The Campus Trilogy (63 page)

I was used to Magnus’s comments on his fellow-Hebraists’ work. If he had ever written a good review I had never heard of it. ‘Magnus, I hate to interrupt, but I’m busy. I’ve got a sermon to write. What can I do for you?’

‘Well … Flanagan’s just sent us all a farewell letter.’

‘I know. I’ve read it,’ I said.

‘So who’s supposed to take his place? It can’t be that cretin Sloth. I was actually ringing to suggest that you take it on.’

‘I can’t. I’m just the Visitor,’ I said.

‘But you could be Acting Vice-Chancellor. At least for a short time. You don’t have much to do.’

‘I have a colossal amount to do,’ I said indignantly. ‘The cathedral is not all plain sailing, I can tell you. Remember I’ve never been an administrator. I was an academic. Being Vice-Chancellor is definitely not my sort of thing. This is for the University Council to decide.’

‘But you know they can’t make up their minds about anything.’

‘Well they’ll just have to.’

‘I think,’ said Magnus gloomily, ‘that for the first time in
history
, we are about to witness the demise of a British university.’

A couple of days after I had spoken with Felix and Magnus, I received a formal letter from the Chairman of the University Council. After Flanagan’s bombshell, there had been an
emergency
meeting. The Chairman wrote that the session had been dedicated to sorting out interim arrangements until a new
Vice-Chancellor
could be appointed. It had been unanimously agreed that Registrar Sloth would take over as Acting Vice-Chancellor.

Because of the impending visitation from the Higher Education Quality Control Agency, it was felt that measures must be put in place to emphasise the stability of the institution. A new appointment sub-committee of the Council had already been set up. One of its tasks was to draft a job description of the Vice-Chancellorship and to place an advertisment for candidates in all the serious national papers. It was anticipated that
interviews
would take place in the Spring. The Council recognised that the person appointed would in all likelihood have to give his or her existing institution adequate notice. (At this point, I
wondered
why someone had not insisted that Flanagan had served out his notice in accordance with the terms of his contract. Presumably Lord Barridon had been brought in again to insist that the needs of the Upper House were greater than those of St Sebastian’s.) In any event it was recognised that the new
Vice-Chancellor
would probably not be in post for at least a year. In the meantime, Sloth would occupy the role.

Later in the day I had a telephone call from the Registrar
himself
. He sounded almost awake. The last time I had spoken to him was when I was still employed by the university and we had parted on less than friendly terms. However, all this past history was now forgotten. He needed my help and he could not have been more civil.

‘Harry,’ he began, ‘there is a pressing matter that I must discuss with you. As you no doubt know, we are due to have a visitation from the Quality Control Agency in February. I understand that
there will be a delegation consisting of four members who are planning to stay a full week from Monday morning to Friday evening. We have already booked them into the White Hart Hotel, but we wonder if there might be a possiblity that, as Provost of the cathedral and Visitor of the university, you could entertain them in your house perhaps on their first evening. The university will of course pay for any costs. We can provide the food and drink. Students in the Catering department will prepare dinner, and they will also act as waiters and waitresses. We can also supply all the dishes, glasses and cutlery. They’ll do all the washing up, too. I realise this is a last minute request and we don’t want to inconvenience either you or Victoria, but I can’t tell you how grateful we would be …’

I realised that the time had come to bury the hatchet. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’d already offered our services to Flanagan and it would be nice to have a big dinner party in the Provost’s House dining room. It’s much too big just for Victoria and me.’

‘So what will you need?’

‘Well I must ask Victoria, but, if we can get her, may I invite Emma Glass to prepare the food? She is very well-known in
culinary
circles and she’s a wonderful cook. I’m sure she’d produce something memorable.’

I could hear Sloth thinking about this. He hesitated and then made up his mind. ‘You’re right. She’s excellent. I had a meal in her house once and it was the best food I think I’ve ever eaten. But she will need some help serving and washing up and so on.’

‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘We’d be very grateful if the Catering
department
could send in some students. But there’s no need to worry about dishes and so on. Both Victoria and I have inherited several sets of plates over the years and far too much silver. It’ll go better with the style of the house than modern university pieces.’

The Registrar sniffed. Too late I remembered that when we were colleagues he had made no secret of his resentment of my privileged background. Still in the circumstances he had no choice. ‘That would be very generous, Harry,’ he said stiffly. ‘I only hope the students don’t break it all when they do the
washing
up.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ I said.

‘Well thank you. That’s a real weight off my mind. I’ll be
in touch nearer the time. Now I’m afraid there’s one more thing …’

‘Oh …?’ I waited.

