The Campus Trilogy (12 page)

“Just an OBE, I’m afraid.”

“Poor Harry. Well, at least it’s not the bottom.”

“I’m rather pleased about it,”

“And just what will you do with your medal – wear it on your dressing gown?”

“Actually,” I said, “that might look quite fetching.”

“Why don’t you wear it at graduation pinned on your hat?”

“It’s not a joke, Victoria.”

“No, no joke. Sorry. Very serious. Actually, that’s very nice, Harry. By the way, what’s it for?”

I wasn’t going to tell her it was because Charles sympathized with me after I had been propositioned by a student. “Charles said it was for my contribution to ethics.”

Victoria laughed. “Very suitable, given the gorilla’s treatment of Catnip.”

“That’s not fair. It was your idea.”

“Yes, but you loved it. And so did everyone else. Yes, contribution to ethics,” she mused. “Just right!”

Victoria thought we needed a break and had arranged for us to go to the Cotswolds over the weekend to visit the
Mandril-Fortescues
in their new house. We set off early on Saturday and arrived after lunch. James was trimming the hedges when we drew up. Their Georgian double-fronted cottage was located just outside Upper Buttercup. There was a large magnolia tree in bloom in the front. James showed us to our room overlooking the garden. Like their Chelsea house, the cottage was full of exquisite furniture and old Oriental carpets. Their golden labrador, Maximillan, bounded about and demanded attention.

After we unpacked, we had tea and delicious fruitcake in their pretty drawing room. Vanessa enthused about life in the country and told Victoria about several of their school friends who lived nearby. As our wives gossiped, James explained that he was keeping going doing some part-time consultancy. He had set up an office in their garden house which was connected to the internet. There was no difficulty in getting on the web and sending faxes. Email, he continued, was also no problem:
he pulled a Blackberry out of his jacket pocket, turned it on, and explained that all communications arrived without even having to dial up an internet service provider.

Vanessa turned the conversation to her grandchildren. One reason they had settled in the village was that their daughter, Camilla, lived five miles away. She was married and the mother of three children. Victoria was intrigued. She remembered that Vanessa had not altogether approved of her son-in-law.

“Well,” said Vanessa, “he is a bit minor public school, but you won’t believe the money he’s made. I don’t know what he does. He talks about something called commodities. But it certainly brings home the bacon.” Then we heard that the eldest grandchild would be participating in a gymkhana over the weekend, and it was arranged that we would go with the family.

After tea, Victoria and I walked into Upper Buttercup. Near the village green there was a row of delightful shops including an estate agent. Victoria insisted we go in. We were greeted by a smartly dressed middle-aged woman wearing a grey flannel skirt and a Guernsey sweater. From her accent it was obvious that she had been expensively educated.

We emerged with a batch of brochures about local cottages for sale. The prices were similar to St Sebastian’s; we could easily afford to move into the area, and Victoria was persistent. “Harry,” she said as we walked along a narrow lane lined with charming golden cottages, “I think we would be happy here. Vanessa and James love it. We’d fit in. There would be lots of people like us. Haven’t we had quite enough of that boring university?”

I felt increasingly guilty throughout dinner. James and Vanessa had asked their neighbours, David and Julia
Seymour-Smith
, to join us. David was a retired barrister; a bencher at his inn-of-court, He regularly journeyed up to London for dinners. His wife was active in the local Red Cross and was chairman of the village Women’s Institute. Victoria and she compared notes. She was also having an ongoing quarrel with the lady-vicar over the new services in church.

“I never understood why we abandoned the
Book of
Common
Prayer
!” she complained.

I knew that Vanessa had had little academic education beyond the age of seventeen, but her parents had ensured she had gone to a first-rate Swiss finishing school. Consequently our dinner was wonderful. We began with asparagus soup made from local produce, followed by guinea fowl coated with honey. Pudding was my favourite, jam roly-poly. There was also a fruit tart which was a work of art and a magnificent selection of cheese. My trousers felt tighter and tighter.

Victoria was animated throughout. With glee she described in detail the gorilla’s appearance at Catnip’s lecture. The table was convulsed. Later Julia and Vanessa told stories of their own children’s experiences in various establishments of higher education. It was clear that the Cotswold upper-middle classes thought their children were being short-changed by the modern university system.

