The Campus Trilogy (4 page)

Wanda made notes while Pilkington looked on as Penelope stressed my innocence. It all seemed so unfair. There was no substance to these damaging charges, and yet I was compelled to endure this ordeal. My truthfulness was being challenged. Both Pilkington and Bossyboots were junior colleagues. I was senior to them in the university hierarchy. This seemed to make no difference. They sat in judgment because they were my line managers. Penelope was right. There was simply no proof to support Lisa's claim. Without witnesses, she would fail. But it was unpleasant and I felt that I should not have to endure it. After all I was Professor of Christian Ethics and a clergyman. Presumably I had some integrity.

When Penelope finished, Pilkington put his papers into his briefcase and adjourned the meeting. Before we left, he announced that he would discuss the matter with the
Vice-Chancellor
and report back to me in the next few days. He stressed the confidentially of our discussion. He and Wanda remained behind; Penelope and I walked to the Senior Common Room for coffee.

“What do you think?” I asked.

“It was OK. I think they got the point that there is no evidence to support your student's claim. There is the unfortunate aspect of her propositioning you. I wonder if you should have left that bit out.”

“But she did try to make a pass at me.”

“‘I know. But they wouldn't know. You could have simply said she made the whole thing up. I know you're an expert on morality. You probably don't think you should tell lies. But sometimes it's necessary. After all, no one saw anything. You're a senior member of the university and they'd be more likely to believe you than a second-year undergraduate. My point is that it would have looked better.”

Standing outside the Old College, Penelope took out a packet of cigarettes and her lighter. “Got to have a smoke before we go in,” she said. “Damn university won't let anyone smoke inside. The entire place is littered with these 'No Smoking' notices. Want one?”

“No thanks,” I said. “You're sure it's going to be OK?” I asked.

“Don't worry about it,” she said. “You'll be all right.
Barraclough
knows the rules. He won't want a strike on his hands. And he hates bad publicity. But, I have to tell you Harry, I feel instinctively that the Dean and your department head have got it in for you. If I were you, I'd look out.”

Magnus was in his usual place drinking coffee and reading
The Times
. I ordered coffee and a blueberry muffin and joined him. “Well, how did it go?” he asked.

“Could have been worse,” I said. “I probably shouldn't have mentioned that she propositioned me.”

Magnus looked amused. “How did Wanda take that?”

“Not well, I thought. Pilkington was very inquisitorial …”

“He must have loved it.”

“Penelope was silent until the end. But then she told them there was no substance to the case, no evidence. I think they got the point. She thinks both Bossyboots and Pilkington have some kind of grudge against me. Do you think she's right?”

“Of course she is. You're a professor. They know you've got a private income. Your room is full of antiques. You live in a country house. You're married to a baronet's daughter. Come on, Harry, be realistic.”

“This makes a difference?”

Magnus shook his head. “Pilks lives in a suburban bungalow with his dowdy wife. Bossyboots never married. What do you expect?”

“Are you sure, Magnus? Victoria always tries to be nice to them.”

“You may be an expert on ethics,” he said, “but you really don't know anything about people.”

The next evening I went to the Acropolis, my club in London. My father had persuaded some friends to propose me while I was still a young lecturer. The price of the subscription was monstrous, but, as I tried to justify it to Victoria, she belonged to the Women's Institute and it was my only real extravagance.

I was there to attend the monthly meeting of a small
discussion
group. The members all belonged to the club and we gathered together first for dinner and then went up to the library where one of us read a paper. That evening the topic was: Astrophysics and the Beginning of the Universe. Most of those who belonged to this venerable group were retired; I was one of the younger members. The speaker, Sir Robert Manson, was the Emeritus Professor of Astronomy at Oxford who had won the Nobel Prize over twenty years ago. After about thirty minutes most were asleep – some snored loudly. By the end I was the only one awake. After our meeting, I went to the drawing room with the Bishop of Bosworth who also belonged to the group. More than thirty years ago we had been postgraduate students together. I had never expected him to rise to such a lofty position in the Church – at Cambridge we had rowed in the same boat, and he had been a jolly, beer-drinking sportsman.

“Charles,” I said, as we sat down in green leather
armchairs
, “I've got a problem.”

“What about a drink?” he asked.

“Not for me,” I said. “But go ahead.”