‘If you can possibly spare the time, we would like you to be involved in the visitation. I know it’s a lot to ask because you’re so busy with the cathedral. But as the university Visitor, it would be most helpful if we could include you in some of the
discussions
. After all you were a professor here for eleven years, so you know all our ways.’

‘I never served under Flanagan,’ I pointed out. ‘There have been a great many changes recently.’

‘Yes … well …,’ said Registrar Sloth.

I took pity on him. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘I’ll look in my diary and see when I’m free.’

‘That’s really kind. Your being around would add weight to the proceedings. I’ll get my secretary to email you with the schedule right away. I realise I should have asked you earlier about this, but things have been terribly hectic. And now that Flanagan’s gone …’

‘Oh yes. I meant to congratulate you on your appointment as Acting Vice-Chancellor.’

There was a pause. Then Sloth sighed. ‘Quite frankly, Harry, I’d rather they’d chosen someone else. Between you and me I’m not sure I’m up to it. Flanagan was always very confident and kept telling me not to worry, but I can’t seem to find all the papers we need anywhere. The inspectors want a full record for the last ten years and I don’t know where they are. And as for all these new degrees and diplomas that Flanagan introduced … There doesn’t seem to be any paperwork at all … I just don’t know what to do.’

I tried to make sympathetic noises, but Sloth was in full flow.

‘Jenny and I are working as hard as we can to fill in the gaps. But the whole thing’s very problematic …’

I took a deep breath. ‘Why don’t you ask John Pilkington to give you a hand? He’s very efficient and I’m sure he’d get
everything
sorted out for you.’

Sloth thought about this. ‘Funny you should say that … Felix Glass made the same suggestion yesterday. You’re right. John is very reliable. It’s a good idea. Thank you.’

That evening Victoria and I arranged to go to see
La Bohème
. It was a performance by a travelling company in the local theatre. I am not particularly musical, but Victoria loves opera and, as Provost, I felt it was my duty to support local cultural initiatives. I had seen the piece several times before and I always found Mimi’s death unbearably sad. It made me feel very fortunate to live in twenty-first century Britain with its efficient National Health Service.

So we were in a melancholy mood when we arrived home at about eleven. As soon as we had shut the front door, we were aware of a lugubrious feline wailing somewhere in the house. We rushed upstairs and, when we had turned the lights on, our first feeling was that the cats must have caught someone’s pet white rabbit. There was white fluff everywhere. Then we saw our poor Siamese Brutus lying limply on the bed. Next to him, Cleo was wailing and, between cries, was licking at his coat. The
counterpane
was disarranged and there was blood all over it. Then we realised that the while fluff was not from a rabbit. It was from Brutus’s coat.

‘My poor Brutus,’ Victoria said as she stroked his head. ‘You’ve been in a fight.’

‘Do you think the two of them had a quarrel?’ I was horrified. They had always been very good friends. ‘Cleo’s never bitten him before.’

Victoria shook her head. ‘Don’t be silly, Harry. Cleo wouldn’t do this. It’s that damn cat Marmaduke. He got into the house somehow. He’s probably stolen all their food and he’s beaten up Brutus. He’s a horrible beast.’

I brought in a bowl of warm water from the bathroom; Victoria went downstairs to find some salt to dissolve in it. Very gently she started to bathe the wound.

‘It’s nasty,’ she said. ‘He’ll have to go to the vet first thing in the morning. Poor old fellow! You’ll be all right. We’ll get you well very soon!’

I went downstairs to see what had happened. Victoria was right. The cats’ dishes had been licked completely clean and the cat-flap latch was unlocked. Probably Mrs Thomas had knocked it when she was cleaning. Marmaduke had seized his chance and had broken in to claim new territory.

I went back upstairs to report. ‘Damn Blenkensop,’ I said. ‘Why can’t he control that animal? If there was any justice in the world Marmaduke would be in prison with a conviction for burglary and grievous bodily harm. But instead he and his horrible owner are tyrannising over the entire precincts of St Sebastian’s Cathedral. And I can’t seem to do a damn thing about it.’

The next morning we took Brutus to the vet. She was sweet with him. She told him he had been very brave, but that in future he must work on his right hook. She washed out the wound with antiseptic, gave him a shot and prescribed a course of antibiotics. I had serious doubts that we would ever get them down him, but we promised to try.

Later in the day I ran into Blenkensop. He was locking his bicycle to the railings outside the Monk’s Gate. ‘Reg,’ I said, ‘I must have a word with you.’

