Matricide at St. Martha's (3 page)

It was a bonus that Sandra had been unable to hear this exchange. The Bursar had drawn the City slicker into their conversation and by an exercise of
force majeure
had got her to agree that all this feminist business had gone much too far. Amiss couldn’t hear what was happening between the prep-school master and Pusey, but they both looked encouragingly miserable – certainly not like two chaps who were going to rush off and swap knitting patterns.

The interview, if it could be called that, went well. Sandra asked him solicitously about special needs in relation to his mobility impairment, which he managed to interpret swiftly enough. The Bursar then helped out by adopting a tone of deep sarcasm and asking if he’d like some ramps installed, or, perchance, a lift. Amiss had managed to sidestep all this by explaining that his present condition was as bad as he ever got and that most of the time no one would know there was anything wrong with him. The Senior Tutor, making an effort to address herself to the central issue, asked Amiss what his views were about the relationship between government and academe, in response to which he had burbled fluently about cooperation, mutual learning, scholarly heritage, but above all the necessity for keeping an open mind. Sandra had then pointed out that open minds could be overrated and that surely no work could be undertaken without starting with a set of beliefs.

‘I mean, you know,’ she said earnestly, ‘you aren’t going to say that government shouldn’t ban all kinds of discrimination on campuses.’

‘As long as there is no undermining of academic standards,’ piped up the Senior Tutor.

Amiss had responded to that one with a flow of gobbledygook about learning from others’ experience, challenging preconceptions and reconciling human and scholarly values. It was, the Bursar later told him grudgingly, one of the finest examples of meaningless but convincing bullshit she had heard in many a long year. Certainly it appeared to have silenced and contented both the Senior Tutor and Sandra. Francis Pusey had then asked Amiss how he felt about continuing cuts in government finance for education, on which Amiss, feeling safe on this one, had waxed concerned and eloquent and had talked about disturbing philistine trends.

Was there not too, Pusey had asked, a tendency for government to see education purely in terms of the acquisition of qualifications? Surely the quality of life at university was as important to the student as the quality of teaching. Should not the purpose of a university be also to introduce the student to beauty, to sensual experience, to art, to the spirit?

Sandra had interrupted to warn of the dangers of such experiences being elitist; art should not be seen as objectively good or bad. Amiss began to flounder slightly on this one but was rescued by the Bursar, who explained she was bored to tears with all this claptrap and proposed to throw Mr Amiss out unless somebody had something else practical to ask him. Nobody had.

‘Just one thing before you go,’ she said. ‘Are you married?’

‘No.’

‘Girlfriend?’

‘No,’ said Amiss, hoping he was getting this right.

‘Thought not,’ she said. ‘Hobble off then. Don’t call us, we’ll call you.’ She snorted loudly at her own wit as he nodded his goodbyes and limped to the door. As he shut it behind him he heard her saying, ‘I don’t think we want any more poofs in this place, do we?’ and he knew the job was his.

3

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‘I played a blinder on that one,’ said the Bursar complacently as they conducted their postmortem on the telephone later that evening.

‘What about me? I thought I did rather well.’

‘Not a bad touch with Oscar Wilde and the stick, but I thought my approach was rather more subtle.’

‘Subtlety, Jack, is not the first word which comes to mind when thinking about you.’

‘Just because I’m loud and a bit of a ham doesn’t mean I’m not subtle. And how many times do I have to tell you to cut out this “Jack” business. It’s imperative that you think “Bursar”.’

‘What’s Jack short for anyway, or instead of?’

‘Never you mind. We girls have to have some secrets.’

‘Oh, blast you, be mysterious, then. Can I entice you into sharing with me what happened to the other two?’

‘Oh, a touch of the blood sports really. Sandra impaled the poor bitch with the padded shoulders on the spike with which I had provided her. She was asked to explain her position on feminism with particular relation to dealing with sexist language, sexual harassment, sexism in the workplace and sexism on the syllabus. Poor bitch never had a chance. She tried to shift her ground at one stage and became a bit radical, so she managed to upset Emily by saying that relevance in education was very important and must take account of changing trends.