Charles walked over to the bar and ordered a double whiskey. He returned carrying a dish of olives. “This is rather
embarrassing
,” I said. “I've been accused of sexual harassment by a student …”

“Oh dear,” he said.

“Well, it is bad. But there's nothing to it. One of my students propositioned me and I ignored her.”

“Dear, oh dear,” Charles said, shaking his head. “It could happen to any of us.”

“Anyway, she said I kissed her and tried to fondle her breasts. It's a complete lie, but of course the university had to have an inquisition about it.”

“And what happened?”

“Well, it's my word against hers, so there's nothing they can do, but I'm really upset by it.”

“And this happened while other people were looking on?”

“Don't be ridiculous. It was in my office. No one was there except us.”

“Not even the cleaner?”

“No, Charles. Please be serious. I've had a meeting with the Dean and my Head of Department. They want to investigate.”

“Nothing to worry about there,” Charles said as he ate his olives. “Similar thing happened to me once. I was a curate. One of my parishioners did much the same. She said she needed pastoral help. Actually what she wanted was an affair. I told her no. She was furious and went to the Bishop. There was an official interview. But there wasn't any proof. So the whole thing was dropped. But I did get a warning: the Bishop told me never to interview a woman on my own. Rather good advice. I've always followed it.”

“So you don't think anything will happen?”

“Not in the end … I say, George,” Charles called out to the waiter who was hovering nearby, “can I have another one of these? Sure you won't join me?” he asked. “That talk rather stultified the brain. I've got a meeting of the Mothers' Union tomorrow, and I've got to have a clear head.”

On the way home from London, I sat near two students from St Sebastian's – they were wearing university scarves. One had curly brown hair and wore an earring in her nose. The other had a shaved head with about four silver earrings in one ear. I had never seen them before, and they didn't pay any attention to me. They were slightly drunk and were
shrieking
about something that had happened to one of the new students. I was curious to hear what they were saying. “So she took off her sweater,” the brunette exclaimed, “and he
just stood there. But then he jumped on her and grabbed her tits.”

They roared with laughter. Could they be talking about Lisa and me? This was horrifying. “Anyway,” she continued, “this old guy tried to seduce her, and she complained to the Student Union President. So there's going to be some kind of trial.” I got up from my seat, went to another carriage, and opened
The Spectator
. I couldn't concentrate. Clearly news of this disaster had circulated amongst the undergraduates. Perhaps my students had already heard.

The next morning I received a summons from Pilkington, inviting me to come to his office. I phoned Penelope to ask if she could come as well, but she wasn't in. When I arrived, Pilkington was already behind his desk; Wanda arrived several minutes later looking flustered. We both sat in armchairs as Pilkington began. He was more informally dressed than at the previous meeting on Monday: he was wearing a grey sports jacket and a red tie with green spots. Wanda took paper out of her handbag and began making notes.

“I've just been with the Vice-Chancellor,” Pilkington began, “and we have come to the view that it is best if this student complaint goes no further. There is no evidence, and it's simply your word against hers.” I sighed. Magnus and Penelope were right. This was a relief. “But,” Pilkington went on, “we're very perturbed by the situation. It's vitally important that students are happy here, and student complaints like this are harmful.”

“But,” I interjected, “I didn't do anything wrong …”

“That's not the point, Harry,” Pilkington interrupted. “
Accusations
like this get around, and it does no one any good. The VC was adamant about this. We must be careful not to alienate student opinion. I understand he has been on the phone several times with the Student Union President; he has had to reassure him that this allegation will be investigated properly. Students are now asked to fill out Student Satisfaction Surveys, and this case may do us a lot of harm. The
Times Higher Educational
Supplement
is going to rank universities on the basis of student satisfaction, and we want to do as well as we can.”

“Look, Harry,” Wanda said, her Northern accent was very pronounced. “As Dean I want to protect all the departments
from any kind of criticism. We've all got to be careful. In the future, you should make sure that you don't see any female undergraduate or postgraduate on her own. Take someone with you. Take John if you need to. But don't do this alone. We can't afford to have another incident like this.”

“And, Harry,” Pilkington broke in, “we don't want any more formal complaints. Be careful in the future …”

“Speaking of the future,” Wanda interrupted, “can I ask you about the letter that the VC sent all staff over fifty-five? You did get it, didn't you?”

“You mean the one about early retirement?” I replied. “I did. But I threw it away. It's simply out of the question.”