‘Yes, Provost,’ he said icily.

‘There was a terrible cat fight in our bedroom last night while we were out at the opera. There was fur everywhere. Marmaduke must have got into the house.’

Blenkensop looked at me sharply. ‘You saw him?’ he asked.

‘No. As I say, we were out. But there was white cat-fur
everywhere
, and Brutus was bitten. We’ve just come back from the vet.’

‘Then I can’t see how you can be certain it was my cat. Marmaduke is ginger. If there was white fur everywhere, your cat must have been attacked by a white cat. Did you find any orange hair?’

‘No … It was Brutus’ white fur, not another cat’s,’ I said. ‘He’s a gentle creature. He doesn’t know how to defend himself. It’s obvious your cat attacked him.’

‘I’m sorry, Provost, but what proof do you have that it was Marmaduke?’

‘It couldn’t have been anyone else,’ I insisted. ‘You know what he’s like.’

Blenkensop put his bicycle clips in his pocket and stood stiffly. ‘Before you make serious accusations of this sort,’ he said in a very nasty tone of voice, ‘you should at the very least have
substantial proof. I don’t appreciate wild speculations based on no evidence. Indeed I do not! Now if you’ll excuse me, Provost, I have some important matters to attend to.’ And with that he walked off in the direction of the Diocesan Office without
looking
back.

Once the New Year began, I was very busy. I was the chairman of various cathedral committees and they all met early in January. In addition, we had our first Chapter meeting of the year. By this time, I had heard from the Archbishop about the vexed question of admission charges. He advised delaying the decision until there was a full audit of diocesan finances in the summer. I circulated his letter to my colleagues before the meeting and the subject was discussed at length. Although Reg Blenkensop
continued
to be vociferous in his demand for the change, the Archdeacon felt it more prudent to follow the Archbishop’s advice. So when it came to a formal motion, there was one vote in favour of charges (Blenkensop), three against (the Archdeacon, Sinclair and the Precentor) and one abstention (Trend). I was very relieved when we agreed to shelve the subject until the autumn.

I also had committments beyond the cathedral. Previously the Archishop had asked me to be a member of a Church consultancy committee on medical ethics. It happened that bills on both
abortion
and euthanasia were being discussed that year in Parliament.
The committee felt under pressure to make its voice heard and I had to attend frequent meetings in London. Victoria was also busy writing a series of articles on eighteenth-century snuff boxes for an antiques magazine. Generally, she would accompany me to town to do research in the London Library and round the
various
auction houses while I was closeted in Church House.

At the end of the month, I was also due to go to a three-day conference of Deans and Provosts at Wellington Cathedral. I did not look forward to staying in the prescribed university hall of residence with its shared bathrooms and enforced camaraderie at breakfast. To make the idea more bearable, Victoria agreed to join me for a little weekend break in a nearby country house hotel directly afterwards.

The conference was more amusing than I had expected. I caught up with several old friends and I discovered that life in our great English cathedrals was not all milk and honey. Every one of the deans or provosts to whom I spoke had the equivalent of a Reg Blenkensop in his life. It seemed that Christianity does not necessarily make people behave well. One of the most popular sessions was entitled ‘Dealing with Difficult People’. The speaker pointed out that they might be even worse if they were not Christians, but of course that was an unverifiable proposition. When the time came for questions, I felt like putting up my hand and asking for special tips in dealing with difficult cats, but I thought this might sound frivolous.

I was very glad to see Victoria when the three days came to an end. The Country Lake Hotel was located in a beautiful area of natural forest near Wellington. Our room was on the top floor overlooking a lake and there were green rolling hills in the
distance
. It was furnished with a comfortable large four-poster bed and a variety of mahogany storage pieces. There was also a sofa where the newspaper could be read in comfort and a splendid old rocking chair. Heavy gold curtains framed the windows and the bathroom was sumptuous.

We arrived late on Friday and we were both tired. The next morning we decided to have breakfast in our room. Victoria was sitting in her dressing gown when room service arrived – the daughter of the house entered carrying a large tray with a pot of coffee, croissants and toast, home-made jam, boiled eggs, and
fresh orange juice. As Victoria poured out the coffee, she started giggling.

‘I’ve been dying all week to tell you about a conversation I had, but I thought I’d save it until you had time to enjoy it. Guess who I had coffee with on Wednesday?’

‘I have no idea!’ I said. ‘Who did you have coffee with on Wednesday?’

