Vintage Stuff Read online

  Vintage Stuff

  Tom Sharpe

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  About the Author

  Also by Tom Sharpe

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Version 1.0

  Epub ISBN 9781407099743

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  Published by Arrow Books in 2002

  9 10 8

  Copyright © Tom Sharpe 1982

  Tom Sharpe has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  First published in 1982 by Martin Secker & Warburg Ltd

  Arrow Books

  The Random House Group Limited

  20 Vauxhall Bridge Road, London SW1V 2SA

  Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.htm

  The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009

  www.rbooks.co.uk

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 9780099435549

  About the Author

  Tom Sharpe was born in 1928 and educated at Lancing College and at Pembroke College, Cambridge. He did his National Service in the Marines before going to South Africa in 1951, where he did social work before teaching in Natal. He had a photographic studio in Pietermaritzburg from 1957 until 1961, and from 1963 to 1972 he was a lecturer in History at the Cambridge College of Arts and Technology.

  He is the author of sixteen novels, including Porterhouse Blue and Blott on the Landscape, which were serialised on television, and Wilt, which was made into a film. In 1986 he was awarded the XXXIIIème Grand Prix de l’Humour Noir Xavier Forneret. Tom Sharpe died in 2013.

  Also by Tom Sharpe

  Riotous Assembly

  Indecent Exposure

  Porterhouse Blue

  Blott on the Landscape

  Wilt

  The Great Pursuit

  The Throwback

  The Wilt Alternative

  Ancestral Vices

  Wilt on High

  Grantchester Grind

  The Midden

  Wilt in Nowhere

  The Gropes

  The Wilt Inheritance

  1

  The arrival of Peregrine Roderick Clyde-Browne on earth was authenticated by his birth certificate. His father was named as Oscar Motley Clyde-Browne, occupation Solicitor, and his mother as Marguerite Diana, maiden name Churley. Their address was The Cones, Pinetree Lane, Virginia Water. It was also announced in The Times with the additional note, ‘Most grateful thanks to the staff of St Barnabas’ Nursing Home.’

  The thanks were premature but at the time sincere. Mr and Mrs Clyde-Browne had waited a long time for a child and were about to resort to medical help when Peregrine was conceived. Mrs Clyde-Browne was then thirty-six and her husband already forty. They were therefore understandably delighted when, after a surprisingly easy labour, Peregrine weighed in at 8lb 5oz at 6 a.m. on 25 March 196—.

  ‘He’s a beautiful baby,’ said the Sister, with greater regard for Mrs Clyde-Browne’s feelings than for the facts. Peregrine’s beauty was of the sort usually seen after a particularly nasty car accident. ‘And such a good one.’

  Here she was nearer the truth. From the moment of his birth Peregrine was good. He seldom cried, ate regularly and had just the right amount of wind to reassure his parents that he was thoroughly normal. In short, for the first five years he was a model child and it was only when he continued to be a model child through his sixth, seventh, eighth and ninth years that the Clyde-Brownes had cause to wonder if Peregrine was more model than was entirely proper for a small boy.

  ‘Behaviour: Impeccable?’ said Mr Clyde-Browne, reading his school report. Peregrine went to a very expensive preparatory school as a day-boy. ‘I find that a little disturbing.’

  ‘I can’t imagine why. Peregrine has always been a very good boy and I think it does us credit as his parents.’

  ‘I suppose so, though when I was his age nobody said my behaviour was impeccable. On the contrary …’

  ‘You were an extremely naughty little boy. Your mother admitted as much.’

  ‘My mother would,’ said Mr Clyde-Browne, whose feelings for his late mother were mixed. ‘And I don’t much like this “Tries hard” against all the subjects. I’d rather his work was impeccable and his behaviour left something to be desired.’

  ‘Well, you can’t have everything. If he misbehaved you’d call him a hooligan or a vandal or something. Be grateful he tries hard at work and doesn’t get into trouble.’

  So for the time being Mr Clyde-Browne left it at that and Peregrine continued to be a model child. It was only after another year of impeccable behaviour and hard trying that Mr Clyde-Browne approached the Headmaster for a fuller report on his son.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s no chance of his entering for a scholarship to Winchester,’ said the Headmaster when Mr Clyde-Browne expressed this hope. ‘In fact it’s extremely doubtful if he’d get into Harrow.’

  ‘Harrow? I don’t want him to go to Harrow,’ said Mr Clyde-Browne, who had a conventional opinion of Old Harrovians, ‘I want him to have the best possible education money can buy.’

  The Headmaster sighed and crossed to the window. His was a most expensive prep school. ‘The fact of the matter is, and you must appreciate that I have had some thirty years in the teaching profession, that Peregrine is an unusual boy. A most unusual boy.’

  ‘I know that,’ said Mr Clyde-Browne, ‘and I also know that every report I’ve had says his behaviour is impeccable and that he tries hard. Now I can face facts as well as the next man. Are you suggesting he’s stupid?’

