The Campus Trilogy (9 page)

“How’s the ankle?” I asked.

“Swollen.”

“Are you OK?”

“Fine,” she said. “Come and have a drink.”

For the rest of the holiday Victoria sat in the lounge of the Aspen Siesta reading a stack of novels she had bought in town. She was perfectly happy. Several evenings we joined the Billstones for dinner at local restaurants. They refused to allow us to pay. All costs, Oscar announced, were part of his entertainment allowance as President of Sweetpea. They seemed intrigued about my account of the personalities at St Sebastian’s, but I was careful not to say anything about my recent difficulties.

Victoria and I were due to go to New York for one night before returning to London, and we planned to meet our new friends there. They were going back to Virginia before we left Aspen, and then Oscar had to fly immediately to a meeting in New York; Nancy was planning to join him. “This time,” I insisted, “you must be our guests.” We were staying at the Harvard Club, which had reciprocal relations with the Acropolis and we agreed to meet there at seven.

The Harvard Club is just off Fifth Avenue. When we arrived, we went to our room and unpacked. Then we joined the Billstones for a drink in the bar, before going in for dinner. Once our first course arrived, Oscar told us that he had called Thomas Jefferson Porpoise on his return. He was keen to meet us, and Oscar had been instructed to invite us to the college. “Every year,” he said, “we ask a distinguished academic to give the Porpoise Memorial Lecture. I know it’s last minute, but we have a vacancy for this spring. This year’s lecturer was supposed to be Professor Norman Rattlesnake from Yale. But he’s just won the Nobel Prize and he’s got to go to Sweden to collect it. Would it be insulting to be a substitute?”

“I’d be honoured,” I said. “Could Victoria come?”

“Of course – that goes without saying.”

The next morning, Victoria and I strolled down Fifth Avenue. Our plane was to leave in the evening. Near the Harvard Club we came across an antique shop selling Russian art. In the window was a seventeenth-century icon of St Sebastian shot with arrows. We went inside, and a small gentleman dressed in a black suit greeted us. In a strong eastern European accent, he told us that this particular icon was Cretan. The shape of the rocks in the background, he said, indicated its origin. Victoria loved it. While I looked at the rest of the shop, Victoria discussed the price. “Harry, it will look spectacular in your office,” she said.

“But we can’t afford it,” I objected.

“Yes we can. It’ll cheer you up. When we get back to St Sebastian’s, we’ll have a little party to show it off.” I could see I was going to be sending an enormous cheque to Christian Aid that month.

When our plane arrived back in London, we went straight to St Sebastian’s. We were relieved to find that the cats were well. The next week I hung the icon between the Gothic windows in my office and sent out invitations to a drinks party. I explained that I had just purchased an icon of St Sebastian, and the purpose of the party was for people to see it. It was to be a little gathering for the first day of term; I hoped Barraclough, Catnip, the Pilkingtons and the Sloths would come, along with Magnus and other colleagues. On the day, Magnus arrived early. “Good grief,” he said, “how much did that cost?”

“It was a present from Victoria,” I said.

“Chap got shot with arrows,” he observed. “How very suitable! He’s just like you… a martyr of the university.”

“Worse for him,” I said.

I handed Magnus a glass of champagne as Victoria put out nuts and olives. Slowly the room began to fill up. Barraclough arrived with Catnip and the Sloths. Pilkington had earlier sent his apologies. Barraclough immediately strode over to the icon. “Most impressive,” he said. “I hope you’re planning to bequeath it to the university.”

“I’m not dead yet,” I said.

“Well … ‘Be Prepared,’ as the boy scouts say.”

“Actually,” interrupted Victoria coldly, “it was paid for with money from the Dormouse Trust. Harry has the obligation to return it to my brother Billy when the time comes.” She busied herself with her guests. “The vulgarity of that man is unbelievable!” she said to me in a not very quiet voice as she passed.

I opened bottles of champagne as Victoria flitted about. A little crowd stood around the icon. Among the admiring comments, we overheard Jenny Sloth mutter to Wanda Catnip: “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen. Who do the Gilberts think they are?” Victoria was delighted. “See, I told you it would be a great success!” she said.