Victoria could never resist telling a story. She was a good mimic and she acted out the different voices. ‘Well …,’ she said. ‘I was doing some shopping in Marks & Spencer and I felt that I’d earned a cup of coffee. Normally, it’s a place I avoid because I invariably run into one of the Holy Dusters and have to embark on a long conversation about the academic progress and health of their various grandchildren. ‘And how is young Justin getting along… Really? … Top in his common entrance exam, was he? … You must feel proud. And how is young Melinda’s glandular fever? … Oh I’m so glad to hear that … And you’ve just heard that she got three grade ‘A’s in her mock A-levels tests … How splendid! … And where is she planning to go to university?’ I can’t imagine why these ladies think I should be interested, but “noblesse oblige” … I do know my duty as Mrs Provost!’

‘Anyway, I was so tired, I thought I’d risk it. Well the café was very full and after I had collected my cappuccino and biscuit, I looked round for somewhere to sit. I swear to you that the only free place was at a table for two and sitting in the other seat was Maureen Pilkington!’

We both laughed. Maureen Pilkington was the wife of John Pilkington, who was now dean at the university. Neither Victoria nor I had had much to do with Maureen, who was exactly as one would expect the wife of John Pilkington to be. However, we had dutifully attended her annual theology staff party and Victoria had been merciless afterwards about her ideas of food and
interior
decoration.

‘Well …,’ continued Victoria, ‘when I saw the situation, I nearly abandoned my tray and fled the shop there and then. But then I thought that I had paid much too much money for my
coffee
and I was jolly well going to drink it, Maureen Pilkington or no Maureen Pilkington. So I sat down opposite her. And I have to say she was extremely pleasant and welcoming.’

‘She wanted to tell me all about John. Apparently he’s been recruited to manufacture the paperwork for all the new degrees that Flanagan set up. Basically, it’s to deceive the Quality Control People.’

‘Surely she didn’t approve of this?’ I asked. The Pilkingtons were devout Methodists and even their worst enemies would acknowledge their show of upright integrity.

Victoria smiled. ‘She didn’t know what to think. She kept
saying
, “It’s very shocking isn’t it, Victoria, that things have come to this.” But she was more like a naughty child, enjoying it all
vicariously
. Apparently John is astonished by the mess he’s found. He couldn’t believe the chaos in the Registrar’s office. Maureen said that she wasn’t in the least surprised. She’d never thought much of Robert Sloth. She said he was lazy and slipshod. She clearly believed that John would have been a far better Registrar and should now be the Acting Vice-Chancellor.’

‘I have some sympathy with that position,’ I commented. ‘It would be hard to be more hopeless than either of the Sloths. They really are in a class of their own.’

‘Anyway,’ continued Victoria, ‘she now seems to think that I am a person of influence, as I am married to the university Visitor, and she was anxious to tell me how clever John is being. Apparently when John saw the shambles, he took over
completely
. Maureen said that one of the major problems was that no-one had ever arranged for external examiners to be appointed for the new degree courses. Flanagan said it wasn’t important and Sloth never got around to doing it. But the difficulty is that the Quality Control people have to fail the university unless an infallible system of externals is in place.’

‘So what is John doing about it?’ I asked.

‘Maureen told me that he had no choice. She flushed bright pink and said, “You’ll think it very dreadful of him Victoria, but he really had no alternative.” He’s made up a series of names for examiners who do not exist and has manufactured their reports for the last five years!’

I shook my head. ‘I was afraid they might do that,’ I said. ‘It’s both dishonest and dangerous.’

‘That’s not the worst of it,’ Victoria was overcome with mirth. ‘Maureen didn’t see that it’s funny. She thought John was merely
being bold and creative, but it turns out that that man has a whimsical subconscious worthy of Dickens!’

‘John Pilkington?’ I was astonished. ‘He’s about as whimsical as Marmaduke. What on earth has he been doing?’

‘Honestly,’ said Victoria, ‘Maureen told me the names that Pilkington has made up. He’s obviously put down the first thing that came into his head. I wrote them down so I could tell you. I didn’t want to forget.’

She picked up her diary which was lying beside the bed. ‘Let’s see,’ she said. ‘The external examiner for the Dance department is a Professor Lightfoot. He has served for the past seven years, but for the last two they have also brought in a Dr Beryl Glitter. She specialises in the Artistic Dance division. Then they have a Dr Driver who checks the standards for the diploma in Professional Golf and his assistant, who managed all by herself last year, is one Ms Penelope Puttick. Then you’ll be interested to know that for the last two years a Dr Small-Beer has guaranteed the standards of the Brewing Technology department and, at the same time, Professor Stella Starr was appointed to look after Celebrity Studies. Then, as a piéce de resistence, the supremo for the licence in Catering is a Dr Morris Eatwell and the Drama department is examined by Professor William Playright.’

