The Campus Trilogy (6 page)

Over the weekend we had a large party in our house for over fifty friends and neighbours as well as some academics from the university. This was our annual ‘at home’, catered by a local firm. Victoria ordered invitations. I made arrangements with the caterer and purchased three cases of non-vintage champagne from the wine merchant. Normally the Vice-Chancellor, the Sloths, the Pilkingtons and Wanda came, but this year they all sent apologies. We rearranged the furniture so that we could put glasses and drink in the dining room, and have sufficient space in the drawing room. When the guests arrived they parked their cars down the drive. By six there was also a long line of cars along the country lane leading to our house.

Very quickly the house was full of people eating and drinking. Victoria and I took plates of canapés around; we were also busy introducing guests to one another. Our two cats hid under the bed upstairs, waiting for everyone to leave. Usually, Victoria
and I enjoyed the evening, but this year I was less enthusiastic. With a formal complaint pending, I was in no mood for a celebration. After the last guest left, we washed the dishes, hoovered the rooms, and put rubbish bags at the end of the drive for collection.

“Why didn’t the VC come?” Victoria asked. “He normally does, and gets rather drunk. It’s the only time he ever seems to be human. And what about that dreary little Miss Catnip? I don’t think she’s ever missed before? What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” I replied. “It doesn’t look good. Magnus thinks there’s a conspiracy against me. Penelope from the union is suspicious too. She’s consulting the regional officer.”

“Oh God,” Victoria said. “These academics – do they have nothing else to do?”

Eventually we collapsed in bed. I turned on the television. “Harry,” Victoria said, “you aren’t in very good spirits tonight.”

“Do you think anyone could tell?” I asked.

“No. But I know you. Are you very bothered?”

“I suppose so.”

“Look, Harry. You don’t have to continue in this job if you don’t want to. You inherited loads of money. Daddy won’t live forever, and even though Billy will inherit the Castle, there’s a trust for each one of us.”

“I know,” I said. “And I’ll get a good pension. But I like my job; I’ve got friends at the university; I like my students; I enjoy teaching; I like doing research. Why should I give it all up, just because a student’s father blackmails the university, and the wife of the Registrar is too lazy to do her job?”

“We could travel …” Victoria continued, “though I hate leaving the cats.”

“We can travel anyway. There’s nothing to do outside term except deal with graduate students. Where do you want to go?”

“I don’t know, Harry. But we could go abroad if you retired.”

We had recently purchased a satellite dish which enabled us to watch the channel which specialized in repeats of popular programmes. My favourite American detective offering, ‘
Homicide
Life on the Street’, had just started. This episode was about a college professor who had murdered one of his colleagues.

“I’ll think about it,” I said, as I turned up the volume.

“Do we have to watch this?” Victoria asked.

“Shhh,” I said. “This is important – it’s research. You never know when it might come in handy.”

During the weekend I had an email from one of my
postgraduates
. Ronald Grundy was a third-year PhD student who had previously been an undergraduate at the university. After he got his first, I had worked hard to make sure he had received an Arts and Humanities grant to work on the current Anglican debate about homosexuality. The present Archbishop of
Cannonbury
had been an undergraduate when I was a postgraduate at Cambridge and we had kept up contact. I bumped into him fairly regularly and we exchanged Christmas cards. When Ronald began his research, I had contacted the Archbishop and asked if they could have a session together. It was subsequently arranged that Ronald could use restricted archives.

Ronald said he wanted to see me to discuss his latest chapter. I emailed him back saying that I would be free on Monday morning at eleven o’clock. As I was driving into the parking lot on Monday, I saw Ronald talking to Wanda. They were in animated conversation standing on the steps of the Old College. When they saw me, Wanda headed off in the direction of the Vice-Chancellor’s office. Ronald waited for me on the steps. He followed me to my room. I sat behind my desk and he spread out papers on the sofa. He showed me his notes, and asked for suggestions on how he should structure the chapter. After an hour’s supervision, he left.