  The Headmaster turned his back to the desk with a deprecatory gesture. ‘I wouldn’t go as far as to say that,’ he murmured.

  ‘Then how far would you go?’

  ‘Perhaps “late developer” would be more accurate. The fact of the matter is that Peregrine has difficulty conceptualizing.’

  ‘So do I, come to that,’ said Mr Clyde-Browne. ‘What on earth does it mean?’

  ‘Well, as a matter
of fact …’

  ‘That’s the third time you’ve prefaced a matter of no fact whatsoever by using that phrase,’ said Mr Clyde-Browne in his nastiest courtroom manner. ‘Now I want the truth.’

  ‘In short, he takes everything he’s told as Gospel.’

  ‘As Gospel?’

  ‘Literally. Absolutely literally.’

  ‘He takes the Gospel literally?’ said Mr Clyde-Browne, hoping for a chance to vent his feelings about Religious Education in a rational world.

  ‘Not just the Gospel. Everything,’ said the Headmaster, who was finding the interview almost as harassing as trying to teach Peregrine. ‘He seems incapable of distinguishing between a general instruction and the particular. Take the time, for instance.’

  ‘What time?’ asked Mr Clyde-Browne, with a glazed look in his eyes.

  ‘Just time. Now if one of the teachers sets the class some work to do and adds, “Take your own time,” Peregrine invariably says, “Eleven o’clock.”’

  ‘Invariably says, “Eleven o’clock”?’

  ‘Or whatever the time happens to be. It could be half past nine or quarter to ten.’

  ‘In that case he can’t invariably say “Eleven o’clock”,’ said Mr Clyde-Browne, resorting to cross-examination to fight his way out of the confusion.

  ‘Well, not invariably eleven o’clock,’ conceded the Headmaster, ‘but invariably some time or other. Whatever his watch happens to tell him. That’s what I mean about him taking everything literally. It makes teaching him a distinctly unnerving experience. Only the other day I told his class they’d got to pull their socks up, and Peregrine promptly did. It was exactly the same in Bible Studies. The Reverend Wilkinson said that everyone ought to turn over a new leaf. During the break Peregrine went to work on the camellias. My wife was deeply upset.’

  Mr Clyde-Browne followed his glance out of the window and surveyed the stripped bushes. ‘Isn’t there some way of explaining the difference between metaphorical or colloquial expressions and factual ones?’ he asked plaintively.

  ‘Only at the expense of a great deal of time and effort. Besides we have the other children to consider. The English language is not easily adapted to pure logic. We must just hope that Peregrine will develop quite suddenly and learn not to do exactly what he’s told.’

  *

  It was a sadder but no wiser Mr Clyde-Browne who returned to The Cones. That evening, after a heated argument with his wife, whom he blamed entirely for bringing Peregrine up too dutifully, he tried to explain to his son the hazards involved in doing exactly what he was told.

  ‘You could get into terrible trouble, you know. People are always saying things they don’t really mean and if you do what they tell you, everything they tell you, you’ll end up in Queer Street.’

  Peregrine looked puzzled. ‘Where’s Queer Street, Daddy?’ he asked.

  Mr Clyde-Browne studied the boy with a mixture of cautious curiosity and ill-concealed irritation. Now that it had been drawn to his attention, Peregrine’s adherence to the literal had about it something of the same cunning Mrs Clyde-Browne displayed when confronted by facts she preferred not to discuss. He had in mind extravagant use of the housekeeping money. Perhaps Peregrine’s stupidity was as deliberate as his mother’s. If so, there was still hope.

  ‘Queer Street is nowhere. It is simply an expression meaning a bad end.’

  Peregrine considered this for a moment. ‘How can I go there if it’s nowhere?’ he asked finally.

  Mr Clyde-Browne closed his eyes in silent prayer. He could appreciate the plight of the teachers who had to cope with this ghastly logic every day. ‘Never mind where it is,’ he said, controlling his fury with some difficulty. ‘What I’m saying is, that if you don’t pull yourself together … no, forget that.’ Peregrine might go into convulsions. ‘If you don’t learn to make a distinction between statements of fact and mere exhortations, you’ll find yourself in deep wat … in terrible trouble. Do I make myself plain?’

  ‘Yes, Daddy,’ said Peregrine, looking at Mr Clyde-Browne’s face with a critical eye that belied his father’s hopes. But Mr Clyde-Browne had exhausted his repertoire of clichés. ‘Then get out and don’t do every damned thing you’re told to,’ he shouted incautiously.

  *

  Over the next few days he came to learn the full horror of Peregrine’s perverse obedience. From being a model child, Peregrine became a model delinquent. He refused to pass the marmalade at breakfast when he was told to; he came home from school with a black eye precisely because the Headmaster had warned the boys against fighting; he shot Mrs Worksop’s cat with his airgun, thanks to his mother’s injunction to be sure he didn’t; and to make matters worse, told Mrs Worksop by way of inverted apology that he was glad he’d shot her pussy.