“It’s not like it was when I was at Oxford,” said David. “When Archy was at Exemouth, there was no proper individual attention. The groups were bigger than his classes at Winchester. When I met his tutor at graduation, he didn’t even seem to know who he was.”

I tried to remind the company that we were trying to educate a far larger proportion of young people than in the past. “That’s just the point,” boomed Julia in a voice designed to carry over three hunting fields, “Everyone knows, More means Worse!”

On Sunday we joined Vanessa’s family and the
Seymour-Smiths
for the morning service at their local church. The
incumbent
, the Rev. Kathleen Volefield, was a predictably mousey woman. The congregation used
Common Worship
much to Julia and Vanessa’s outspoken dismay. “Such dreary prayers,” they said loudly.

After the service, James introduced me to Ms. Volefield. I was flattered when she said that she had used my textbook on Christian ethics at Salisbury Theological College. “You certainly charmed her,” James commented on our way to the car.

“Rather a good sermon,” I said. “I’ve always liked the parable of the sheep and the goats.”

“Too much talk about doing things for people,” Vanessa objected as we drove home to lunch. “People have got to learn to stand on their own feet. No backbone, that’s the trouble
nowadays.” I restrained myself from pointing out that not everyone was fortunate enough to have feet to stand on.

In the afternoon we met Camilla and her husband Richard at the gymkhana. Their eldest child, Pandora, was entering for the first time on her fat little pony. The creature’s name was Smudges, and he had been very obstinate about climbing into his horse-box. Both Camilla and Richard were in a state of exhaustion. Their two youngest children, both boys, were in the care of their Australian nanny. Little Pandora was thrilled – she was bouncing up and down on Smudges’s back and demanding that we all look at her. She calmed down somewhat after she had been round the course. Smudges had knocked down three fences and had refused a fourth. When she came out of the ring, Pandora was in tears and was only consoled by sitting on her mother’s lap with a very large ice-cream.

Victoria was in her element. I watched her drifting around with Vanessa in her oily green jacket and old gum boots. It was like an informal reunion of Cheltenham. She seemed to know an enormous number of people. I saw this was her world, the life she had grown up to lead. Ultimately the fact she was so intelligent, had been to Cambridge, and was an expert on art history was irrelevant. Here in the Cotswolds she was with her own people. I could hear her chattering and laughing in a way that she never did at St Sebastian’s. I wondered if I perhaps should give up academic life and let her be herself in a Cotswold cottage.

In the evening we went to Camilla and Richard’s house for dinner. We drove through imposing stone gates and up their drive; at the top of a hill was a vast Georgian mansion. Richard was standing on the steps waiting for us to arrive. He showed us into a magnificent drawing room with wood panelling where we were all given drinks by two Polish au pair girls. On the walls were hung an array of oil paintings including a large portrait of one of Vanessa’s relations. He was clearly a general and was dressed in a military uniform with a red sash. Pandora greeted us carrying a massive, white stuffed rabbit.

Victoria asked Richard about some cottages bordering the estate which looked in poor repair. She was always quick to notice such things. One reason her father’s castle was so cold and
uncomfortable was that her family had traditionally regarded keeping the estate cottages in first-rate order as a higher priority. She was shocked to discover that young Richard appeared to have no sense of responsibility for his tenants.

Later we had dinner in the dining room around a long Regency table. Camilla and Richard had just returned from a trip to the United States where they were visiting a
Mandril-Fortescue
cousin who lived in Virginia. Victoria was interested. “We’re supposed to go to Virginia soon,” she said. “Harry has been invited to give a lecture at Sweetpea College – we met the president skiing in Colorado and he asked us to come.”

“What an amazing coincidence! James’s cousin is a trustee of Sweetpea,” Vanessa said. “He lives in an old plantation house about two miles away. Sweetpea is a charming little college town. Full of delightful clapboard colonial houses. I understand everything is fearfully expensive, but it’s full of the nicest people. They gave you a very good time, didn’t they, Camilla darling?”

On Monday we returned to St Sebastian’s. It seemed very far from the pleasant world of the Cotswolds. On Tuesday morning I arrived early, picked up my post, and went to my office. Amongst a pile of letters was one from Pilkington. It was a summons to see him urgently. Since he hadn’t arrived, his calls were being transferred to Wendy Morehouse. I asked if she knew why John wanted to see me; she said it had something to do with a postgraduate. Later in the morning I got an email from Pilkington. He explained that Ronald Grundy had come to see him on Monday. He was apparently disappointed about his supervisions. Pilkington wanted to see me straightaway and asked if I were free to come round immediately.