On the opposite side of the room hung an old engraving of the club. I saw Sloth gazing at it and went over to talk to him. “That’s the Acropolis in London,” I said.

“I know,” Sloth replied. “The Committee wanted me to join, but I thought it wasn’t worth the money.” I smiled to myself as I went around refilling glasses.

Amongst the guests was Ronald Grundy, my research
student
. He was standing next to Wanda, helping himself to olives. I went over to say hello. “Harry,” Wanda said, “I’ve been meaning to ask you about your first-year class on Christian ethics. You know that Ronald has a student bursary, and he has to do some teaching. I wondered if he might take one or two seminars with your students. Perhaps near the end of term.”

“That’s fine with me,” I said. Ronald looked pleased. “Come see me and we can discuss it.”

“Cool!” he exclaimed.

“Thanks, Harry,” Wanda said. “As Dean, it’s my
responsibility
to make sure that teaching arrangements are made for postgraduates who have bursaries. Could you let me have a note about this?”

As I walked away, I saw that Wanda smiled conspiratorially at Ronald. What, I wondered, was that all about?

Ronald was due to have a supervision the next week and had sent me a chapter of his thesis. He was doing well and I had taken a lot of trouble with him. As well as his Arts and Humanities Research Council grant, I had persuaded the department to give
him a small bursary. The thesis was coming along nicely and he expected to submit it by the end of the summer. When he came to see me, I asked him about his future plans.

“I hope to hand in the thesis soon,” he said. “My money will run out by the end of the summer, and I’ll need to look for a job.”

“Have you thought where you’d like to live?” I asked.

“I like it here, but it all depends what’s available.”

“Well,” I said, “I don’t think there’s currently an opening. It all depends whether the department is able to advertise for a new lectureship. And then I’m not sure it will be in your field. What we need is another Church historian.”

“I know,” he said. “I’ll probably have to look elsewhere. But St Sebastian’s would be my first choice.”

The next few weeks were uneventful, except for difficulties with my new laptop. At the beginning of term, the University Information Technology Unit had set up a new machine in my office. For some reason, it crashed the first day I used it. Nothing I could do would help. I tried to turn it off and on again, but with no success. Magnus came to look at it, but we couldn’t get it to turn on. I contacted the IT Unit and told them what happened. The Head, Simon Evans, explained I’d have to wait for someone to come around since they were extremely busy at the beginning of term. I complained that I wasn’t able to receive emails or do any work. This produced little sympathy. I phoned several times in the following days to ask for assistance, but I was continually told I’d have to wait.

I hesitated writing a letter: I didn’t want to cause any more problems. But I was worried about not being able to respond to emails. It was exactly the sort of thing which would get me into trouble. Eventually I wrote a letter by hand to Simon, explaining the urgency of the matter. Two weeks passed with no response. I then asked Magnus if he could send an email for me. Again, there was no reply. In desperation, I sent a fax from the office fax machine. I stressed the urgency of the situation. I was bewildered, I said, not to receive any response from the Unit. All the new technology, I stressed, was designed to facilitate communication rather than hinder it.

The next week I had a letter from Pilkington, marked Private and Confidential. He asked to see me in his office, and told me I could bring a representative. I phoned Penelope immediately. She wasn’t in, so I left a message on her answerphone. I told her to phone me rather than send an email since my computer wasn’t working. Later in the day, she contacted me. She had just been playing squash and was exhausted. “Look,” I said. “I don’t know what this is about. But I’ve just had another threatening summons from my Head of Department. He didn’t say why, but he told me to bring a representative.” Penelope said she was free on the date Pilkington suggested. She insisted I ask him what it was about.

When I phoned him, he was out. I left a message that he could reach me at home. That evening, he rang. “Harry,” he said sternly, “I’m afraid we’ve had another complaint. This time it’s via the Registrar. He tells me you’ve been harassing the IT department about your computer.”

I had a sinking feeling. “Look,” I said. “I didn’t harass them. I’ve been telling them that my new laptop doesn’t work. They keep putting me off. I can’t receive emails or do any work. What am I supposed to do?”

