The Campus Trilogy (30 page)

It was many years since I had been to a church service, but I had attended Westminster Abbey frequently when I was a boy at school. It all came back to me. First a hymn was announced. Judith directed Patricia Parham to the right place. Imogen, who liked music and had a good voice, sung along with the choir. I spent the four verses of ‘Praise my Soul the King of Heaven’
looking
round to see who else I recognised in the congregation. Since the seating was arranged in two tiers facing each other with an aisle down the middle, I had a view of almost everyone.

Mrs Sloth was very prominent. I could hear her singing from where I was standing. She was looking in the direction of Chantry-Pigg and she had an enthralled expression on her face. On the same bench was Mrs Flanagan. She appeared even smaller than I remembered and was muffled up in an enormous coat with a high collar. Although it was gloomy in the chapel, she was wearing dark glasses.

Wanda Catnip and the elderly woman were sitting opposite. Wanda was briskly following the service, but the older lady looked bewildered and uncomfortable. The liturgy was
obviously
unfamiliar to her. It was suitable that there was no sign of Registrar Sloth or Joy Pickles. Christianity may have been
founded for the benefit of sinners, but at least a small modicum of repentance is required of the lost sheep. However, I was
surprised
that neither Pilkington nor his wife was in the
congregation
. I wondered if he were making a protest against the elegant young men in their blue robes, but in fact I was being unfair. I heard later that he was the regular organist at St Sebastian’s Methodist Church and thus had a previous engagement.

One figure whom I could not place was a quietly attractive woman in her late forties. She was wearing a sober brown coat and she sang the hymns and followed the prayers. She had an interesting face and I was sure I had never seen her before. I
wondered
who she was. The Provost intoned a few prayers; we sang another hymn (‘Dear Lord and Father of Mankind, Forgive our Foolish Ways!’) and then Flanagan bounced up to the lecturn. He could barely be seen over the top, but plenty of him was visible around the sides. In his Australian accent he boomed out several verses from the Epistle to the Corinthians about the importance of love. He informed us that love is patient and kind and is not jealous or boastful. It does not insist on its own way and is not irritable or resentful. I felt these were admirable sentiments for a Vice-Chancellor.

Then we came to the important business of the day. The Provost, as Visitor of the University, inducted Chantry-Pigg into the chaplaincy. First there was a great deal of prancing up and down by the precious young men and more swinging of censers. Magnus coughed ostentatiously and announced loudly, ‘Not good for my allergies! I shall be complaining to the Health and Safety Committee!’ Then the Provost got to his feet to introduce us to our new chaplain. It was clear that our Visitor was very impressed by Chantry-Pigg. We heard how he (the Provost) had had a long, fruitful relationship with the dear Archbishop of Cannonbury, but that our new chaplain’s connection was (if
possible
) even longer and more fruitful. He (Chantry-Pigg) had come to us by special archiepiscopal recommendation and we were all hugely privileged to have him. After repeating this piece of
intelligence
several times, the Provost sat down and Chantry-Pigg climbed the steps into the pulpit.

I am afraid my memory of the sermon is a little hazy. It
certainly
went on for a very long time and I must have gone to sleep
in the middle. He started off by telling us that his uncle, the Reverend the Honourable Hugh Chantry Pigg, always said that the world was a wedding. I could not imagine what he meant by this; the world seems to me to be totally unlike a marriage. While I was puzzling it out, I must have missed a vital connection. The next thing I heard was that a university should be part of the
eternal
dance at the heart of things. (What dance? Where?). Then, somehow, we were on the subject of virginity. Chantry-Pigg believed that virginity is very dear to God and he issued some warnings, more in sorrow than in anger, to those who were less than chaste in their day-to-day lives. I thought it a pity that Pilkington was not here to hear this. It would have cheered him up about the effete young men. Then there was a great chunk which I missed and when I resurfaced we were back on the
university
being a wedding. Then the preacher embarked on some remarks about the importance of confession, the sacraments and faithful regularity in the spiritual life. Finally our attention was directed to a series of pamphlets on Anglican vestments of which our new chaplain was proud to be the author.

