalen at Oxford, and anything but the matter he had come to discuss.

    It was only after he had persuaded the Senior Tutor to have another very large pink gin

    and then had primed him with a sizeable helping of pâté, an excellent fillet steak and a

    bottle and a half of Chambertin and they were sitting with their coffee and Chartreuse,

    that Goodenough finally got round to the topic of the donation. He did so with an air of

    slight embarrassment.
    ‘The fact of the matter is that we