I then went to the Porter’s Lodge to collect my post. There was a large envelope marked Private and Confidential. It was from Pilkington. He was summoning me to an informal
meeting
to discuss Jenny’s letter, and he had enclosed the Grievance Procedure regulations. The meeting was to take place in a fortnight’s time, and I had the right to bring a union
representative
. He explained that he would initially meet with Jenny. He concluded by saying that his intention was to sort out our differences informally. He hoped to avoid a formal procedure which could take several months.

I immediately phoned Penelope. I read her the letter. She said she would go to the meeting with Pilkington. But she suggested that I should get together with the regional union representative
who was planning to visit the university at the end of the week for a discussion with the new pay-scale committee. She said she would try to arrange for me to see him at ten; the pay-scale meeting was to begin at eleven. Later in the day I got a message from the regional officer, Morris O’Murphy, who said he could see me at the arranged time.

On Friday morning, I arrived early. Victoria had baked a chocolate cake which I brought with me. I knew I shouldn’t eat it, but I was having a bad time. I put on the kettle, assembled the letters I had received from Jenny and Pilkington, and waited for the regional officer to arrive. At 10:30 I heard a knock on my door. Morris O’Murphy was rotund and bespectacled. He had a red moustache and was wearing a turtle-neck sweater. In a strong Irish accent, he apologized for being late. “Bloody British Rail,” he said. “Always lets one down. And then I couldn’t get a taxi.” He plopped down on my sofa. I handed him a cup of coffee and a large piece of cake. “Great!” he said as he put the whole lot in his mouth.

“My wife made it,” I said. Morris slurped his coffee, and crumbs fell on his sweater. He eventually put the mug on the floor, pulled papers out of a tattered briefcase, took a large pen out of his pocket, and started to concentrate. “Ridiculous letter from Mrs Sloth!” he announced. “Can’t see what she has to complain about. There’s simply nothing here. No mention of bullying or harassment. Nothing.”

“So you think I’ve got nothing to worry about?” I asked.

“Well …” he paused. “I understand from Penelope that she’s the Registrar’s wife. Always a bad idea to employ husband and wife in the same institution! Still, can’t be helped!”

“Does that make a difference?”

“It shouldn’t, but it does, I’m afraid.”

“That’s not fair!”

“Who said things were fair?”

“Hell …”

Morris shook his head. “You see,” he explained, “in most cases, it’s simply a matter of power. This is a conflict between a professor and somebody who works in the library. Normally, the person in the library would be told to stop complaining. But, since she’s the wife of the Registrar, this isn’t going to
happen. And Penelope tells me the VC may also be involved in this.”

“It’s possible,” I said.

“Because of the case with the student and her father?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“So, the situation is completely different. Management has more clout than professors. But,” he went on firmly, “the union has more clout than management.”

“It does?”

“Of course! No VC wants a strike or for the university to be black-listed by the union.”

“There could be a strike?” I asked incredulously.

“Not really,” Morris said with a grin, as he put his papers back in his briefcase. “But we can always threaten one. Anyway, keep me informed. Penelope will go with you to the meeting. Try not to worry. Sorry, but I’ve got to go to this pay-scale meeting. The VC’s going to be there. He’s terrified he might have to find more money.”

“Maybe that’s why he’s so anxious to have early
retirements
,” I said.

“Oh, yes, Penelope told me about that, too. Disgraceful! The union won’t have offers of early retirement connected with discipline. The VC should know that. Look,” he said as he stood up, “the union is here to help you.” He fished in his pocket and took out a UCU lapel pin and pinned it on my jacket. “Just regard it as an amulet to ward off the evil eye,” he smiled slyly, all Irish charm. “I don’t suppose I could have another piece of that delicious cake before I go, could I?”

Since the surge in attendance at the beginning of term, my class had diminished in size. Some students dropped out, no doubt disappointed by the lack of scandal. Others were simply bored with the topic. Only occasionally did I see Lisa walking across campus. Invariably she looked in the other direction. Magnus and I continued to have lunch in the Senior Common Room; frequently Agnes sat with us, but this made it impossible to discuss the impending meeting with Pilkington.