When he sat down, accompanied by yet more puffs of incense in every direction, it turned out that we were nowhere near the end. The Provost informed us that our new chaplain had
specially
requested that his first sevice should be a celebration of Holy Communion. We were severely cautioned that only
baptised
and confirmed members of the Church should participate. I thought this a little odd since at least half of the congregation were not paid-up members of what Chantry-Pigg persisted in calling ‘Our Beloved Church of England’ and the chapel was meant to be a symbol of college unity. However, there was no choice. We were stuck. Magnus sighed lustily at intervals and started playing noughts-and-crosses with himself in the back of his hymn book. I tried to think about the next chapter in my book and Imogen fidgeted. It seemed forever before we had the final blessing from the Provost, a rendering of ‘The King of Love my Shepherd Is’, another final blessing from Chantry-Pigg, the
procession
in reverse, several more blasts of incense and, at last, blessed freedom.

However, as we stepped out into the hall, we were offered coffee. Judith was smiling and holding out a cup to Magnus.
Magnus did not know what to do. As he said afterwards, it was like being offered a goblet of wine by Lucrezia Borgia. But it was clear that Patricia and Judith were determined to show Christian charity. I left them to it and went to introduce myself to Mrs Flanagan. She looked lost and frightened, but she smiled through her dark glasses at me and we had a pleasant chat about how she was settling into her new house. Then there was a shout of ‘Helga’. Flanagan wanted to introduce her to someone and she scurried away like a frightened rabbit.

I looked around for someone else to talk to. Imogen was deep in conversation with the old lady who had accompanied Wanda Catnip. My daughter had always been good at drawing out
people
and the two were obviously enjoying each other’s company. I noticed Mrs Sloth standing on the outskirts of the group of young men surrounding Chantry-Pigg. She looked enraptured and I was reluctant to disturb her. Nearby the Provost and the Vice-Chancellor were discussing a meeting in London they were both due to attend. This was obviously not a conversation for me.

Then I caught sight of the attractive woman I had seen in the chapel. She was standing by herself against the wall sipping her coffee and taking in the whole scene. I went up to her and said, ‘I noticed you at the service. I’m Felix Glass. Are you a new
member
of the university?’

She looked at me, smiled and said in an attractive French accent, ‘No! I look after Crispin, your new chaplain.’

It all made sense. Here was the housekeeper! I was fascinated. ‘Oh yes,’ I said, ‘I heard that he had bought a house in St Sebastian’s. I imagine he’s not very domestic.’

She laughed. ‘No, he’s not! And the new house is a lot to
manage
.’

‘Oh?’ I was curious. ‘I did hear you were living in Winchester Close.’ Winchester Close was a new development. The houses were very expensive indeed and two firms of builders had gone bankrupt in constructing them.

‘Yes!’ she said. She did not elaborate further.

‘How lovely!’ I tried to be encouraging. ‘Now you must tell me your name so we know each other when we meet again.’

‘I’m Danielle Bousset.’

‘Bousset?’ I said. I was very fond of French cinema and there was a well-known director of that name. ‘Like Jacques Bousset, the director of
En Bon Point?
’

She looked at me strangely. ‘Yes. It is spelled the same way … Please excuse me, I think Crispin needs his lunch.’ And with that she strode purposefully away.

It was time to go. I gathered up Magnus and Imogen and we walked home. Emma was ready for us. The table was laid in the new conservatory, I had recently mowed the grass, and the sun was shining. The garden was full of the autumn flowers that Emma had planted last spring. Magnus and I sat at the table while Imogen served wine from an old silver claret jug which my grandparents had brought with them from Germany.

‘Damn silly service! Went on forever!’ Magnus announced. He produced a small box of chocolates which he presented to Emma with a flourish. Emma thanked him and remarked how sensible it was that chocolate manufacturers had at last realised it was not essential to put cellophane around their boxes.