“Are you sure?” Wanda inquired. “Of course we don't want you to leave. But, it's important that younger members of the department have opportunities to take on senior roles. Are you sure?”

“I'm sure, Wanda. I don't want to retire. I'm far too young. I like my job, and I plan to stay at least until the official retirement age.”

Wanda looked unconvinced. “There's a lot you could do without university responsibilities,” she said. “You'd have time to do research without teaching and you could avoid
administrative
duties – though you seem to be good at that anyway. You and Victoria could travel. You should think about it.”

“I have. But I'm not ready to go,” I said. The meeting had come to a close, and I stood up to leave.

“Well, Harry,” Pilkington said, “let's get back to work.” I wandered out of the Head of Department's office in a confused state. At least the ordeal was over quickly. Lisa was not going to be a problem. Rumours would die down and life would continue. But I did have a sinking feeling about this last meeting. Had they agreed with the VC that I should go? Had this issue become a means of getting rid of me? As a senior professor, I was one of the most costly members of staff. I earned more than anyone else in the department. My leaving would be a major saving, and the money could be used for other purposes.

When I got back to my office, I phoned Penelope to tell her about the meeting. She listened patiently, but cut in when I told her about Pilkington's and Wanda's comments about
early retirement. “This isn't good,” she declared. “They're not supposed to mention anything like this in the context of a disciplinary matter. The union doesn't like it. We've never agreed to anything like this. Anyway, keep me informed.”

When I put the phone down, I heard a knock on my door. It was Magnus carrying more shopping. “Has anything happened yet?” he asked.

“It won't go any further. I've just come back from seeing Pilkington. There isn't enough proof.”

“That's what I told you,” he said, as he slumped into my wing armchair. “Shall we celebrate?” He took two cans of Budweiser beer out of his bags and a chocolate sponge cake. “Got this at the Farmers' Market cake sale in town,” he announced. He took a pen out of his top pocket, attempted to cut the cake with it dropping crumbs on my carpet in the process and handed me a piece.

“Thanks Magnus,” I said, getting out a couple of glasses. “This is very good of you.”

“Don't mention it. I didn't have breakfast, and this is my favourite,” he said, as he stuffed cake into his mouth. “Most delicious!”

I was relieved to see that Lisa had disappeared from my first-year course on ethics. To my amazement, however, it appeared that a great many students from other departments had switched courses and were now enrolled in my class. There were even postgraduate students who asked if they could audit the course. Overnight the group was so large that another lecture room had to be found. Instead of being the target of suspicion, I had suddenly become a curiosity. Women students far outnumbered the men. When I told Victoria, she was amused.

“The Don Juan of the Theology Department!” she mocked.

“This isn’t funny,” I said. “Pilks and Bossyboots were horrid. They told me I had to be careful. They had even discussed the matter with the Vice-Chancellor. Really, Victoria, you’ve got to be more serious.”

“Well,” she said, “you must admit it is ironic. You’re charged with sexual harassment. As a result, Women are lining up to get a glimpse of the St Sebastian’s stud.”

“This is no joke,” I said.

“Come on Harry, Lisa’s done you a favour. The students have always liked you, but this is the icing on the cake.”

While the students gossiped about Lisa’s allegation, St
Sebastian
’s staff were preoccupied by the introduction of a new pay scale. Several years previously it was agreed by the unions and university management throughout Britain that academics would be shifted to a new pay structure based on roles within the institution. Each university was free to devise its own scheme, but it had to conform to national standards.

Wanda sent out a note to everyone requesting that they attend a meeting where this would be discussed. Magnus and I joined over a hundred staff assembled in the Great Hall to listen to a talk by the Director of Personnel. Julie Hummer was a beaky, large woman with curly grey hair; she wore an eau-
de-nil
two-piece suit with a cream blouse. Throughout a complex PowerPoint presentation, she explained how it would work. In essence, we were all to be transferred from the previous, age-based pay scale to a new scale based on responsibilities.

Afterwards Magnus accompanied me back to my room. “That was about the stupidest thing I ever heard,” he
complained
.

“The PowerPoint presentation was rather good,” I objected.

“Look, Harry. The whole idea is ludicrous – people being paid for what they actually do … You must be joking!”

“Well,” I said, “there is a logic to it.”

“But it’s impossible to implement. Senior staff dump all the awful jobs on lecturers. They’re the ones who do all the work. The whole system’s based on exploitation.”

