The Campus Trilogy (52 page)

I took a deep breath. The university had abandoned degrees in Philosophy and Chemistry. We were now concentrating on Travel and Tourism, Professional Golf and Brewing Technology. How much further would things go?

‘Diversification's the name of the game,' Flanagan announced. ‘Got to keep moving. Can't stand still. Anyway, Brewing
Technology
's only one area. We're having a degree in Professional Golf. Travel and Tourism will take off, mark my words. We're already snowed under with applications for Celebrity Studies and we're only just beginning to tap the surface of Film, Dance and Drama.' The Vice-Chancellor loosened his tie and leant towards me. I could smell the gin on his breath.

‘Now Felix,' he said. ‘I haven't forgotten that hot water bottle.'

I felt bewildered. What had hot water bottles to do with Celebrity Studies? Flanagan, however, was in full flow. ‘I'm going to reorganise the university. My predecessor's scheme was hopelessly uneconomic. We're going to group all the subjects together under three faculties. There'll be Social Science, Humanities and, most important of all, Entertainment. I want you to be the Faculty Head of Entertainment.'

‘Me?' I was astonished.

‘Oh yes.' Flanagan was very positive. ‘I've had my eye on you from the start. And I was quite right. You've become a bit of a celebrity yourself. A Hollywood film, and a bestselling novel! That certainly puts your colleagues in Theology in the shade.'

I tried to point out that the film was by no means a certainty, but Flanagan was not listening. ‘No buts!' he said. ‘I'm
appointing
you Head of the Entertainment Faculty. It'll be the largest of the three groups. To begin with it'll have Dance, Drama, Film, Professional Golf, Celebrity Studies, Brewing Technology and Travel and Tourism.'

‘What about Philosophy?' I asked quietly.

Flanagan paused for a moment and then he chuckled. ‘Why not? You'd get all your Research Assessment Exercise money and it'd pay for your salary for a few years. Theology won't be pleased to lose the loot, but too bad! But when the cash runs out, you've got to raise your own salary, mind.'

For the first time I was beginning to feel that early retirement was looking like an attractive option. I made one last attempt. ‘But Vice-Chancellor, you don't know what I'm like as an
administrator
. Casino Management was not exactly the greatest
success
.'

‘Not your fault, mate, not your fault.' He took out his mobile telephone and put it on the table beside him. ‘Sorry about this, don't want to interrupt our talk, but I'm expecting a call from Florida. Another old orphanage mate, Leroy Jones. Now he had a hell of a time with those monks. He's half West Indian and they really did treat him like dirt.'

‘What happened to him?' I asked.

‘Well … it's quite a story. He ran away from the farm when he was fourteen and the next thing we heard he'd stowed away on a ship going to America. Always did have lots of initiative did Leroy! He settled in Florida and he now owns a chain of dance studios all along the coast from Miami to Tallahassee. He calls them the Pussy Galore Clubs.'

‘Pussy Galore?' I asked.

Flanagan was dismissive, ‘After the James Bond heroine.'

I raised my eyebrows. I could think of another explanation. ‘Anyway,' he continued. ‘He wants his students to get degrees
and he's heard that St Sebastian's offers partnerships. That's what we're trying to arrange. He's always up very early in the morning. It's about seven in Florida and that's when he likes to call.'

At that moment the mobile on the table began to cuckoo in a manic fashion. Flanagan turned on the speaker phone and said, ‘Alf here.'

A deep voice with an African-American accent responded, ‘It's Leroy, mate. I've got some news for you, The partnership deal's sewn up. My share-holders are very keen. They're sure impressed with the notion of a degree in Artistic Dance. It sounds just fine! And they're prepared to finance the whole thing ….'

‘That's great!' said the Vice-Chancellor, giving me a wink. ‘Look, Leroy,' he grinned. ‘I've got the new Head of the Entertainment Faculty with me now. He'll be sure to see you right, won't you Felix?' I opened my mouth and closed it again.