I was astounded. ‘But they’ll never get away with it!’

‘That’s what I told Maureen.’

‘And what did she say?’

‘She didn’t understand what I was talking about. Neither she nor John saw the intrinsic improbability of every examiner
having
a name appropriate to the subject. When I pointed it out to her, she wasn’t a happy bunny …’

‘So what are they going to do about it?’ I asked.

‘There’s nothing that can be done now. They submitted all the papers to the inspectors at the beginning of last week.’

‘You’re not making this up?’

‘Really, Harry, that’s what she told me.’

‘But it’s asking for trouble. All the Quality Control people have to do is check to see if these people exist. What’s Pilkington thinking about?’

‘I don’t know Harry. But there’s nothing that can be done about it now. It’s too late. Perhaps the inspectors won’t notice.
Maureen said they’ve given them piles and piles of documents. Perhaps all those ridiculous names will be lost in the morass. After all, the inspectors will only be at the university for a week.’

I gave a sigh. ‘We can only hope …,’ I said.

As soon as we returned to St Sebastian’s from our weekend away, it was time for Victoria to think about her class in the Provost’s House. As Flanagan had predicted, all the old ladies of the precincts and beyond had signed up for the course and on the first Tuesday evening more than eighty people crowded into the drawing room. We had to borrow some stacking chairs from the cathedral. Victoria was planning to talk about a different subject each week. She started off with antique snuff boxes and she
gathered
together some examples of our own to illustrate the lecture. She had also prepared a set of slides.

We were rather touched that Sir William insisted on coming. He said that he had never heard Victoria speak in public and he was interested in what she had to say. On his own initiative, he hired a taxi and Mrs Mackenzie, Mrs Germaney and old Mrs Blenkensop accompanied him. It was not very easy conveying them all up the stairs, but with the aid of other members of the audience, the task was accomplished. All four old people enjoyed themselves hugely. ‘Jolly good show!’ was Sir William’s verdict on the proceedings when we said good-bye to them all at nine o’clock. ‘We’ll be back next week!’

The weather took a turn for the worse in February. By the date of the inspection, the Green Court was covered in a thick coating of snow. As usual, the British railway system failed to rise to the
occasion
. Our guests were due to arrive in the city by five o’clock. This would give them plenty of time to settle themselves in the White Hart Hotel, freshen themselves up and be at the Provost’s House at half past seven. In the event, it was rather more complicated.

Emma Glass had appeared early in the afternoon
accompanied
by Felix who was burdened with an enormous bag of
groceries
. She began preparations immediately. Meanwhile, Felix read quietly in my study and helped out whenever he was called. Several students on the university catering degree turned up at half-past-five and, under Emma and Victoria’s supervision,
helped lay the table and arrange the flowers. I was pleased to see that my wife had chosen to use my grandmother’s dinner service. It had been her parents’ wedding present. It had been specially commissioned from the Royal Worcester factory and was
elaborately
painted and gilded after the fashion of the time. The
classical
proportions of the dining room suited it perfectly.

The Sloths arrived early. Unusually, the now Acting
Vice-Chancellor
looked wide-awake. He quivered like an anxious hamster. We settled him down in the drawing room with a weak whisky and soda to steady his nerves. Jenny looked her usual complacent self. She wore a printed silk dress in an unfortunate combination of colours. Pinned to her shoulder was a large amethyst brooch. It looked as if it had once beonged to a
particularly
dreary old aunt who was in perpetual mourning for one dead relative after another. As soon as the Sloths arrived, Emma Glass joined us from the kitchen. ‘Everything’s under control!’ she said.

A good quarter of an hour passed before a taxi swooped into the Green Court and stopped outside the house. I opened the front door before our guests could ring the bell and I urged
everyone
to come in from the cold. The head of the team was an Oxford don, Harold Ewing, a Professor of Jurisprudence whom I had once met at a talk-dinner at the Acropolis Club. He was very affable, pretended that he remembered me and introduced me to the other members of the team. The next one through the front door was a Dr Hermione Fairweather from the University of Wessex. Her speciality was French Literature and Philosophy. She was followed by a Mr Brian Senior who was a partner in a large Cambridge accountancy firm. And last, but not least, was a Miss (‘Not Ms!’ as she was determined to inform me) Dorothy Upton. For many years Miss Upton had been Senior Copy-Editor at Oxford University Press, but was now Reader in Information Retrieval at the University of Brambletye.