Matricide at St. Martha's (8 page)

‘Jet propulsion,’ he muttered as he caught her up.

‘What?’

‘You. I was wondering where you get your turn of speed from. Not to speak of your energy.’

‘It’s not that I’m particularly energetic. It’s that all you lot are anaemic. It comes from all that faddy eating and no bad habits.’

Amiss was about to deny this slur indignantly when his attention was distracted by what sounded like loud chanting.

‘What’s that?’

‘Another demo.’

‘Who, what, where, why?’

As he approached the source of the disturbance he could make out ‘What do we want?’ followed by something indistinct and then by ‘When do we want it? Now.’

‘What
do
they want?’

‘Gender and ethnic studies, “GES”.’

‘That’s not what it sounds like.’

‘That’s because some of them want ethnic and gender studies. And some of them think all this too non-specific and want black and gender or even gender and black and then some would prefer women’s and not gender studies because they don’t think they should study men and so on. There’s a bit of a row going on about priorities and they’re shouting each other down.’

As they rounded the corner and began to proceed down the corridor towards the Council Chamber, the sound dropped and the demonstrators came into view. There looked to be about twenty of them, mostly clad in
de rigueur
Doc Martens and droopy black hangings and waving banners which included the legends ‘DOWN WITH DWEMS’, ‘SISTER CENTRIC NOT PHALLO CENTRIC’, ‘THE SISTERHOOD OF WIMMIN’, ‘PENETRATION IS RAPE’ and even ‘RELEVANCE NOT RIGOUR’. As they spotted Amiss and the Bursar, somebody started a chant which the others swiftly picked up: ‘Sexism: Out Out Out.’

‘Is that directed at me?’

‘Yes, but at me too. For some reason I can’t quite grasp they think I’m a bit insensitive.’

‘I think what you have is what our American cousins would describe as an attitude problem.’

‘Nothing wrong with my attitude,’ said the Bursar. ‘It’s good old Anglo-Saxon. Now come on, let’s charge through all these ninnies.’ Suiting her action to her words she cleared a path for Amiss through the mob.

Bridget, Sandra, Mary Lou, the Reverend Cyril and Dr Windlesham were already
in situ
, along with a dim creature who was gazing worshipfully at Bridget. Amiss was tempted to avoid conversation by sitting beside Dr Windlesham, who was intently reading a scholarly journal. Instead, he sat down at the end of the table beside Mary Lou, to whom he introduced himself and rather hesitantly offered his hand. She seemed nervous and equally hesitant, but she put out her hand and shook his.

‘Have you been here long?’

‘Two days.’

‘Oh, just ahead of me. What do you think of it?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Nor do I. What’s your field?’

‘The interaction of lesbianism and ethno-centrism.’

‘You must explain it to me sometime,’ he said politely and addressed himself to the pile of papers in front of him. Before he had begun to get the hang of them, the door opened and on the dot of 9.10 the Mistress swept in, flanked by the Senior Tutor and Primrose Partridge. She had no sooner taken her seat and opened the meeting than the door opened again and Francis Pusey came in. He scurried to his seat.

‘I apologize, Mistress, but I’ve gone through an absolutely gruelling experience this morning, and I’m all at sixes and sevens.’ He shot Amiss a venomous look.

‘Excuse me,’ said Bridget Holdness. ‘Point of order.’

‘I hope it is,’ said the Mistress levelly.

‘I can no longer accept the use of the word “Mistress”.’

Even the imperturbable holder of that title looked shocked.

‘Could you elaborate?’

The Bursar broke in. ‘I suppose she wants us to call you Mstress, Mistress. All that crap again.’ Dame Maud gave her an admonitory look.

‘Bursar, please let Dr Holdness speak for herself. She has little difficulty in doing so.’

‘I shall ignore the Bursar’s typically offensive and collaborationist remark,’ said Bridget. ‘First, may I remind you that I wish to be addressed as “Ms”, not “Dr”, which is a legitimization of elitism. Second, the word “Mistress” – like “Master” – implicitly acknowledges patriarchal archetypes as well as having unacceptable overtones of a proprietorial sexual relationship. If we insist in clinging to hierarchical systems, which I don’t think we should, you could be called “Head”.’

‘ “Head Fellow”?’

‘Certainly not “Fellow”,’ said Bridget. ‘That is a masculine word used here to imply spurious inclusiveness.’

‘Mistress,’ bellowed the Bursar, ‘are we going to waste yet another morning arguing about whether what we have for tea is a gingerbreadperson?’