“I don’t think we can get very far on the phone. Come to my office. We can discuss it then.”

“This is ridiculous,” I said.

“I’m just doing my job, Harry. Simon Evans mentioned to the Registrar that you were nagging him about your computer. Sloth took it up and insists I investigate. I have to tell you, you already have an oral warning. This is becoming increasingly serious. The next warning will have to be a written one if you have repeated the same offence.”

Exasperated I went to see Magnus. I had brought him back a US Marshal badge from our visit to Colorado, and he was wearing it on the lapel of his tweed jacket. He was writing a review of a book on the Minor Prophets for the
Expository
Times
, and books were spread out over the floor. I had to step over several piles when I walked in. I took a large Hebrew lexicon off a chair and sat down.

“You won’t believe this,” I said. “Now I’ve got trouble from the IT Unit.”

“Bunch of idiots,” Magnus said. “Couldn’t organize a
booze-up
in a brewery.”

“That’s just the point. My computer still doesn’t work, and they won’t come to fix it. And now, Simon Evans has complained to Sloth that I’m harassing him.”

Magnus smiled. “Exactly what he deserves!”

“Magnus, be serious. I didn’t harass him. I simply phoned him and asked if he could fix the damn computer. And we sent him an email. And then I faxed him. Now, he’s complained and I’ve got to have another formal interview with Pilkington.”

“Does Wanda know?”

“Pilkington didn’t say anything about her. But I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Magnus took out a pack of Camels, and lit a match. “You don’t mind if I smoke?” he asked.

“I thought you gave it up.”

“I did. But what the hell. You only live once.”

“So, Magnus … what’s going on?”

“They want you to leave. They’re putting you under pressure to go”. He shook his head. “Another complaint. This time from Evans. He should be shot. No wonder the place is falling apart. Have you told Penelope?”

“She’ll come with me to the meeting.”

“What about that O’Murphy chap in London?”

“I haven’t phoned him yet. Do you think I should?”

“Can’t do any harm. Might even do some good. But, frankly, if I were you I’d just quit. You don’t want to be like those kids in America who shot the teachers. The Professor of Christian Ethics can’t end up on trial for murder. Although frankly, it would be quite a way to go.”

At five I left my office. As I walked towards the car park, I saw Lisa Gold walking with Ronald Grundy. They were holding hands. I dropped behind so they wouldn’t see me, but I could quite clearly hear what they were saying. Ronald was wearing a grey duffle coat and trainers and was holding a squash racket. Lisa was dressed in a skimpy white skirt and an Aran sweater. She was also clutching a racket. Ronald was in the middle of discussing his job prospects.

“So, you see,” he was saying, “there’s a chance for me here. At least if I play my cards right. That’s what Catnip said, anyway.”

“Did they actually offer you a job?” Lisa asked.

“Not in so many words,” he said. “It all depends on Gilbert. They think he’s past it. If they can get rid of him, they’ll need someone to take his classes.”

Lisa smiled. “That shit! I think my father can take care of that,” she said. “He never takes no for an answer.”

On the way home, I puzzled over what I had heard. Penelope was right. Even my research students couldn’t be trusted.

Over dinner I told Victoria. I described what I heard Ronald say to Lisa. “Nasty little bitch,” she said. “First she tries to seduce you; then she seduces your research student. She must be desperate.”

“I don’t think I’m that bad …” I began.

“That’s not what I meant. She clearly has a weakness for academics. God only knows why! I could tell her a thing or two!” We laughed.

“But you like academics,” I protested.

“Hardly, Harry. You know I don’t fit in. Do you think I could ever be a friend of that sad little Miss Bossyboots? Or that idle cow Jenny Sloth? Or, heaven forbid, that stout matron Maureen Pilkington? I mean, I try to be polite but I’d go mad if they were my only friends.”

“What about Magnus?”

“Magnus is a darling. But the rest are not exactly my cup of tea. Lisa may be poisonous and delusional, but from what you’ve described, she does have some style. I can’t imagine why she’d want to spend her life in a university.”