‘Francis didn’t take much interest in her. He was holding himself in readiness to tear the other poor schmuck apart, which he did in a rather splendidly feline fashion. I have to say that Francis, though undoubtedly a twerp, is quite a shrewd twerp, and he quickly revealed our poor tweedy friend to be both dumb and ignorant. Mind you, Sandra’s both dumb and ignorant and would probably think it elitist to require brains and knowledge in a Fellow, but she had already decided against him. She’s a maternal little soul who had been won over by your sufferings and my insensitivity.’

‘How do they put up with you?’

‘Why shouldn’t they? The civil service did. Anyway quite apart from my three-year contract being watertight, I’m so good at the job the majority of the Fellows know they’d be mad to do without me. Besides, I think I bring a bit of cheer into their dreary lives; they can swap stories about my latest grossness.

‘Now, to our muttons. What sort of accommodation do you want?’

‘What can I have?’

‘Medium-sized and uncomfortable, or large and very uncomfortable.’

‘No small and comfortable?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous; this is St Martha’s.’

‘Medium,’ he sighed. ‘I suppose that means no bathroom.’

‘You’re lucky there’s one on your corridor.’

‘Who are my neighbours?’

‘Francis Pusey and the Reverend Cyril Crowley, you lucky chap. Men get tucked away in corners by themselves for reasons of propriety.’ She gave a loud cackle. ‘When are you coming?’

‘Soon as you like.’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘No. First I’ve got to go and find a cattery for my cat.’

‘Why not bring it?’

‘What, Plutarch?’

‘I like cats. It would be quite nice to have one around the place. Add a bit of grace and elegance.’

‘Listen, Bursar, that cat has about as much grace and elegance as you have.’

‘Why then, you must certainly bring it. See you tomorrow, in time for guest night.’

‘What happens on guest night?’

‘You’ll find out,’ and with another loud cackle she rang off.

On the train to Cambridge, Amiss cursed himself for having given in so feebly to the Bursar about Plutarch, who had not ceased yelling throughout the entire journey.

‘Should have given her a tranquillizer, dear,’ said one elderly passenger. ‘Poor little mite, she’s terrified.’

‘Madam,’ said Amiss stiffly, ‘it would take three circus strongmen to administer a tranquillizer to this… this… extremely large and bad-tempered animal.’ He turned his face to the window and tried to pretend he had nothing to do with the rocking and relentlessly vociferous cat-basket.

By the time he reached St Martha’s, he was exhausted from emotional tension and even Plutarch was beginning to show signs of weariness, but she started up again enthusiastically when Miss Stamp arrived at the door and began cootchy-cootchy-cooing into the wickerwork. This time she was sporting a lavender mohair jumper with a motif of musical notes. ‘Dr Pusey’s handiwork?’

Miss Stamp beamed and smiled. ‘Yes, and I’m knitting him a waistcoat. One like the Bursar’s got. You know, with a lot of pockets for his implements.’

Plutarch’s needs were too pressing for Amiss to stop and seek further information on this baffling statement. ‘Would you be very kind, Miss Stamp, and help me up to my room?’

‘Well, yes, certainly, Mr Amiss. But you’re a little early. I don’t know if Mr Franks has gone yet.’

‘Who?’

‘Poor Mr Franks.’

‘Why is he poor?’ asked Amiss in some trepidation.

‘Well, it’s been ever so nasty over the last few weeks, all those allegations. Those girls, I don’t know, really. I’m sure he didn’t do any of those things.’

‘What things?’

‘Oh, er, it’s not for me to gossip and I’m sure there’s nothing in it. He never laid a finger on me.’

Not bloody surprised, thought Amiss ungallantly. ‘What was his job?’

‘He was the Household Management Fellow.’

‘The what?’

‘You know, like in Mrs Beeton.’

‘Of course, quite, I see,’ said Amiss, who was by now completely foxed. ‘Well, my problem revolves around Plutarch, my cat. I don’t want to let her out yet because she might never find her way back again. I thought I should introduce her first to our joint accommodation – let her get the hang of things gradually.’

‘It’s awfully nice to see a young man travelling around with his cat like this. Have you had her since a child?’

‘No. She was, let us say, an unsolicited gift,’ said Amiss grimly.

‘Oh, you lucky thing. Now of course, with your poor leg you can’t manage everything. I’ll take your suitcase and you take Plutarch. I’m sure she’d be much happier with Daddy carrying her.’