‘Ladies, ladies, please… ’ intervened the Reverend Cyril. As Bridget’s eyes narrowed and her mouth opened, the Mistress interrupted hastily. ‘Thank you, Dr Crowley, but though well-intentioned, that is not a helpful contribution. Now, Bursar, please remember that we have a tradition of tolerance in St Martha’s: it is right to take note of the views of the younger generation. I am, however, inclined to agree that we are giving a disproportionate amount of time to matters which could perhaps be resolved in a different forum.’

‘These are central issues,’ said Bridget Holdness. ‘They cannot be marginalized.’

‘Might I make a suggestion?’ asked Amiss.

Bridget Holdness glared at him, ‘Chair, this is the second instance this morning of a male interruption.’

‘I didn’t interrupt,’ said Crowley and Amiss simultaneously.

‘There they go again, Chair.’

‘Dr Holdness…’

‘Ms.’

‘I see no reason why I should change the way I refer to you when you persist in addressing me as if I were a piece of furniture,’ said the Mistress. Her normal imperturbability seemed to be acquiring a tinge of irritability. ‘Mr Amiss, what is your suggestion?’

‘A language sub-committee?’

‘We don’t usually have sub-committees of the Council,’ said the Mistress.

‘Good time to start,’ said the Bursar. ‘Language has been the nigger in the woodpile in this Council. Can’t get on with things.’ There was no response. A kind of chill had descended on the company. Even the Mistress looked unsettled. The Bursar looked at her colleagues in a baffled fashion and then made the connection. ‘Ooops! Sorry about that, slip of the tongue. Nothing personal, Dr Denslow.’

As Mary Lou opened her mouth to respond, Bridget Holdness pushed back her chair noisily and said, ‘Come on.’

‘Dr Holdness, the Bursar has apologized.’

‘There are some things for which no apology will suffice. A protest has to be made. Come.’ She jerked her head at Sandra, Mary Lou and the dim hanger-on and the four of them exited.

Amiss settled back in his seat in relief, waiting for the constructive part of the meeting to start.

‘Fellows, I regret this disruption,’ said Dame Maud. ‘May we reconvene tomorrow at nine-thirty? I shall see in the meantime if Dr Holdness and her friends can rejoin us.’ She swept out of the room followed by her entourage.

‘What happened?’ Amiss asked the Bursar. ‘Why didn’t we go on?’

‘Quorum, you idiot. The statutes are very firm on that. And since Thackaberry and Anglo-Saxon Annie again forgot to turn up, we were buggered. You can’t pick your nose in this institution without a quorum. Oh shit, sometimes I think I’m a little lacking in tact.’

The demonstration outside the door was revitalized by the news that Bridget had borne out of the Council Chamber. ‘Racist: Out Out Out. Racist: Out Out Out,’ was clearly directed at the Bursar, with the occasional ‘Sexist: out’ thrown in for good measure so as not to make Amiss feel out of things. The Bursar jet-propelled herself through the throng; she and Amiss sped down the corridor with their persecutors on their tail. When they got to the Bursar’s room she slammed the door behind them and locked it.

‘Have a drink.’

‘You’re lucky you weren’t lynched.’

‘Huh! Lynched? Me? It would take more than that phalanx of washed-out morons to lynch me, I can tell you. We Troutbecks don’t lynch easily.’

‘What are you going to do now?’

‘I have a plan.’

‘Are you going to share it with me?’

‘It’s not ready yet.’ She pushed his drink over to him. ‘I’ve homework to do.’

There was a padded envelope sitting on her desk which she patted knowingly. ‘And how are you going to occupy yourself today?’

‘I shall seek out male company. When I’ve dealt with the cattery, that is.’

‘You’re determined to exile that splendid cat of yours? Pity. I like her.’

‘She’s exactly your sort.’ Amiss spoke frostily. ‘That’s why I have no option but to exile her.’

‘All right then. Drink up and get cracking. I’ve a lot to do.’

Amiss looked hesitantly at the door through which were coming sounds of angry slogans.

‘Oh, I see. Chicken, are you?’ She jerked her head towards the window. ‘I should hop it out the back way if I were you. Don’t suppose you can cope with them without me to protect you.’ She shook her head, ‘What is the modern male coming to? There were never any New Men among the Troutbecks.’

Amiss swallowed his drink and walked to the window with as much dignity as he could muster.

9

«
^
»

Amiss headed straight for Francis Pusey’s rooms, arriving just as Miss Stamp was emerging in an advanced state of twitter.