Magnus looked embarrassed. ‘Actually, that was me! I was rather hungry last night so I helped myself to one or two from the top layer.’ It was true. The top layer was half empty.

‘Never mind,’ said Emma, ‘I’m sure the rest will be delicious.’

Imogen embarked on a description of her visit to the Women’s Refuge the previous day. Magnus looked bored but he cheered up when Emma’s bacon and laverbread pancakes were served. This was followed by exquisite Welsh lamb with caramelised onions, mint sauce, braised artichokes, cabbage boiled in milk and crisply fried potatoes. ‘This is utterly scrumptious,’ he said as he eagerly accepted a second helping. ‘Food wasn’t like this when I went on holiday to Wales with my aunt. It rained the whole time and we lived off brown windsor soup and fish and chips.’

Interrupting Imogen’s account of how women can be bullied by their partners, Magnus recounted how in his first year at Winchester he had been tormented by a sixth-former named Corkran. This bully had subsequetly gone into merchant
banking
and Magnus had read in the
Sunday Times
that he had recently been imprisoned for money laundering in Colombia. ‘And no more than he deserves!’ declared Magnus.

‘Bullying doesn’t always involve physical violence,’ Imogen
explained. ‘Emotional bullying is often the worst kind.’ She frowned. ‘There was an old lady at the service who is clearly being bullied. She’s not being hit or anything like that, but she’s still miserable. She has her own little house and plenty of friends in Leeds. She wants to sell it and move into a care home, but her daughter won’t let her. She insisted that she came down to be looked after in St Sebastian’s. She kept on saying how kind it was of Wanda – that’s the daughter’s name – and that she shouldn’t grumble, but she’s clearly miserable. I was just about to give her some tips about how to claim extra allowances and home-helps and things like that, but her daughter interrupted us. She was horrible. She ignored me and spoke to her mother as if she were a tiresome three-year-old. I felt really sorry for the old dear.’

Magnus and I looked at each other. ‘That’s Wanda Catnip, the former Dean,’ I said.

‘It wasn’t anything like that at Winchester,’ Magnus
ruminated
. ‘Corkran just kicked me about the study. Damn painful it was too.’

‘With women, it’s often the insults that hurt most,’ Imogen said.

‘I wouldn’t have cared if Corkran had insulted me – even when I was thirteen, I knew he was a stupid brute and would get his come-uppance in the end. It was just miserable while it lasted.’

Pudding consisted of a steamed treacle confection with a
special
Welsh ice cream followed by a selection of Welsh cheeses. Magnus loved it. He finished up the cheese tray and looked bloated. He could not even manage one of his own chocolates. ‘Can’t eat a thing more,’ he said. ‘The best meal I’ve had since I don’t know when … better even than the midnight feast on the
Queen Christina
. You’re a genius, Emma. Quite a tonic after all that smoke and nonsense in the chapel.’

Over the next few weeks, I was very busy teaching my
philosophy
courses. My only obvious problem (apart from chronic
overwork
) was that I kept receiving emails from Joy Pickles, the Registrar’s paramour in the Admissions Office, informing me that potential philosophy students were intending to come to the university and would come to see me for interview. Each time I
emailed
back that there would be no undergraduate philosophy courses in the future so there was no point in the students
visiting
. After the fourth of Joy’s communications, I was tempted to be quite sharp with her, but I remembered in time that she had a powerful protector. So I realised that discretion was the better part of valour and I sent her another emolliant email.

I continued to persevere with my theological colleagues and tried to have lunch with them every day in the Senior Common Room. I did not feel I was making much progress. They were polite, but distant. Magnus, on the other hand, was a delight. He was as morose as ever. He insisted that his Hebrew class was a nightmare. The students either didn’t come or failed to do any work. They had disregarded his constant maxim, ‘Regular
Hebrew, possible success. Irregular Hebrew, no success at all!’ ‘But,’ as he said, ‘what can you expect? They don’t learn
anything
sensible in the schools! No Latin or Greek or proper
mathematics
. It’s just sex education and social studies, whatever they may be!’