‘That's terrific,' said Leroy. ‘Now there's just one thing. One of my shareholders raised a question. He's a boring old fart and went to somewhere like Harvard himself. He didn't think a
university
would take us on. You do understand we specialise in exotic dancing, don't you? We advertise it as artistic, but between you and me, it sure is exotic.'

Flanagan gave a great bellow of laughter ‘We're flexible, Leroy. That's the point of St Sebastian's. Our Entertainment Faculty offers all kinds of dance – ancient dance, modern dance, national dance, exotic dance. It's all the same to us. Tell them that St Sebastian's is delighted to take the Pussy Galore Clubs on board. Tell them …,' the Vice-Chancellor hesitated. Then his voice boomed across the airways to Florida. ‘Tell them at St Sebastian's we positively specialise in Exotic Dance. Tell them… at St Sebastian's University … Striptease That's Us!'

[Accompanying this article were three photographs. The first was of a pretty young woman in gown and mortar-board
receiving
her degree certificate from a distinguished-looking
clergyman
in academic dress. The second showed the same young person, but this time she was dressed in a tight black satin
costume
with nipped-in waist, high leather boots and a fearsome whip. The third was more fuzzy. It seemed to be of a middle-aged gentleman with very few clothes on. He was cavorting with the girl and, on close inspection, appeared to be the same clergyman as in the first photograph.]

There is a sense of outrage in the normally quiet precincts of St Sebastian’s Cathedral this morning. The Very Reverend Doctor Cyril Woodcock, the Provost of one of the most beautiful
cathedrals
in the south of England, has been exposed as a liar and a hypocrite.

Woodcock is well-known in ecclesiastical circles as an able administrator and one of the best preachers in the Church of
England. Only last year he was a finalist in a competition run by our rival newspaper, its annual ‘
Times
Preacher of the Year Competition.’ According to our Religious Affairs Correspondent, ‘Woodcock was the favourite, but he was pipped at the post by a rather inspiring nun!’

Today he is not thinking about sermons. Last week, your
Sunday Enquirer
was approached by the luscious Miss Susie Strict. The severe and beautiful Miss Strict regularly offers her attractions through a well-known escort agency in London. ‘We only advertise in the best places and our services do not come cheap,’ she insisted. ‘I wouldn’t like you to think that the Provost would use any old girl. My agency charges at least two hundred pounds for an hour of my time …’

This did not protect the unfortunate cleric. He did not know that only six months ago, Miss Strict, under her real name of Julia Patterson, graduated with an Upper Second degree in Dance and Drama from the local University of St Sebastian’s. The Provost, as the Visitor of the University, conducted the Degree Ceremony and gave her her diploma at a public ritual in front of hundreds.

‘My mum and dad and little brother came down from Wolverhampton to see me graduate in my academic costume. They were really, really proud that I’d done so well. I shook the Provost’s hand. There’s a photo of me. He gave me my certificate and afterwards we all had lunch. My family were thrilled to see the Provost close to. My mum said that he looked a very holy man and he gave an ever so funny speech at the ceremony,’ Miss Strict told the
Enquirer
.

‘It wasn’t easy to get a regular job after I graduated and of course I had a lot of student debts. So I thought I’d just help out a bit at the agency and they introduced me to some very nice men. Some of them were very generous and I soon had my own
personal
client list. One of the other girls got ill and she asked me to take over one of her regulars. She said he turned up about once a month and was no trouble at all. I just had to spend forty minutes or so spanking his bottom.’

‘Well of course I recognised the Provost straight away. I could hardly keep a straight face and I almost told him the truth once I got his trousers off. But I didn’t want to spoil the old fellow’s fun
so I kept quiet. But then I thought that it really wasn’t right. There he was pretending to be ever so holy, saying prayers and giving sermons and all that and all the time he was cheating on his wife and visiting escort agencies. So I took a few photos of him with my mobile phone. He was so excited he never noticed and the next day I contacted the
Sunday Enquirer
.’