His resentment at being categorized as the cat’s father removed the guilt Amiss was feeling about letting an elderly lady carry his heavy case. Miss Stamp trotted up the stairs ahead of him and by the time they had climbed three flights, she, carrying the heavier burden, seemed in much better nick than he was.

‘You’re very fit,’ he said enviously.

‘I set great store by our Swedish drill. I hope you’ll join in, Mr Amiss – 7. 10 every morning, outside if it’s not actually raining, otherwise in the hall. Nearly all the Fellows are there, Mistress to the fore.’

‘Is it compulsory?’ he asked faintly.

‘Not quite, but the Mistress does like us all to be there. Of course, the students won’t do it. You know what they’re like nowadays. Anyway, here we are.’

She knocked on the door and a shout invited them to enter. ‘Mr Franks, this is Mr Amiss. He’s come to investigate how we can have a better relationship with the government. Now I’ve got to dash. Perhaps I can leave you two young men together.’ Girlishly she skipped away.

‘Sorry to intrude,’ shouted Amiss over Plutarch’s screeches.

‘I think you’d better let that thing out,’ said Franks, an agreeable-looking man in his late twenties. Amiss looked nervously around. ‘Do you have any valuables within reach? She tends to be a bit frisky when released.’

‘No, I’ve finished packing and, as you can see, this place is decorated very simply.’

‘It certainly is. Nay, monastically or more properly – conventually.’ In a room that could have fitted fifty people standing, the only objects were a narrow bed with a plain beige bedcover, a spartan wooden desk and wooden chair, a small wardrobe, tiny bookcase, hideous armchair and a washbasin. The walls were white, the curtains were beige to match the bedcover and the floor covering was brown lino with a small grey bedside rug to brighten it up.

‘Cheerless is not the word,’ said Amiss.

‘You’ve nothing to complain about. This is positively a luxury apartment. Washbasin? It’s only people who are well in with the Bursar who get a washbasin, I can tell you. There’s even an electric fire, which I’ve hidden in the wardrobe lest anyone sneak to the sisterhood that a man has been so privileged.’

Amiss had undone the straps of Plutarch’s basket by now. ‘Are you ready? I should stand out of the way if I were you.’

Franks flattened himself against the nearest wall, Amiss opened the lid and Plutarch went into her seek-and-destroy mode, which on this occasion found few targets. There were no decorations to knock over and her attempt to swing from the curtains failed dismally; they were too light to support her weight for long enough for her even to get her claws into them.

After a couple of minutes of leaping on top of flat surfaces and skidding along them, she got fed up, hurled herself on to the bed and moodily began to wash herself under her tail. Amiss averted his eyes and focused on his human companion. ‘Why are you leaving?’

‘Self-preservation. I keep getting nightmares that they’ll castrate me next. I mean literally do a Bobbitt. They’ve been doing it metaphorically for long enough.’ He looked pityingly at Amiss. ‘I should take that cat with you everywhere you go. You’ll be needing it for protection.’

‘Could you supply me with a little more detail?’

‘I’ll supply you with a drink first. You probably need it.’

Franks fished a bottle of whisky out of his case, reached into a desk drawer and extracted two glasses. ‘Neat?’

‘No, I’d like lots of water in mine please. Got to be careful. It’s guest night tonight.’

‘Ah yes, I see. You’re fearful of excessive alcoholic intake are you? I shouldn’t worry too much.’ He handed Amiss a glass of aggressively dark orange liquid. ‘Cheers. And may God have mercy on your soul.’

‘I can see you’ve been having a rough time.’

‘Rough?’ Franks’s cry was so loud and agonized that Plutarch actually jumped. ‘Sex was my downfall. Gross moral turpitude, that’s what I’m being accused of, along with lookism, sexual harassment, date rape and we won’t even go into the general ones of cultural and gender insensitivity. Oh yes, and the latest – misdirected laughter.’

‘What’s that, for Christ’s sake?’

‘I should define it as making a joke the ladies don’t see, or possibly even making a joke they do see.’

‘And the sexual stuff?’

‘Oh God, well, the sexual harassment is straightforward. The list of charges includes putting an arm round an American neurotic called Sandra Murphy without requesting her permission first – Christ, I must have been drunk – being overheard saying that one of the undergraduates was a prick-teaser and interrupting a woman twice at a college meeting.’