One afternoon he phoned and asked me to join him for tea. Only a few academics were in the Senior Common Room when I arrived; Magnus was sitting in the corner reading
The Times
. He had already ordered tea with lemon for both of us and a plate of tea-cakes. ‘Just got this in the post,’ he said, handing me a large white envelope. It was an At Home invitation from the
Vice-Chancello
r. It was decorated with a picture of a large Germanic cuckoo and contained the details of a buffet party. ‘I was hoping you’ve got one too and you could give me a lift.’

As it happened, Emma and I had received a similar summons and I said I was happy to pick him up from his flat. ‘I can’t wait to see Cuckoos’ Roost,’ he ruminated as he munched through his tea-cakes. ‘I thought it might be interesting to go past our revered new chaplain’s house on Winchester Close. It’s on the way. I’m curious to know how a poor friar can afford that kind of property.’

‘Perhaps his Order has bought it for him as an investment?’ I suggested.

‘Humph!’ said Magnus.

That evening I told Emma about Flanagan’s invitation and Magnus’s reaction. ‘I really don’t want to go,’ I said. ‘But Magnus thinks we’ve got to. He says we can’t miss the cuckoo display. Apparently they all pop out at once from all sides.’

‘I think we do have to go, Felix. After all he’s your new boss. Maybe we’ll have a German dinner. I’ll be interested to see what she cooks.’

‘And Magnus wants to go by way of Chantry-Pigg’s new house,’ I continued. ‘He’s curious to know how he can afford to live in Winchester Close.’

My wife laughed. She also was fascinated by questions of money and how people spent it.

On the appointed evening, we picked up Magnus as arranged. He looked as if he had already had a considerable amount to drink. With much hilarity the three of us drove by Winchester
Close. Only four of the six houses in the development were finished. The other two were still shells. However, they were all enormous, four-square, wooden-framed with mock lathe and plaster. There was a large notice at the entrance to the close advertising them as ‘Homes of Distinction … Discreet Opulence’. They were described as having six bedrooms (all with ensuite bathrooms), four reception rooms, dream kitchens and landscaped grounds. A jacuzzi came as standard. Nothing so
vulgar
as a price was mentioned. Apart from one light in an upstairs window, the one belonging to Chantry-Pigg was dark. No doubt our chaplain was out performing some errand of mercy, while his housekeeper was taking a well-earned rest in front of the television.

Cars were already lined up in front of Flanagan’s house, which was to be found in another prosperous suburb just outside St Sebastian’s. There was a large, dark oak porch with a carved wooden sign in German script on which was written
Cuckoos’
Roost
. I pressed the doorbell. Instead of the usual harsh ring, there was an imitation cuckoo sound. A waitress from the university opened the door and admitted us. After removing our coats, we were ushered into a large drawing room full of people. All the furniture was of dark heavy wood. There were long, brown velvet curtains and an indefineable air of
Middle-European
gloom. It reminded me of my grandparents’ old
mansion
flat in Battersea. Over the draped mantlepiece was a massive cuckoo clock with frolicking rabbits and there were several black and white portrait photographs of elderly over-weight ladies and gentlemen in heavy silver frames. In one corner of the room was a table with a white embroidered cloth; it was laid out with glasses of sparkling white wine.

We all took a glass, and made our way through the throng. The drawing room opened into a dining room; on one wall there were at least ten cuckoo clocks of different sizes. I looked at my watch. It was nearly eight o’clock. I wondered what would
happen
when the clock struck the hour. On another embroidered cloth on a second black oak table were arranged plates of food including smoked duck, large black sausages, selections of salami, a huge joint of salted beef and an array of pickled
vegetables
. There were also potato pancakes with apple sauce, and
loaves of pumpernickle and rye bread. I looked at Emma who was transfixed. She had just embarked on a series of BBC
programmes
about European cuisine, and I wondered if Mrs Flanagan’s cooking was going to become her next project.

