The Campus Trilogy (50 page)

I knew better than to argue with my wife about financial
matters
. She was far shrewder than I. Instead I handed her a glass and poured out the champagne. ‘Well what do you think?' I asked.

‘I think your colleagues at St Sebastian's will be furious,' she said.

Time marched on. Every day I went into my new study and worked on
A Campus Conspiracy
. I loved it. The story ran away with me and each day I found myself producing between two and three thousand words. When she was at home Emma could hear me laughing over the manuscript. The whole experience was totally different from writing my previous philosophical books. Then I had pondered every word and had compulsively written and rewritten. Sadly, there were still no plans to market
Kant's
Critiques Revisited
as a paperback and the hardback sales (at sixty pounds a time) were not overwhelming.

By the end of May, the novel was nearly finished. My
predominant
feeling was one of sadness that the story was ending. Everything was coming together: Wanda Catnip had been
humiliated
; the Vice-Chancellor had been made to look foolish; Magnus was the toast of the old ladies on his cruise ship; and Harry had got his job in Sweetpea, Virginia. It only needed the final couple of chapters set in America and a last ironic twist at the end.

My hip was also much better. I felt more secure when I moved around the house and I was sure the doctors would be pleased with me. I could not wait to shed my crutches.

One afternoon Magnus came over to see us. He was so
overcome
with mirth that it was some time before he could speak coherently. Emma was at home and she provided the three of us with tea and home-made Swiss roll. Once Magnus had eaten two large slices of cake and was on his third cup of tea, he had
recovered
enough to tell us the news.

He had been over to the Theology department to hand in some student reports to the secretary, Wendy Morehouse. There,
displayed
over her desk was a set of wedding photographs. The
bride turned out to be Joy Pickles while the groom was Wolfie Goldberg.

Apparently Wendy and Joy had always been friendly. Joy had sent the pictures because she had wanted her old colleagues from St Sebastian's to know of her good fortune.

‘Well I suppose she could hardly send the collection to Registrar Sloth.' I said.

Magnus snorted. ‘You should see the photographs!' They really are incredible. I've never seen anything like them. They
certainly
put the St Sebastian's Mixed Blessings brochure in the shade.'

‘Tell us all!' commanded Emma.

Magnus settled in his chair. ‘Well in the first place there were two services. The first was a civil ceremony in a small wedding chapel in Las Vegas. I don't know how American weddings work, but I suppose that made the whole thing legal. Anyway Joy wore a bright orange dress which might have been suitable for the Folies Bergère. But the real excitement was that she was given away by Elvis Presley!'

‘Elvis Presley?' Emma was puzzled. ‘Don't be absurd! He died ages ago.'

‘It was a professional look-alike,' explained Magnus. ‘Apparently in those places you can have whoever you want – Frank Sinatra, Louis Armstrong, Clarke Gable, whoever …'

‘Presumably not Immanuel Kant?' I suggested.

Magnus regarded this remark as beneath contempt. ‘Still, that's not the end. After this encounter with the great king of rock in his blue suede shoes, there was another even more
sumptuous
ceremony. This time religion really came into it. It was at the Ziggurat, the hotel you stayed in when you were in Las Vegas. The management closed it for two whole nights to
accommodate
all the out-of-town guests. The service took place on a Saturday evening so everyone was in evening dress. It was huge … hundreds of people … Joy looked like an overgrown meringue in an gigantic white confection.'

‘How was it religious?' I asked.

‘The ceremony was conducted by someone called Rabbi Rhinestone … that can't be his real name … It was held under an enormous canopy all draped in white lilies. It would have been
ruinous for my hay-fever. And the bride was given away by no less a person than the great Luigi Mancini himself!'

Emma and I roared with laughter. ‘I don't believe it,' I said. ‘Well poor old Robert Sloth certainly couldn't have provided such magnificence.'

