the black-bearded Welshman who worked next to her had given her his pinned-out specimen and was preparing another for himself. Sex, as they say, is everywhere.
It was certainly at the Agricultural Society’s ball held in the College Hall on the following Saturday. The ratio of men to girls at Torcastle is five to one, so I was accustomed to seeing girls dragged round like pieces of mammoth by men still sweating from the chase. The worm-saving Miss Hamilton, however, was being dragged round by an entire rugger scrum, all of whose members seemed certain that time was not on their side.
‘That’s Kirstie Hamilton, isn’t it?’ said a voice on my left.
The other student, an Afro-haired agricultural engineer, nodded. ‘They say she’s absolutely fantastic. Goes out with anyone, no holds barred.’
‘Funny, she doesn’t look the type.’
‘Apparently she’s going into a convent or something when she’s through here. So she’s getting it all in now.’
She was certainly getting it in. Slightly disgusted for some reason, I steered my own piece of mammoth — a succulent dental nurse called Charline – towards the buffet.
By the time I got back to the ballroom, single ownership of Miss Hamilton had definitely been established. Peering closely at the victor, I saw the sallow face and slicked-down hair of our prize student Vernon Hartleypool, winner of the Mortimer-Ponsonby Prize for the best essay on Silage Utilisation and holder, two years running, of the Potterton Scholarship in Egg Production.
Agriculturally, she couldn’t have done better. But for a last outburst of sensuality before renouncing the world, her choice struck me as odd. Which was not to say that I didn’t by the end of the evening feel extremely sorry for Vernon Hartleypool. For just as the lights grew really dim, the music more and more insistent, I saw Vernon, scowling, leave the ballroom, return with a ladder, climb (among drunken cheers from his classmates) to the top of the thirty-foot window and release, at last, into the ink-black Torcastle night, a passe and not noticeably grateful turnip moth.
As half-term approached and Sir Henry’s visit drew nearer, activity in the college became more and more frenetic. Black-water increased Hannibal’s dosage yet again and it took two men to carry the syringe. Davies added intestinal fistulas to his already gastrically fistulated sheep and Pringle (though his wife had purchased a set of hair-curlers that would have interested the Inquisition) nevertheless added at least two feet of significant glass tubing to his beetroot.
All the same…
‘Staff all right, James, do you reckon?’ asked Peckham, the Principal, putting it into words. ‘Not feeling the strain?’
I said no, the staff were fine. What else could I say? That I had encountered Davies, after he’d taken the First Years for animal nutrition, staring haggardly at his fistulated sheep.
‘James, this is a
useful
experiment? Worth causing a bit of discomfort for?’
‘Of course it is.’
‘I mean, they’re just sheep. Not happy sheep. Not unhappy sheep.
Sheep
. St Francis just doesn’t come
in
to a thing like that.’
Or Blackwater, striding angrily into the staff-room. ‘So the Buddha gave up sex at thirty. So he gave it
up
. Is that any reason why I shouldn’t inject Hannibal?’
In a way it was Pringle who showed most fight. ‘I don’t care
what
the new work on plant sensitivity shows,’ he said, sitting with teeth clenched over his tank. ‘This beetroot is
not screaming
.’
‘Look, Kirstie,’ I said, using her Christian name for the first time and removing from her shoulder the white rat she had personally been unable to chloroform. ‘I understand your feelings very well. But why inflict them on us? You don’t need a diploma in agriculture to go into a convent.’
‘It’s not like that, Dr Marshall, honestly. I just
have
to get this diploma. Particularly now that this ghastly thing has come up with Vernon
It was certainly at the Agricultural Society’s ball held in the College Hall on the following Saturday. The ratio of men to girls at Torcastle is five to one, so I was accustomed to seeing girls dragged round like pieces of mammoth by men still sweating from the chase. The worm-saving Miss Hamilton, however, was being dragged round by an entire rugger scrum, all of whose members seemed certain that time was not on their side.
‘That’s Kirstie Hamilton, isn’t it?’ said a voice on my left.
The other student, an Afro-haired agricultural engineer, nodded. ‘They say she’s absolutely fantastic. Goes out with anyone, no holds barred.’
‘Funny, she doesn’t look the type.’
‘Apparently she’s going into a convent or something when she’s through here. So she’s getting it all in now.’
She was certainly getting it in. Slightly disgusted for some reason, I steered my own piece of mammoth — a succulent dental nurse called Charline – towards the buffet.
By the time I got back to the ballroom, single ownership of Miss Hamilton had definitely been established. Peering closely at the victor, I saw the sallow face and slicked-down hair of our prize student Vernon Hartleypool, winner of the Mortimer-Ponsonby Prize for the best essay on Silage Utilisation and holder, two years running, of the Potterton Scholarship in Egg Production.
Agriculturally, she couldn’t have done better. But for a last outburst of sensuality before renouncing the world, her choice struck me as odd. Which was not to say that I didn’t by the end of the evening feel extremely sorry for Vernon Hartleypool. For just as the lights grew really dim, the music more and more insistent, I saw Vernon, scowling, leave the ballroom, return with a ladder, climb (among drunken cheers from his classmates) to the top of the thirty-foot window and release, at last, into the ink-black Torcastle night, a passe and not noticeably grateful turnip moth.
As half-term approached and Sir Henry’s visit drew nearer, activity in the college became more and more frenetic. Black-water increased Hannibal’s dosage yet again and it took two men to carry the syringe. Davies added intestinal fistulas to his already gastrically fistulated sheep and Pringle (though his wife had purchased a set of hair-curlers that would have interested the Inquisition) nevertheless added at least two feet of significant glass tubing to his beetroot.
All the same…
‘Staff all right, James, do you reckon?’ asked Peckham, the Principal, putting it into words. ‘Not feeling the strain?’
I said no, the staff were fine. What else could I say? That I had encountered Davies, after he’d taken the First Years for animal nutrition, staring haggardly at his fistulated sheep.
‘James, this is a
useful
experiment? Worth causing a bit of discomfort for?’
‘Of course it is.’
‘I mean, they’re just sheep. Not happy sheep. Not unhappy sheep.
Sheep
. St Francis just doesn’t come
in
to a thing like that.’
Or Blackwater, striding angrily into the staff-room. ‘So the Buddha gave up sex at thirty. So he gave it
up
. Is that any reason why I shouldn’t inject Hannibal?’
In a way it was Pringle who showed most fight. ‘I don’t care
what
the new work on plant sensitivity shows,’ he said, sitting with teeth clenched over his tank. ‘This beetroot is
not screaming
.’
‘Look, Kirstie,’ I said, using her Christian name for the first time and removing from her shoulder the white rat she had personally been unable to chloroform. ‘I understand your feelings very well. But why inflict them on us? You don’t need a diploma in agriculture to go into a convent.’
‘It’s not like that, Dr Marshall, honestly. I just
have
to get this diploma. Particularly now that this ghastly thing has come up with Vernon
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