Just before eight Flanagan clinked a wine glass, cleared his throat, and welcomed us all. Helga stood beside him. She was heavily made up, but not wearing her dark glasses. I noticed that her wrist was in a small cast. As he finished, cuckoo clocks began striking the hour throughout the house, accompanied by the racuous sound of cuckoos. I looked at Magnus who rolled his eyes. Several guests began to giggle. When it was over, Flanagan smiled. ‘Our birds are singing their welcome, too,’ he said, as he signalled for us to form a queue for the buffet.

Emma and I stood next to several academics whom I barely knew. However, there were a couple of theologians and Registrar Sloth and Joy Pickles were of the party. I was thankful that I had not been too critical of the Admissions Office. Clearly Flanagan had arbitrarily divided up the entire St Sebastian’s staff, and we happened to be in one of the first groups. Emma wanted to try everything and filled her plate; she then went off to have a discussion about food with our hostess. I was more
modest
. I took a couple of sausages, several potato pancakes, apple sauce and two slices of rye bread. I made my way to a deep-green velvet sofa opposite a large carved oak court cupboard and addressed myself to my plate. Flanagan went around the room speaking to his guests. Magnus had disappeared.

I was soon being monopolised by the Flanagans’ German
terrier
. He indicated that he was very partial to potato pancakes. I surreptitiously gave him a few bits, but I was interrupted by Flanagan himself who pushed the dog away none too gently with his foot. The dog snarled and cowered. Then he sat down heavily beside me. I looked around desperately for Emma, but she was engrossed in her conversation with Helga. The Vice-Chancellor was clearly determined to have a word, so there was no escape.

‘I hear you’re the last full-time philosopher in the university,’ he said.

I nodded.

‘There’s something I want to talk to you about,’ he began. ‘You know there’s all this talk in the news about building
super-casinos. The more I read about it, the more convinced I am that St Sebastian’s needs to be at the cutting-edge. I know there’s a demand, whatever all the prudes and killjoys say.’

I had a wild thought that our new leader was about to close down the university and convert all its buildings into some glitzy gambling den. However, he was still speaking. ‘The legislation will get through all right. The government needs the tax revenue and no one really cares what a few old women of both sexes say about the evils of gambling. So we need to think how it will
benefit
the university and I’ve hit on just the right idea. We’ll be world leaders. We’re going to have a degree in Casino Management.’

I could hardly believe my ears. St Sebastian’s had just
dismantled
the Philosophy department. The administration had
indicated
its contempt for the immortal ideas of Plato, Aristotle, Aquinas, Descartes, Hume, Kant, Hegel and all the rest of them. But it was quite prepared to include casino management as a
serious
academic discipline.

‘Vice-Chancellor,’ I said hesitatingly, ‘I think you’ve got the wrong person. My field is philosophy. I don’t know anything about gambling.’

Flanagan put his hand reassuringly on my shoulder. ‘I didn’t think you would,’ he said, in the manner of a kindly uncle. His Australian accent was very pronounced. ‘But I’m sure you know a great deal about the philosophy of chance?’

I was surprised at his perspicacity. ‘I suppose I do know
something
. In fact, I did Mathematics for my first degree at Cambridge and my undergraduate dissertation was on probability and chance. But I gave that up long ago. Probably one of the lecturers in statistics could be more helpful to you now.’

Flanagan patted my shoulder. ‘You see mate, you’re just the bloke I need. You know all the stuff, but you’re far enough away from it to get some persepective.’