‘Anyway,' continued Magnus, ‘that's not the end of it. There was a huge article about it in the
Las Vegas Standard
. Wendy Morehouse had a copy of it in her desk, but she wouldn't let me borrow it. It was a whole supplement called ‘The Mother of All Weddings'. There were hundreds of photographs and a
run-down
of all the guests. I'm sorry I couldn't bring it; you'd have adored it.'

‘Perhaps it's on the internet,' suggested Emma.

I brought over my laptop computer and typed in ‘Joy Pickles' and ‘Wolfie Goldberg'. Immediately the article came up. Magnus had been right. It was indeed a notable occasion. The wedding dress was enormous. There was a picture of Joy standing next to her mother, Mrs Sylvia Pickles. The latter was barely visible round her daughter's layers of satin and lace. Then the happy couple were shown standing on either side of Luigi Mancini who looked rather more affable than when I had last seen him. The Elvis look-alike had been invited to the second ceremony and seemed most convincing and there was a large picture of the State Governor proposing the health of the
newlywed
pair.

The guest list extended over several columns. Apparently over five hundred people were present. The Ziggurat Grand Ballroom was the chosen venue where Rabbi Earl Rhinestone (who looked disconcertingly like me!) pronounced the blessings under the extravagantly beflowered canopy. The out-of-town visitors included four presidential hopefuls, two past state governors and three ex-justices of the Supreme Court. Also listed were the
representatives
of various Italian-American families – the Ferretos (New York), Montadoris (Florida), Gambinis (Michigan), Calabrinis (Illinois and Pennsylvania), Rapellos (California) and Sopranos (New Jersey). The photographs extended over several pages and everyone who was anyone appeared to have been there. However, although I looked most diligently, there was no sign of Miss Divine de la Rue.

‘Golly,' I sighed.

‘Well,' said Emma, trying to keep a straight face, ‘I hope they'll be very happy.'

Magnus had dissolved in giggles again on our sofa. We had to invite him to an early supper to sober him up.

At the end of the first week of June, Imogen came home from Cambridge. She had had a hugely successful second year. As we had all hoped, her dissertation on domestic violence had been well received and she had done well in all her other courses. In addition she had been invited to a May Ball and had obviously had a splendid time.

The next day she went over to see her friends in the Women's Refuge. She came back bringing Judith with her. We had coffee together in the kitchen and they told us all the news. Emma had just baked fruit scones. They were cooling on a wire rack and they smelled irresistible.

‘Helga is about to leave the Refuge,' our daughter informed us.

‘She's a different person now,' added Judith, ‘and so is Helmut.'

‘Who on earth is Helmut?' asked Emma.

Judith laughed. ‘He's the Flanagan dog. You remember Patricia and I went to collect him from Cuckoos' Roost one day when we knew the Vice-Chancellor was at the university. He was a horrible beast at first. He was barely house-trained and he either cowered in a corner or he snapped at people for no reason at all. At the beginning we were quite frightened for the children.'

‘Why was he like that?' Emma loved dogs and she hated to hear of canine unhappiness.

‘Well,' Judith hesitated, ‘Helga told us that Flanagan only allowed her to keep the dog because he was a present from her father. The Vice-Chancellor hated him and used to tease and
torment
him with food. Then when he was in a foul temper he would lash out at Helga and the dog indiscriminately. Poor Helmut just didn't know what to expect.'

‘Is he all right now?' asked Emma anxiously.

‘The change is amazing,' Judith told us. ‘After a couple of weeks of regular living, when Patricia helped Helga train him properly, he was completely transformed. He's a lovely dog now,
playful and fun. He never bites and seems completely
trustworthy
. The children will miss him dreadfully when he goes.'

‘So Helga is definitely leaving?' I asked.

‘Yes. She's just got a job as an assistant bursar at Marlborough College Cambridge.'

I was astonished. ‘As an assistant bursar? But you need proper qualifications for a position like that …'

‘She has them.' Judith was triumphant. ‘You remember there was a rumour that Flanagan had tried to get a sinecure for his wife in the Bursary at St Sebastians and everyone dismissed the idea as his way of chiselling more money out of the university?'

