8

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?'