“But, Magnus,” I said, “you don’t do any administration. You’ve refused for years.”

“That’s why I never get promoted,” he sulked.

“But, don’t you see? It’s a vicious cycle. You won’t take on administrative roles because you think professors or readers or senior lecturers should do the work. And so, you don’t get promoted because only those who put up with the drudgery do. Then, when they get the senior positions, they promptly give up all administration. The new system does seem a bit fairer.”
I handed Magnus a cup of coffee and a chocolate digestive biscuit.

“Well,” he said, “things may not be exactly looking up for you with this new system.”

“Oh?” I said.

“Julie said salaries would be based on roles. But you’re not Dean or Head of Department. So, they might conclude that you don’t earn your professorial salary. And they’ll either make you Dean or Head, or reduce your pay packet.”

“Do you think they might?” This aspect of the matter had not occurred to me.

“With Barraclough,” Magnus mused, “anything is possible.”

The next day I had a phone call from a Rabbi Wally Wachman whom I had met at a conference of the Council of Christians and Jews in London a year previously. I did not know him well, so I was surprised by his call. He was the senior rabbi at the largest synagogue in Finchley. A graduate of London University, he later gained a PhD from Manchester in medieval Jewish
philosophy
. I had a vague recollection of him as a stout jolly person with a flowing grey beard. His PhD had been in Maimonidean ethics, and he had given a paper about medical issues.

“You may not remember me,” the rabbi said, as he
introduced
himself on the phone, “We spoke a year ago at a CCJ Conference in London. I gave a very dull paper on Maimonides and you asked a very sensible question.”

“Of course I remember. It was a most interesting paper,” I said. “How are you, Wally?”

“I don’t want to interrupt you, but I thought I should get in touch. The Golds are members of my congregation,” he explained. “And they have come to see me about their daughter Lisa, who is one of your students.”

I had a sinking feeling. He went on. “They told me that their daughter Lisa has had some trouble at your university.”

“Trouble of her own making. I’m afraid she told a pack of lies about me,” I said.

“Oh dear! Anyway, I’m sure you are distressed about it. The point is that something similar happened here several years ago at the synagogue. It didn’t involve me. It was my assistant,
Rabbi Fine, who had the problem. Lisa was in his confirmation class. She had misbehaved and Fine talked to her afterwards. Apparently they had a most disagreeable conversation about her attitude. She is not what I would describe as an industrious student. But then – and this is why I called you – she accused him of trying to seduce her. Of course, there were no grounds for this accusation. Rabbi Fine is a most moral and upright chap. He’s married with three children. But when Lisa complained, I had to listen. The president of the congregation, who is a close business associate of the Golds, intervened, and Rabbi Fine was dismissed. Mercifully, I managed to get him a job in Florida where he has rather a good congregation. Even though I am sure he was innocent, the president insisted he had to go.”

“But surely there are employment laws?” I said.

“Yes. But if he had stayed, we would have lost the Golds, and in any case rumours get around. No smoke without fire. That sort of thing. Fine would never have got another job in the British Jewish community. The Golds are big donors – though I have to say they tend to promise more than they deliver. At that stage they had pledged a sizeable contribution to the building fund. The president had to take action, otherwise we would have lost the money. We’re in the middle of a big building programme, and we are dependent on the goodwill of individual donors. It isn’t always easy and, alas, sometimes principles go out of the window.”

“Thank goodness universities aren’t like that.”

“Oh,” he said. “I thought they were going the same way. Well, I felt you might want to know. Lisa’s no doubt got you into trouble.”

“Well, frankly she has. But I think it’s all right. I’ve been told that it was my word against hers, and I do have tenure. But, it’s terrible about your assistant. How has he taken it?”

“He’s done very well. They’re lucky to have him. But he did have to start again in the States. I hear from him occasionally. I understand he’s now doing his own radio programme, and is taking a course in psychological counselling. But the point is, I didn’t want you to feel bad about your difficulties with Lisa. I thought knowing about Rabbi Fine might help.”

“Wally … Can I ask a favour? You wouldn’t be willing to testify to all this, in case there are problems?”

There was a long pause. “Can’t really,” he replied. “The Golds would be furious if they knew I was telling you this, and my job would be on the line if I put it in writing. I hope you’ll understand.”