Eventually the Information Technology Unit did come to fix my computer. When I switched it on, there was a large picture of Wanda Catnip on the university homepage announcing that she had been promoted to a personal Chair. The announcement went on to say that her Inaugural Professorial Lecture would take place in several weeks time. There was also an email from Magnus. It read: ‘The witch has her reward from Barraclough. A disgusting spectacle. What is the world coming to? Magnus.’ There was an email from Morris O’Murphy too. He asked me to phone him about the disciplinary meeting which was to take place at the end of the month. When I reached him, he was on the train to Birmingham, and I arranged to see him on his next visit to St Sebastian’s. He was coming to meet with the Pay Scale Committee to discuss the implementation of the new scheme.

On the day, he arrived late in the afternoon with Penelope. He was wearing a brown suit and a wide brown and green tie
with the union insignia. Penelope looked very different from usual in a smart tweed suit. They looked drained.

Morris sat on the sofa. Penelope slumped in the armchair opposite. I gave them each a large glass of sherry. “Barraclough was at his most opaque,” Penelope moaned.

“Man’s an ignoramus,” Morris declared.

“So it didn’t go well?” I said.

Morris groaned, and then looked astonished. “Who’s that guy shot with arrows?” he asked, looking at the icon.

“That’s the real St Sebastian,” I said. “We got the icon in New York. It was painted by a Cretan artist in the
seventeenth-century
.”

Penelope looked bewildered. “I never knew St Sebastian was used for target practice,” she said.

“That’s not quite the story,” I replied, “He was a native of Milan and was martyred. He is traditionally portrayed standing in the middle of archers, being shot through with arrows. But he is supposed to have recovered from the onslaught through the ministrations of a kindly widow. But then he was clubbed to death.”

“Just like you, Harry?” Morris grinned.

“That’s what you’re here to prevent,” I said.

“Quite so,” Morris said. “I’m afraid there’s not a lot we can do though. A precedent was set with the oral warning. All the Head of Department has to do is prove that the same offence was repeated.”

“But this is ridiculous,” Penelope protested. “The oral
warning
shouldn’t have been given in the first place …”

“That’s true. But it was. And we can’t do anything about it. Harry lost the appeal. So, if this computer person can show that Harry behaved in a similar way, a written warning could be issued.”

“There’s nothing I can do?” I asked.

“You can always appeal against the warning, but I don’t think it will do much good.”

“This is hopeless,” Penelope complained. “We’re supposed to protect our members.”

“I think all you can do at this stage is to explain why you needed a functioning computer. You should stress that you had
to reply to emails. And then hope your Head of Department gets the point. In retrospect, it would have been better to have done nothing. You have been given an oral warning. In that situation, it’s best to tread very carefully. It’s a pity you didn’t call me before you sent out your letter to the Head of IT.”

“I don’t think the Head of IT was that bothered,” I
commented
. “The matter was seized on by the Registrar. It was he who instituted proceedings.”

“So that’s it? Even though there’s clearly a conspiracy against Harry?” Penelope asked.

“I’m afraid there’s little we can do at this stage. We’ll just have to wait and see how the Head of Department plays it. You see,” he went on, “disciplinary hearings are like a game. You won’t know how the other side intends for things to go until the meeting itself. Maybe they’ll be co-operative. Often they’re not. It all depends what the game plan is. And we don’t know what they’re up to.”

“I’m afraid I do,” I said gloomily.

“You haven’t got anything to eat, have you?” asked Morris. I handed over the biscuit tin.

With a sense of foreboding I met with Pilkington at the disciplinary meeting. Penelope was to accompany me, but she was late since she had to take Rufus in to see the vet again. He was still having trouble with fur balls. Wanda was already seated when I arrived. Reluctantly, I congratulated her on her personal Chair. She was clearly elated. Pilkington fidgeted while we waited for Penelope to arrive. Flustered she knocked on the door fifteen minutes after the meeting was due to start.

“Sorry,” she said. “I had to rush Rufus to see the vet this morning. And I wanted to take him home afterwards.”

“Is he OK?” I asked.