‘Well actually,’ I said, anxious to pass the buck, ‘I do know someone who is an expert on blackjack. You may have heard of Harry Gilbert – he was the Professor of Christian Ethics here until about two years ago. Well, he’s now a Distinguished Professor at Sweetpea College in Virgina. Anyway, his father-
in-law
, Sir William Dormouse, is very knowledgable about card
games. He won a fortune in Las Vegas. I met him several weeks ago when I visited Harry and his wife. Sir William was there too, but his own house is on the Welsh borders.’

‘A Sir, eh …’ Flanagan was impressed.

‘He’s a baronet. It was one of his ancestors who did something distinguished …’

One of the waitresses came over and refilled the
Vice-Chancellor’
s glass as I told him about Sir Willliam’s methods and successes. ‘You might want to talk to him,’ I continued. ‘I doubt if he knows anything about the philosophy of chance, but he’s certainly quite an expert at card-counting. He’d also give you an interesting insight as to what the customers in a casino want. I’m afraid I’ve never even been inside one.’

‘We must change that,’ boomed Flanagan. He took a pen out of his inside pocket and wrote down Harry’s email number on a napkin. I told him that I had Sir William’s home address and would send it to him, if he thought it would be useful. I warned him, however, that Sir William, although very spry, was well over eighty.

‘I’ll be in touch. Thanks for this,’ the Vice-Chancellor said as he stood up, accidently scattering drops of wine all over my trousers. As it fizzed, he took a large, white handkerchief out of his pocket, and handed it to me. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I get
over-excited
.’ And he strode off to speak to Joy Pickles and the Registrar who were standing hand-in-hand next to a grand piano near the French windows.

The following Monday, I received an email from the
Vice-Chancellor
summoning me to a meeting in his office. He said that he had been in touch with Sir William. He wanted to speak to me about arranging a visit to the castle in Shropshire. Pilkington would also be present, he wrote, since the new plans involved the Theology department. I could not imagine what Flanagan had in mind.

On the day of the meeting, I arrived in the department early. In addition to several letters in my pigeonhole, there was a daunting pile of essays from my first-year philosophy students. I went to my office and made a cup of coffee in the kitchen nearby. It appeared that I was the first member of the academic staff to
arrive, but I heard Wendy Morehouse in the corridor talking to the cleaner.

Mrs Brush was initially complaining about the mess that had been left in the kitchen. Wendy was trying to soothe her. She promised she would send out an email, reminding everyone that they should wash up their own coffee mugs. Then the subject of the Sloth–Pickles household was raised. Apparently Mrs Brush used to ‘do’ for the Registrar and Mrs Sloth. That had been bad enough. Mrs Sloth left everything everywhere, but at least the mess could be dusted around. However, the new house was something else. ‘I’ve never seen anything like that, Joy!’ came the strident tones of our cleaning lady. ‘Cigarette ends in the face cream, dirty tissues all over the floor and the sink blocked with God-knows-what! Jumped-up little trollop! She needs her
bottom
smacked!’

Just before nine I walked over to the Old Building. In the
Vice-Chancellor’s
parking space there was a vast, silver
Mercedes-Ben
z – presumably a perk from the rich German father-in-law. As I entered the hallway, I almost bumped into Crispin
Chantry-Pigg
. He was still dressed in his brown habit and was surrounded by his usual entourage of androgynous young men. As I passed, the Reverend Brother let out a braying laugh and his youthful disciples giggled. No one took any notice of me.

The Vice-Chancellor’s office was on the floor above the chapel. Flanagan’s secretary was sitting at her desk when I arrived. She smiled and told me that the Vice-Chancellor was waiting to see me. Pilkington, she said, had arrived several
minutes
earlier. Surprisingly the room had not been redecorated for Flanagan. I remembered it from the days of his predecessor. The walls were a pale green, not my favourite colour, and there were acres of emerald green carpet on the floor. In the corner was a Victorian long-case clock. There was also a highly polished reproduction Sheraton table surrounded by dining chairs. However, there was one obvious new addition. Behind the
Vice-Chancellor’s
Victorian pedestal desk was a large cuckoo clock which struck the hour as I entered.