  ‘I can’t think what’s got into him,’ Mrs Clyde-Browne complained when she discovered that far from tidying his room as she’d asked him, Peregrine had emptied the drawers onto the floor and had practically wrecked the place. ‘He’s never done anything like that before. It’s all most peculiar. You don’t think we’ve got a poltergeist in the house, do you?’

  Mr Clyde-Browne replied with inaudible caution. He knew only too well what they had in the house, a son with the moral discernment of a micro-processor and with an uncanny flair for misapplying logic.

  ‘Forget what I said the other day,’ he snarled, dragging Peregrine from his previously overfed pet rabbit which was now starving. ‘From now on you’re to do what your mother and I say. I don’t care what havoc you wreck at school but I’m not having this house turned into a hellhole and the neighbours’ cats shot because you’re told not to. Do you understand that?’

  ‘Yes, Daddy,’ said Peregrine, and returned to his less disturbing model behaviour.

  2

  From this discovery that their son was not as other boys were, the Clyde-Brownes drew differing conclusions. Mrs Clyde-Browne stuck to her belief that Peregrine was a genius with all a genius’s eccentricities, while her husband, more practically and with far less enthusiasm for the inconveniences caused by having a pubescent prodigy about the house, consulted the family doctor, then a child psychiatrist, a consultant on educational abnormalities and finally an expert in aptitude testing. Their findings were conflicting. The doctor expressed his personal sympathy; the psychiatrist cast some unpleasant aspersions on the Clyde-Brownes’ sexual life, such as it was; and the educational consultant, a follower of Ivan Illich, found fault with Peregrine’s schooling for placing any emphasis at all on learning. Only the expert in aptitude testing had the practical advice Mr Clyde-Browne was seeking, and gave it as his opinion that Peregrine’s best future lay in the Army, where strict obedience to orders, however insane, was highly commended. With this in mind, Mr Clyde-Browne went on to arrange for Peregrine to go to any public school that would have him.

  Here again he had trouble. Mrs Clyde-Browne insisted that her little sweetie pie needed the very best tuition. Mr Clyde-Browne countered by pointing out that if the little moron was a genius, he didn’t need any tuition at all. But the chief problem lay with the public school headmasters, who evidently found Mr Clyde-Browne’s desperation almost as alarming a deterrent as Peregrine’s academic record. In the end, it was only thanks to a client guilty of embezzling a golf club’s funds that Mr Clyde-Browne learnt about Groxbourne, and that by way of a plea in mitigation. Since Peregrine was already fifteen, Mr Clyde-Browne acted precipitately and drove up to the school during term time.

  Situated in the rolling wooded hillside of South Salop, Groxbourne was virtually unknown in academic circles. Certainly Oxford and Cambridge claimed never to have heard of it, and what little reputation it had seemed to be limited to a few agricultural training colleges.

  ‘But you do have a good Army entry?’ Mr Clyde-Browne enquired eagerly of the retiring Headmaster who was prepared to accept Peregrine for his successor to cope with.

  ‘The War Memorial in the Chapel must speak for our record,’ sai
d the Headmaster with mournful diffidence, and led the way there. Mr Clyde-Browne surveyed the terrible list and was impressed.

  ‘Six hundred and thirty-three in the First World War and three hundred and five in the Second,’ said the Headmaster, ‘I think there can be few schools in the country which have contributed their all so generously. I put our record down to our excellent sports facilities. The playing fields of Waterloo and all that.’

  Mr Clyde-Browne nodded. His hopes for Peregrine’s future had been vitiated by experience.

  ‘And then again, we do have a special course for the Overactive Underachiever,’ continued the Headmaster. ‘Major Fetherington, MC, runs it and we’ve found it a great help for the more practically endowed boy whose needs are not sufficiently met on the purely scholastic side. Naturally, it’s an extra, but you might find your son benefited.’

  Mr Clyde-Browne agreed privately. Whatever Peregrine’s needs were, he was never going to benefit from a purely scholastic education.

  They passed along the Chapel cloisters to the back of the squash court and were greeted by a volley of shots. A dozen boys with rifles were lying on the ground firing at targets in a small-bore rifle range.

  ‘Ah, Major,’ said the Headmaster to a dapper man who was slapping a swagger stick against highly polished riding boots, ‘I’d like to introduce Mr Clyde-Browne whose son will be joining us next term.’

  ‘Splendid, splendid,’ said the Major, switching his swagger stick to his left arm and shaking Mr Clyde-Browne’s hand while managing almost at the same time to order the boys to down rifles, unload, remove bolts and apply pull-throughs. ‘Your boy a keen shot?’

  ‘Very,’ said Mr Clyde-Browne, remembering the incident with Mrs Worksop’s cat. ‘In fact, I think he’s quite good.’