Read Online Grantchester Grind by Tom Sharpe - Free Book Online

what about the whales and the baby octopuses?’ the Bursar asked one man he knew

    who had connections with Nature Programmes at the BBC.
    ‘Whales and what?’
    ‘Baby octopuses,’ said the Bursar, who had never got over Karl Kudzuvine’s

    explanation of the extraordinary security measures at Transworld Centre. ‘They made

    a series that had some pretty dramatic effect on the Spanish fishing industry. They

    received death threats and things.’
    ‘Christ. I never heard about it, but if you say so. Try World Wildlife They’d know. I

    don’t.’
    But the Bursar hadn’t bothered. From his point of view the only thing to matter was that

    Transworld Television Productions obviously had funds to spare. A company that could

    make religious movies for the Vatican, for several extreme Protestant Churches in the

    Bible Belt in America, for Hindus, for Buddhists and various sects all over the world as

    well as documentaries on rainforests, whales and baby octopuses, had to be incredibly

    rich. The Bursar began to think he had found a private gold-mine. All the same he remained

    puzzled and his bewilderment increased when he went down to London the following

    Wednesday.
    This time he did not meet Mr Hartang. ‘He’s busy with Rio right now and then Bangkok want

    him so he’s non-available,’ Kudzuvine told him when he’d been through the metal-detector

    and the Porterhouse accounts ledgers had been screened in the X-ray machine. ‘You got me

    and Skundler. Skundler does the assessmentation.’
    Assessmentation?’ said the Bursar.
    ‘Like money. Okay?’
    They went up in the elevator to Floor 9 and then down to 6. ‘Got to be careful. Drill,’

    said Kudzuvine by way of explanation.
    ‘Are you still having trouble about the baby octopuses?’ asked the Bursar. For a

    moment Kudzuvine looked a little uncertain.
    ‘Baby octopuses? Oh, sure, those baby octopuses. Are we ever. Those fucking wop

    fishermen in Italy. They’ve given us more trouble than you can imagine. Man, death

    threats.’
    ‘Italians? Italian fishermen too?’ asked the Bursar.
    ‘Who else?’ said Kudzuvine, but the Bursar hadn’t time to answer. They had reached Floor

    6. Kudzuvine carried the ledgers into Skundler’s office and introduced the Bursar as

    Professor Bursar.
    ‘Ross Skundler,’ said the man, who looked exactly like Edgar Hartang the week before,

    but without the hairpiece. The desk was glass-topped too but far smaller than Hartang’s,

    and while the chairs were the same green colour the leather was clearly artificial. There

    was no sofa. But if the Bursar was taking in the details of Ross Skundler’s office with

    its computers and telephones, the Assessmentation Officer was finding it difficult

    to take in the Porterhouse ledgers. They were extremely large and quarterbound in dark red

    leather. ‘Jesus,’ he muttered and looked from them to Kudzuvine. ‘What’s with those? Where’d

    you find them? Ararat?’
    ‘Arafat?’ said Kudzuvine. ‘What’s the PLO got to do with it? Says on them Porterhouse. You

    only read figures or something?’
    ‘Ark,’ said Skundler, who evidently didn’t like Kudzuvine’s manner any more than he

    liked the look of the ledgers. ‘The Ark oh Mount fucking Ararat. Animals two by two, okay?

    You can’t count or something? Makes like four.’
    The Bursar was about to intervene with some light remark about baby octopuses and

    Noah, but remembered in time that octopuses–or was it octopi?–could swim. He was feeling

    decidedly uneasy in the company of these two men who clearly hated one another.
    ‘I can count,’ said Kudzuvine, ‘but Professor Bursar don’t have no print-out. Isn’t

    that right, Prof?’
    The Bursar nodded. ‘I’m afraid we aren’t into computers,’ he said, trying to match

    their way of talking.
    ‘You can say that again,’ said Skundler, still looking very warily at the huge ledgers.

    ‘These have got to be fiscal