The call ended with mutual expressions of esteem. Later in the afternoon, I went to the library. On the way in I ran into the Registrar, Dr Robert Sloth, and his wife. After finishing a PhD on John Galsworthy at Goldsmiths’ College, London, he joined the Registry at the University of Southampton, where he met and married his wife, Jenny, who was working in the library. Dr Sloth had a large office next door to the Vice-Chancellor and reputedly spent every afternoon asleep on a sofa. He always snored at university meetings except when he was in the chair. He was clutching a stack of books. I waved. He smiled. I glanced at the titles as he passed. One of the books had a photograph of a university on the cover: it was entitled
Risk Management
in Higher Education
.

It was my turn to take chapel services for the week. Since Barraclough had ruled that the university could no longer afford a full-time chaplain, the chapel services were conducted by a rota of part-timers. Magnus and I met up for a drink before Evensong. I told him about my encounter with the Registrar.

“Risk management is the new buzz word,” Magnus announced. “I read about it in the
Times Higher
last week.” I had a vague recollection of the article, but I had skipped over it to look at the reviews, just in case someone had written about my last book.

“‘Universities can’t be too careful,” Magnus said. “But you can be sure Sloth will never understand it. He’s incapable of finishing anything he starts. How big was the book?”

“Looked quite thick,” I said.

“Well … Sloth by name and sloth by nature. He really should get some sort of concession for procrastination,”
Magnus
announced. “Didn’t his doctor say he had some kind of disease?”

“Narcolepsy,” I said.

“Oh. I thought it was necrophilia,” Magnus smiled.

For the rest of the week there was no mention of Lisa. However, the following Tuesday there was an official envelope marked Private and Confidential in my pigeonhole. It was from the
Vice-Chancellor
. I was summoned to a meeting later in the day in his office. He said that Robert Sloth would be accompanying him. I immediately phoned his secretary to ask what it was about. She said she didn’t know. I asked if I should bring a union representative. She wasn’t sure but would check. Before lunch I received an email from Barraclough stating that it would be an informal meeting, and therefore there was no need to bring someone from the union. But he didn’t say what it was about. To be on the safe side, I phoned Penelope. She told me not to worry, but if anything emerged that concerned the union I should phone back.

At two o’clock I knocked on the Vice-Chancellor’s door. He was sitting at his large mahogany desk; the Registrar was in a leather armchair opposite. Barraclough’s office was located on the floor above the chapel overlooking the cathedral. The room had been freshly painted a sickly pale green and there were acres of emerald green carpet on the floor. In the corner of the room was a Victorian long-case clock. There was a highly polished reproduction Sheraton dining table in the corner surrounded by dining chairs – this was used for official meetings as well as interviews of candidates for jobs. Over ten years ago I had been interviewed here for the Chair of Christian Ethics. Without standing, he gestured that I should sit next to the Registrar. He was holding a letter in his hand.

“Harry,” the VC began, “I just had this letter from the father of one of your students: Lisa Gold.” The Registrar sighed. He looked as if he was about to go to sleep. “I have heard about this matter from Wanda,” Barraclough continued, “and I know what happened. I understand this girl’s allegation has been dealt with …”

“Look,” I interrupted, “I’m sorry. But Lisa is deranged. I understand from her rabbi that she’s done this before.”

Barraclough looked puzzled. “You’ve spoken to her rabbi?” he asked.

“He phoned me. But the point is – I’m completely innocent.”

“That’s neither here nor there. I want you to hear what her father has written to me.” He read it aloud.

Sloth shook his head. “We could have done with the money.”

“So, Harry, you see what we are facing. The loss of a substantial donation,” continued the VC.

“But …” I stammered.

“Now, Harry,” Barraclough was not going to let the matter go, “there is no question of taking action here. But I do want to discuss the letter I sent you some time ago about early retirement. I have had no reply. Are you sure this is something you wouldn’t like to consider? You are reaching retirement age, and we could make you a good offer.”

“’Look,” I said. “I’m sixty, and that gives me five more years. As a matter of fact, the government is considering abolishing retirement age altogether because of the European Directive outlawing age discrimination. So I might be able to continue after sixty-five. I have no intention of leaving at present.”

The Registrar sighed again. Undeterred, the VC went on: “No one denies you have done a great deal for the university in the time you’ve been here. We are all most grateful for your contribution. But most academics retire by the age of sixty-two. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to have more free time, liberated from teaching and marking essays?”