I nodded.

‘Well it was all true. She has the best possible qualifications from the University of Berlin. She graduated with the equivalent of a first-class degree in finance and she stayed on for a further year to get the German postgraduate professional accountancy diploma.'

Emma was embarrassed. ‘And I dismissed her as a sad little woman who was quite a good cook, but not really very
interesting
otherwise. That husband of hers is a disgrace …'

‘He was in the process of destroying her,' said Judith. ‘In the end his violence was really a blessing in disguise. It enabled her to come to her senses …'

‘Anyway,' interrupted Imogen, ‘she's leaving for Cambridge the day after tomorrow. It turns out that Flanagan is away at a conference for a couple of nights, so we're going to the house to collect a few of her things…'

‘Who's we?' asked Emma.

‘Judith, Helga and me. She can't go alone. She's still frightened of the Vice-Chancellor even though she hasn't seen him since he last hit her. You know he never visited her in hospital. Not once!'

‘Hasn't he seen her at all?' I asked. ‘Doesn't he want her back?'

‘He wrote a pathetic begging letter just before the doctor
discharged
her. Of course he was terrified he was about to be reported to the police.' Judith was very scornful. ‘He swore that he loved her and that it would never happen again. But this time Helga wasn't having any of it. She wasn't going to hand him over to the
authorities
, but I think she realised that the whole cycle of violence would
never be broken. This time he'd gone too far. For forty-eight hours the doctors thought she had a fractured skull …'

‘I'm sorry Imogen,' Emma was worried, ‘I do understand that Helga needs some moral support, but you've got to be careful. I don't want you to find yourself with a police record for theft or criminal damage. If you go along on this trip, you mustn't take anything out of the house yourself. And if she's tempted to destroy anything, please don't aid and abet her.'

‘Don't worry.' Judith was amused. ‘We deal with this type of situation at the Refuge all the time. Jan and Liz keep several pairs of rubber gloves for exactly these kinds of visitations; we tie up our hair under a cap and we all wear long sleeves. We know all about not leaving any trace of forensic evidence!'

It was nine o'clock in the evening before Imogen came home the next day. We were both worried about what had happened, but she was in the highest spirits.

‘The three of us arrived at Cuckoos' Roost at half past two,' she began. ‘On the way Helga told us that she absolutely hated the house. All that heavy German furniture and those ghastly cuckoo clocks were entirely Flanagan's idea. In her new flat she intends to have white walls, pale tables and chairs and be
completely
minimalist.'

‘So what happened?' Emma was anxious about our daughter's exploits.

‘Well there was very little Helga wanted. She took a few basic clothes and one or two books and bits of silver. She left all her jewellery. She told us that Flanagan had only given it to her to make it up after hitting her. She said that he could present it to his next victim. But then she insisted on going round every single one of those cuckoo clocks and removing all the weights.'

‘What was the point of that?' I asked.

‘The clockwork mechanism depends on them. The clocks won't go and they won't cuckoo without the weights …'

‘What did she do with them all?' I was bewildered at this mysterious feminine behaviour.

‘She put them in a big black dustbin bag. Don't look so
worried
– neither Judith nor I helped. The bag was incredibly heavy by the end, but she lugged the whole thing down to the front gate. It's dustbin collection day tomorrow so the whole lot will have
gone by the time the Vice-Chancellor comes home!' she laughed. ‘Helga thinks he'll be grief-stricken without his birds!'

‘Then,' she continued, ‘she found the keys to the Mercedes. She was pleased about that. She knew he was going to the
conference
by train, but she thought that he might have taken the keys with him. But no … they were there in the drawer of the hall table. The car was a present from her father so it really belonged to her. She put the stuff she'd taken into the boot and she drove it round to the Refuge. It's parked outside at this very moment and she'll drive herself to Cambridge in it tomorrow.'

Emma and I looked at each other. ‘Well,' I said, ‘it was a
present
from her side of the family, so I suppose …'

‘Don't be a stuffed shirt, Daddy!' said my daughter.