‘Oh, Mr Amiss,’ she began. ‘Isn’t it all dreadful? Poor Dr Pusey is in such a state. Between Dr Holdness and that cat of yours…’

Well, thought Amiss, if nothing else, Plutarch had achieved the feat of moving from ‘dear little pussy cat’ to ‘that cat’ in a matter of a few hours. She was undoubtedly a feline delinquent of a high order.

‘I do feel terrible about all that, Miss Stamp. She’s very highly strung, you know and the sight of Dr Pusey’s Pekinese put her in a frightful tizz. I do hope Dr Pusey will forgive me.’

Her face cleared. ‘I’m sure if you just explain. He gets upset, does Dr Pusey, but he’s not someone to bear a grudge. Well, not really.’

‘Advise me, Miss Stamp. What should I offer as an olive branch? Should I ask him to lunch?’ She looked over her shoulder at the heavy oak door behind her, tripped over to him and stood on tiptoes to whisper in his ear. ‘What he likes most is a nice walk followed by a really nice afternoon tea. And he does love showing people round Cambridge.’

Amiss rapidly translated this into frightful old bore prepared to do anything for a few cream cakes and an audience. ‘Thank you, Miss Stamp,’ he said gravely. ‘I shall act on your advice. You are a great comfort to me.’

‘So you do see, don’t you?’ Pusey replaced the card in the box and selected another. ‘In fact, it was my last visit.’ He peered through his big round glasses. ‘Yes, it says it here. “22 February 1990, Sprogget deceased”.’

‘Did it come as a shock to you?’

‘A very, very great shock. Why, as I’ve shown you, I’d been going to him for more than twenty years. He understood me; no one else has ever quite understood me. It’s a matter of compensating for the very slight difference in height between my shoulders and’ – he giggled – ‘what I am forced to admit is a slight touch of pigeon chest. It takes a genius, you know, to get things just so.’

‘So do you have a new tailor?’

‘Yes, yes, but he’s hopeless; just doesn’t understand about shoulders. I keep searching. You don’t know anyone, I suppose?’ He looked Amiss up and down. ‘No, I expect you don’t.’

Pusey returned the card to its box, which he replaced carefully in the corner cabinet. He turned round and threw his hands out in an expansive gesture. ‘Now I hope you appreciate the extent of my loss.’

‘Can anything be done to mend it?’

‘Mend cashmere? At prodigious expense. And what will be the result?’

Amiss decided on a calculated risk. ‘Perhaps I might be allowed to contribute, if you wouldn’t mind waiting until the first instalment of my stipend. I’m very hard up at the moment.’

‘My dear boy.’ Pusey positively beamed at him. ‘That’s extremely kind of you but I wouldn’t dream of it. It is quite enough that you are sending that… that…’

‘Beast?’ offered Amiss.

‘Beast away. I don’t wish to be offensive. You are no doubt attached to it.’

‘Tethered rather than attached. It was,’ Amiss added mendaciously, ‘a legacy from my dear, late mother.’ He gazed at the floor for a few moments while Pusey emitted a couple of embarrassed squeaks. Then Amiss sat up, squared his shoulders and looked brave. ‘You’ve been most forbearing, Dr Pusey, and you are very good to forgive me. Might I ask you another favour?’

‘Certainly.’

‘I don’t know Cambridge, and I wondered if you would be so kind as perhaps to find some time one afternoon to show me around. We might then possibly have tea somewhere nice. I need something to lift my spirits after the really rather terrifying introduction I have had to St Martha’s.’ He could see the gleam in Pusey’s eyes.

‘Show you round? Why I’d be delighted. Indeed, I think it would be unwise to postpone it. One cannot always rely on the weather. Come back to me here after lunch at two o’clock sharp.’

‘How very kind.’

‘What are your main fancies?’ He caught Amiss’s blank look and tittered. ‘Architecturally, I mean.’

‘Pretty catholic.’

‘Medieval? Renaissance? Georgian? Victorian?’

‘I’d be happy with all of them. Whatever’s going. I really just want to acquire a general sense of the place.’

That was clearly the wrong answer. ‘Oh, dear.’ Pusey rushed over to the corner and took out another box of cards. ‘Look, look.’ He pointed to the title. ‘You see?’

‘Er, yes. The medieval tour.’

‘I like to take people round chronologically, you see. So with the medieval tour I start with Peterhouse in 1284 and take you right through to Clare in 1359.’

‘That sounds… very interesting. Does it take in most of the major colleges?’

‘Oh no, no, no. You’ve got King’s and Queens’ and Jesus and so on in the Renaissance tour and then of course the Reformation and so on.’