I wasn’t sure whether to phone Penelope. If this were a formal meeting, I might need help. But I decided I should find out what was going on first. When I arrived, Pilkington was seated at his desk; he gestured for me to sit down. He was wearing a green sports jacket and a striped blue and yellow polyester tie. He handed me a long letter from Ronald outlining numerous deficiencies in his supervision. It alleged that I was largely ignorant of his topic, and that I had made little effort to direct him to the right source material. Our meetings, he
stated, were of marginal help and he suspected I didn’t bother to read drafts of the chapters he submitted. In his view, there were too few supervisions, and he accused me of trying to put him off whenever he wanted to get together. He also said that my comments about his writing were skimpy. He concluded the letter asking if he could have a new, more conscientious supervisor.

“I’m sorry, Harry. But yet again, there is a formal grievance. It is my duty as Head of Department to investigate this matter. So, could you please write to me about these charges.” He handed me a copy of Ronald’s letter and the procedure for dealing with student complaints. “We will have to have a formal disciplinary meeting to discuss this once I have your response,” he continued. “Of course, you have the right to bring a representative to the meeting. Perhaps you might want to bring Penelope … but, if you do, please tell her to leave her cat at home.”

I was outraged. I took a lot of trouble with all my research students, but Ronald had been particularly favoured. To say I didn’t know anything about his topic was absurd. I had written a well-received book on the subject. I had introduced him to the people who I thought would be useful to his future career. I even arranged for him to be in touch with the Archbishop of Cannonbury. He had had lengthy supervisions. I had read and commented on all his work in detail. I thought back to the glimpse I had had of him and Lisa leaving Catnip’s house. It was clear that this affair was being engineered to get rid of me and to give Mr Gold’s future son-in-law my job.

When I got back to my room, I phoned Penelope. There was no answer, so I called Morris O’Murphy in London. His secretary told me he was driving to Birmingham; when I reached him, he was having lunch at a pub en route. I explained what had happened and asked what I should do. He told me to put together every dealing with Ronald including his application to do research, references, written work and any records of our meetings. He stressed that it was vital I could demonstrate that I had been a conscientious supervisor. I arranged to meet him on Thursday at the Acropolis for lunch. “Don’t worry,” he said.
“As long as you have plenty of evidence, there shouldn’t be a problem.”

Early on Thursday I took the train to London. I promised Victoria I would do some shopping for her at Fortnum and Mason: I was to choose a hamper as a thank you present for Vanessa and James and arrange for it to be delivered. In addition, she was anxious for me to buy presents for our hosts in Sweetpea. I found a bottle of vintage port for the Billstones, and a large jar of Welsh honey for Thomas Jefferson Porpoise. I also purchased a box of marron glacé as a little surprise gift for Victoria. I arrived at the Acropolis at one.

Morris was waiting for me in the hall. “Bloody hell,” he said pointing at the porter. “He said I couldn’t come in without a tie, so he gave me one.” Morris was wearing corduroy trousers and a checked sports coat with a green flannel shirt. The striped red and gold Acropolis tie looked most peculiar with them.

“Sorry, Morris. I should have warned you.”

On the way into the dining room, I saw Charles with a group of Commonwealth bishops hovering around the lavatories. We waved at each other. As we sat at our table, Morris looked around the room. “Grandest place I’ve ever been,” he said. “Can’t imagine what I’m doing here. Bugger!” he observed, “Isn’t that the Vice-Chancellor of Wellington?” In the corner by the window, there was a group of elderly men in grey suits. I had never seen any of them before.

“I don’t know him,” I said.

“I do,” Morris said. “Had a fight with him two months ago about a professor who was accused of trying to seduce the department secretary. Damn stupid thing to do. Anyway, the whole thing died down.”

“What happened?” I asked.

“The guy got a very good deal: five years’ enhancement to his salary, plus sixty per cent part-time teaching for three years. More than he deserved! Nearly killed me!”

We ordered the set meal, and Morris opened up his briefcase, took out a file and put his mobile phone on the table. “Morris,” I said. “I’m afraid we can’t look at anything dealing with my case in the dining room.”