“The vet says he has to change his diet. So, I bought an expensive bag of prescription cat food. You can’t get it at a supermarket. It has to be got from a vet. You know,” she said with astonishment, “it costs nearly twenty pounds.”

Pilkington looked impatient as Penelope told us about her cat’s difficulties. “We’re here,” he began, “because there has
been a formal complaint by the Head of Information
Technology
. He said that Harry harassed him about fixing his computer. Has it now been repaired?” he asked.

“It has,” I said. “But this is after weeks of nagging …”

“So you do admit nagging Simon Evans.”

“Well, yes …” I said. “But he should have fixed it
immediately
. Instead, he did nothing, even after I sent him a note and an email. I eventually sent him a letter, but still nothing happened.”

As always, Wanda took extensive notes. Whenever
Pilkington
criticized my contact with Simon, Penelope interrupted, pointing out that it was the role of the IT unit to repair computers.

After a half hour’s discussion, Pilkington concluded by
referring
to the oral warning that had recently been given. “The Staff Handbook specifies,” he said, “that a written warning is to be given for any repetition of the same offence. I have discussed the matter at length with the Vice-Chancellor,” he continued, “and we are both of the opinion that you have behaved in the same fashion as before. I’m afraid nothing has been said today which convinces me otherwise. Therefore I regrettably have no option than to issue you with a written warning. As you know, a written warning lasts for two years. If there is a further repetition of similar behaviour, then the matter will go before a disciplinary committee. And, I must warn you, Harry, that it could result in your dismissal from the university.”

“This is totally unwarranted,” Penelope objected. “I want to put on record that the union does not accept this judgment, and as union president I will be encouraging Harry to appeal against your decision.”

“You have every right to do so,” Pilkington said. “But as you know, the Vice-Chancellor would chair such an appeal. And quite frankly, I can’t imagine the decision would be any different from the previous case. You will simply be wasting everyone’s time.”

Wanda had not said anything since we arrived. But at this point, she indicated that she had something to add. “As Dean, I want to give you some advice, Harry. It would be far better for you to concentrate on improving your attitude than staging
a fruitless appeal. As John said, you are free to do as you wish. But the real question is whether you will be able to exercise self-restraint in the future.”

Penelope was furious and began putting her notebook and pen back into her handbag. “Come along, Harry,” she said. “I can see there is no point in continuing the discussion.” I got up and followed her out of the room. Later in the day there was a letter from Pilkington in my pigeonhole. I read it and stormed off to Magnus’s room. He was asleep in his battered armchair in the corner surrounded by books. His overcoat was draped as usual over his Canaanite god. “What’s up?” Magnus asked as I entered.

“Read this,” I said.

He looked grave as he read Pilkington’s letter. “So you’ve finally been given a written warning. Astonishing!”

“But Magnus, I didn’t do anything wrong. It’s not my fault. It’s theirs.”

Magnus nodded. “You’re right. But what do you expect from that shit? He’s determined to get you to leave. And so is Catnip. They’ve convinced the VC. Sorry, Harry, but there’s nothing you can do about this. That is, except take early retirement. Did the VC make you any kind of deal?”

“Not yet,” I said.

“He made me a lousy offer. You might do better.”

“But I don’t want to go!”

Magnus picked up a short article that was lying on the floor. “You know, I just wrote the most damning review of Professor Macpherson’s new book on Second Isaiah. It made me feel a lot better. Do you want to see it?”

“Thanks, Magnus,” I said, “but I’m not in the mood.”

“Pity! It’s one of the most vicious things I’ve ever written. Quite a tonic for depression! You ought to try it!”

When I arrived home, I was furious. Victoria poured me a glass of whiskey, and our blue-point Siamese, Cleo, sat on my lap and purred as I recounted my interview with Pilkington. Our other cat, Brutus, was busy chasing a paper ball. Victoria waited impatiently for me to finish, and then showed me the latest issue of
Country Life
. There was a picture of her holding
a Georgian teapot and a short article about collecting tea-time porcelain. “That’s splendid,” I said.

“It arrived this afternoon. Plus a cheque for five hundred pounds.”

“Well done! I’m really pleased!”

“So am I,” she smiled.

