The Master’s sudden decision to seek some ground of understanding with the Senior Tutor left him almost as soon as he had crossed the Fellows’ Garden. Any sort of overture now would be misinterpreted, he realized, taken as evidence of weakness on his part. He had established his authority. It would not do to weaken it now. But having come out he felt obliged to continue his walk. He went into town and browsed in Heffer’s for an hour before buying Butler’s Art of the Possible. It was not a maxim with which he had much sympathy. It smacked of cynicism but Sir Godber was sufficient of a politician still to appreciate the author’s sense of irony. He wandered on debating his own choice of a title for his autobiography. Future Perfect was probably the most appropriate, combining as it did his vision with a modicum of scholarship. Catching sight of his reflection in a shop window he found it remarkable that he was as old as he looked. It was strange that his ideals had not altered with his appearance. The methods of their attainment might mellow with experience but the ideals remained constant. That was why it was so important to see that the undergraduates who came up to Porterhouse should be free to form their own judgements, and more important still that they should have some judgements to form. They should rebel against the accepted tenets of their elders and, in Sir Godber’s opinion, their worse. He stopped at the Copper Kettle for tea and then made his way back to Porterhouse and sat in his study reading his book. Outside the sky darkened, and with it the College. Out of term it was empty and there were no room lights on to brighten the Court. At five the Master got up and pulled the curtains and he was about to sit down again when a knock at the front door made him stop and go down the corridor into the hall. He opened the door and peered out into the darkness. A dark familiar shape stood on the doorstep.

“Skullion?” said Sir Godber as if questioning the existence of the shape. “What are you doing here?”

To Skullion the question emphasized his misery. “I’d like a word,” he said.

Sir Godber hesitated. He didn’t want words with Skullion. “What about?” he asked. It was Skullion’s turn to hesitate. “I’ve come to apologize,” he said finally.

“Apologize? What for?” Skullion shook his head. He didn’t know what for. “Well, man? What for?”

“It’s just that…”

“Oh for goodness sake,” said Sir Godber, appalled at Skullion’s inarticulate despair. “Come on in.” He turned and led the way to his study with Skullion treading gently behind him.

“Well now, what is it?” he asked when they were in the room.

“It’s about my dismissal, sir,” Skullion said.

“Your dismissal?” Sir Godber sighed. He was a sympathetic man who had to steel himself with irritation. “You should see the Bursar about that. I don’t deal with matters of that sort.”

“I’ve seen the Bursar,” said Skullion.

“I don’t see that I can do anything,” the Master said. “And in any case I really don’t think that you can expect much sympathy after what you said the other night.”

Skullion looked at him sullenly. “I didn’t say anything wrong,” he muttered. “I just said what I thought.”

“It might have paid you to consider what you did think before…” Sir Godber gave up. The situation was most unfortunate. He had better things to do with his time than argue with college porters. “Anyway there’s nothing more to be said.”

Skullion stirred resentfully. “Forty-five years I’ve been a porter here,” he said.

Sir Godber’s hand brushed the years aside. “I know. I know,” he said. “I’m aware of that.”

“I’ve given my life to the College.”

“I daresay.”

Skullion glowered at the Master. “All I ask is to be kept on,” he said.

The Master turned his back on him and kicked the fire with his foot. The man’s maudlin appeal annoyed him. Skullion had exercised a baleful influence on the College ever since he could remember. He stood for everything Sir Godber detested. He’d been rude, bullying and importunate all his life and the Master hadn’t forgotten his insolence on the night of the explosion. Now here he was, cap in hand, asking to be taken back. Worst of all he made the Master feel guilty.

“I understand from the Bursar that you have some means,” he said callously. Skullion nodded. “Enough to live on?”

“Yes.”

“Well then, I really can’t see what you’re complaining about. A lot of people retire at sixty. Haven’t you got a family?” Skullion shook his head. Again Sir Godber felt a tremor of unreasonable disgust. His contempt showed in his face, contempt as much for his own vulnerable sensibilities as for the pathetic man before him. Skullion saw that contempt and his little eyes darkened. He had swallowed his pride to come and ask but it rode up in him now in the face of the Master’s scorn. It rose up out of the distant past when he’d been a free man and it overwhelmed the barriers of his reference. He hadn’t come to be insulted even silently by the likes of Sir Godber. Without knowing what he was doing he took a step forward. Instinctively Sir Godber recoiled. He was afraid of Skullion and, like his contempt a moment before, it showed. He’d been afraid of Skullion all his life, the little Skullions who lived in drab streets he’d had to pass to go to school, who chased him and threw stones and wore grubby clothes.

“Now look here,” he said with an attempt at authority, but Skullion was looking. His bitter eyes stared at Sir Godber and he too was in the grip of the past and its violent instincts. His face was flushed and unknown to him his fists were clenched.

“You bastard!” he shouted and lunged at the Master. “You bloody bastard!” Sir Godber staggered backwards and tripped against the coffee table. He fell against the mantelpiece and clutched at the edge of the armchair and the next moment he had fallen back into the fireplace. Beneath his feet a rug gently slid away and Sir Godber subsided on to the study floor. His head had hit the corner of the iron grate. Above him Skullion stood dumbfounded. Blood oozed on to the parquet. Skullion’s fury ebbed. He stared down at the Master for a moment and turned and ran. He ran down the passage and out the front door into the street. It was empty. Skullion turned to the right and hurried along the pavement. A moment later he was in Trinity Street. People passed him but there was nothing unusual about a college porter in a hurry.

In the Master’s Lodge Sir Godber lay still in the flickering light of his fire. The blood running fast from his scalp formed in a pool and dried. An hour passed and Sir Godber still bled, though more slowly. It was eight before he recovered consciousness. The room was blurred and distant and clocks ticked noisily. He tried to get to his feet but couldn’t. He knelt against the fireplace and reached for the armchair. Slowly he crawled across the room to the telephone. He’d got to ring for help. He reached up and pulled the phone down on to the floor. He started to dial emergency but the thought of scandal stopped him. His wife? He put the receiver back and reached for the pad with the number of the Samaritans on it. He found it and dialled. While he waited he stared at the notice Lady Mary had pinned on the pad. “If you are in Despair or thinking of Suicide, Phone the Samaritans.”

The dialling tone stopped. “Samaritans here, can I help you?” Lady Mary’s voice was as stridently concerned as ever.

“I’m hurt,” said Sir Godber indistinctly.

“You’re what? You’ll have to speak up.”

“I said I’m hurt. For God’s sake come…”

“What’s that?” Lady Mary asked.

“Oh God, oh God,” Sir Godber moaned feebly.

“All right now, tell me all about it,” said Lady Mary with interest. “I’m here to help you.”

“I’ve fallen in the grate,” Sir Godber explained.