On the day of the meeting, I arrived fifteen minutes early. I waited outside Pilkington’s office above Wendy Morehouse’s
secretarial room. She was busy photocopying. I paced back and forth, rehearsing what I planned to say. Concerned that Penelope had forgotten, I phoned her on my mobile. She replied that she was sorry to be late, but that her cat had been sick over the hall carpet and she had had to clean it up. I knew all about her cat. His name was Rufus and he had come from the same breeder as Magnus’s Pushkin. Pushkin was a fusspot and Rufus was famous for his hypochondria. His being sick was just what I needed.

I heard voices inside Pilkington’s room and tried to listen in to what was being said. When the door opened, Jenny Sloth came out clutching a red leather briefcase. She was wearing a blue suit and high heels. She was followed by one of the library assistants. Both glared at me as they passed.

I heard footsteps and panting – Penelope was clutching a yellow and green file in one hand, and a cat basket in the other. “Got to take him to the vet,” she announced. Pilkington looked startled as we entered. “Sorry,” Penelope said. “cat’s sick. I called the vet, and I’ve got to take him there after the meeting.” I looked into the basket: Rufus stared back at me with his deep green eyes. I tried to stroke his nose, and he pointedly stood up and turned his back on me. This was not an auspicious start.

Penelope put her cat in the corner, where he growled. We sat around a table covered with papers. Pilkington picked up a folder, and took out a letter. “Well,” he began, “I have spoken to Jenny and the matter is more serious than I first thought. As you know, the university regulations specify that all complaints must be dealt with informally. You should regard this as an informal discussion initially. What we need to ascertain first is why you sent this letter to Mrs Sloth. I understand you had already sent a series of emails to her about library books.”

I explained that there had been an increase in the number of students attending my course, and I wanted to be able to supply them with textbooks. My book was written for the course, and the lectures were designed to explain their content. I emphasized that I knew an order form had already gone to the library over the summer, indicating how many books would be needed. But the increase in numbers had made it necessary to obtain more. I went on to describe the delays that had taken place as well as
the students’ impatience with the lack of books. I also pointed out that student satisfaction with an important issue for the university.

When I finished, Pilkington picked up his pen and pointed it at the library regulations. “It says here,” he stated, “that all books should be ordered before the beginning of term.” Penelope interrupted, stressing that circumstances had changed.

Pilkington took no notice of Penelope’s comment, and pulled out a series of emails. “So you sent these emails?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied. “But only because no notice was taken of the request. The students were becoming increasingly agitated.”

“But you did pursue Mrs Sloth … and repeatedly sent her emails ….”

“What else could I do?” I asked.

“And then you sent her this inflammatory letter,” he
continued
.

“Only because she would not respond to my emails.”

“Really, Harry. You have shown little tact in the way you handled the entire matter. You must remember that you are a professor and Mrs Sloth is an assistant librarian. Your outburst was deeply threatening …”

“Threatening …?”

“Quite frankly, I think you were abusing your position as a professor in this university.”

Penelope’s cat had become increasingly distressed, and began meowing. He was trying to claw his way out of the cat basket and made wailing sounds. “I’m sorry, Penelope,” Pilkington said crossly. “This is an important meeting, and you can’t deposit your cat in my office if it continues to be uncontrolled.”

“Could he go in your secretary’s office?” she asked.

“I happen to know Wendy’s allergic to cats,” Pilkington said. “I’m afraid we’ll have to postpone this meeting if he stays.”

Penelope shook her head. “Well, John,” she said. “I really am sorry, but I’ve got to take him to the vet at twelve o’clock. There’s nowhere else for him to go.”

Pilkington looked confused. Penelope’s cat continued to wail. “The meeting will have to be adjourned,” he announced
standing
up. “I simply can’t concentrate with that wretched cat screaming.”

Penelope got up, scooped up her papers and marched off with her cat. I followed behind. On the stairs she stopped. “I am sorry, Harry,” she said as she turned around. “But that man is totally insensitive. Rufus isn’t himself, and he’s got to see the doctor.” She stalked off, and I heard Pilkington’s door slam.