“It rather overshadows this stupid written warning,” I said.

“I’m glad you’re getting all this into proportion. Look, Harry. You’re a professor. You’re in
Who’s Who
. You’ve published lots of books. You have no money worries. I simply can’t see why you care what Little Miss Bossyboots thinks, or that boring Head of Department, or Barraclough for that matter.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“Of course, I’m right. Just look around you. You live in this beautiful mill-house full of pretty things; you have a lovely office at the university with Gothic windows and a
seventeenth-century
icon; you can go up to London whenever you want and dine at your club. You have the nicest cats in the world and, most important, you have me. Just what are you complaining about?”

Sheepishly I couldn’t think of an answer. “Then why don’t we go out to dinner and spend some of the money you earned?” I said. “What about that country house hotel that got such a good write-up in
The Times?
”

The Goat and Goose Hotel was located about ten miles from St Sebastian’s in a small, picturesque village that was frequently used by the BBC for historical dramas. The village green was surrounded by timber-framed houses. When we entered, we were shown into the dining room by a silver-haired gentleman wearing a dark suit who was clearly the owner. The prices were astronomic. I realized I would soon be sending another huge cheque to Christian Aid.

After we ordered, I told Victoria about Catnip. I explained that when I turned my computer on, there was a picture of Wanda and a caption explaining that she had been awarded a Chair and was due to give an inaugural professorial lecture.

Victoria seemed surprisingly interested. “She’s to give a lecture?” she asked.

“You remember the lecture I gave?” I said. “Well, it’s like that. All professors do it when they get a Chair. I don’t normally tell you about it, because you wouldn’t be interested. They talk about their speciality. It’s usually terribly boring.”

“But I’d like to hear Catnip. I’ve never heard her lecture.” She embarked on a wickedly accurate imitation of Wanda’s Northern vowels.

I interrupted. “Why? I have no intention of going. It will be horrible. And after what I’ve endured, I don’t see why I should. Certainly Magnus isn’t going to go.”

Victoria looked out the window as I went on to explain why our attendance would be entirely inappropriate. “So, I’m not going,” I concluded.

“Oh Harry, you mustn’t let the side down. You really do have to go.”

“But why?” I asked. “It’s not as though she’s done anything for me. What she and Pilkington have done is to make my life much worse. Why should I do something for that horrible woman?”

“Harry, you’re supposed to be the Professor of Christian Ethics. Forgive and forget! All that sort of thing! So, you’ve got to practise what you preach.”

“Why?” I said indignantly. “It’s all very well in theory. But in practice it isn’t very appealing. She doesn’t like me. And I don’t like her. And she tried to get me to leave. So, I’m not going.”

“You must go, Harry,” Victoria persisted. “It will be
fascinating
.”

“If Magnus won’t go, I’m not going. Why should I?”

“Well, if Magnus is willing to go, will you, too?”

“I don’t see why I should. But OK. If Magnus goes, I’ll go.” I felt very safe.

“Good,” Victoria said, as she polished off her salad niçoise. “You won’t want to miss it!”

Several days later I had tea with Magnus in the SCR. Magnus ordered two tea cakes and a mug of coffee. He looked very pleased. I wondered why. “Why are you looking so cheery?” Iasked.

“Oh no reason,” he said as he plonked three sugar cubes into his coffee.

“Come on, Magnus, how come you’re not your usual glum self?”

“Glum? Am I usually glum?”

“What’s going on, Magnus?”

“Nothing,” he said. “Really.” And with that he picked up
The Times
.

“Oh, Magnus,” I continued. “You’re not going to Catnip’s lecture are you? I told Victoria I definitely didn’t intend to. But for some reason she seems to want to go. I can’t imagine why. Anyway, I told her I would go if you went. But I was sure you wouldn’t.”

Magnus looked up. “Actually,” he said. “I rather thought I would.”

“But why?”

“I thought it might be amusing.”

“Amusing?”

“Seeing her suck up to Barraclough. Why not?”

“I can’t understand you, Magnus. This is totally inconsistent. You think she’s ghastly. Why in the world would you want to hear her give a lecture?”