This is yet another blow for the Church of England. Cyril Woodcock was tipped for the very highest office in the Church. He is not the first clergyman in his family. His father was for many years Archdeacon of Wellington while his grandfather was Bishop of Basutuland in the 1920s. There was never a breath of scandal about either of them. Cyril Woodcock himself was until today a respected member of the British establishment. He was said to be heading for great things. There was even talk that he might some day become Archbishop of Cannonbury. Yet like so many of his fellow vicars, he just could not resist temptation …

After a tip-off early yesterday, Woodcock and his wife were seen driving their car out of the St Sebastian’s cathedral precincts, heading for an unknown destination. Mrs Woodcock looked stony-faced. Through its press secretary, the cathedral has announced that the Provost has tendered his resignation. The official communiqué declares, ‘He wishes to spend more time concentrating on his family and his academic work. He has an important book on the Holy Spirit to write.’ When your Editor confronted the cathedral spokesman on the telephone with the true facts, the Press Secretary stuttered that it was all most
regrettable
. ‘It could happen to any of us …’ he said and put the receiver down. Since then the telephone has been permanently on the answering machine …

For an in-depth interview and further pictures of the saucy Miss Strict, please turn to our double-page feature on pages 6 and 7.

It was a beautiful day in mid-October. The leaves had turned and were gently drifting off the trees as we drove through rural Shropshire. Ahead of us were the misty Welsh hills and the air felt fresh and clean. My wife and I were on our way to visit my
father-in-
law, Sir William Dormouse. Although nearly ninety, the old man continued to live in the castle of his ancestors on the Welsh border. Victoria was excited. She was devoted to her father and this was the countryside in which she had grown up. In a real sense she was returning to her roots.

I had just retired. For many years, I had taught Christian ethics at St Sebastian’s University, but three years ago I had been offered a retirement job at a small liberal arts college in the United States. I, Professor Harry Gilbert, had held the Thomas Jefferson Porpoise Distinguished Chair of Theology at Sweetpea College, Virginia. It had been a successful and happy experience, but we had increasingly missed our friends and relations in England. In particular, Victoria was worried about her father. By any standard he was not young and the family felt that the time had come for him to hand over the castle to his eldest son Billy
and to move into some sort of sheltered accommodation. Even Sir William was becoming adjusted to the idea. It was time for us to come home.

Billy and his wife Selina had invited us to stay at the castle for several weeks. The idea was that Victoria would help her
sister-in-
law find a suitable place for the old man and, at the same time, we would identify a nice retirement cottage for ourselves. We still owned our old house near St Sebastian’s. It had been locked up while we were in America, but someone had come in weekly to clean and mow the lawn. Most of our furniture was still there and it would have been possible to move straight back. But Victoria was Sir William’s only daughter and she wanted to be nearer her father. We felt that our life in St Sebastian’s belonged to the past. We wanted something new. So we planned to stay on the Welsh border while we went house-hunting.

We passed through lush green valleys dotted with sheep and stark black and white Shropshire buildings. Eventually, we came upon a huge pair of stone gates surmounted by two Welsh
dragons
. We drove through them down a long gravelled drive. I could remember a time, not so long ago, when the drive was almost impassable with puddles and potholes, but now it was smooth and well-maintained with a fresh layer of gravel. We also passed a series of cottages. They all looked prosperous and in good repair. Then, in the distance, we had our first glimpse of the vast grey castle with its Regency turrets and romantic battlements which was my wife’s ancestral home. A Welsh flag was flying from the roof and crows and ravens were circulating round the towers, outlined against the cool October sky.

Sir William was waiting for us, standing on the porch wearing a disreputable greenish tweed jacket; he was leaning on his cane with the silver dormouse handle and he looked frail. Bess, his elderly black and white sheep dog, was lying at his feet. Victoria was out of the car and hugging her father almost before I had stopped. I moved more slowly, checking that the handbrake was on properly. Leaving the luggage in the boot, I followed the pair of them, Victoria clinging to her father’s arm, through the stone passages to the Great Hall.

I was astonished to discover that we were actually going to sit there rather than in Sir William’s usual lair of the old
housekeeper’s room. In the past, despite the magnificent
fireplace
and the enormous portraits of distinguished Dormouse forebears, the hall had been uninhabitable. An icy blast straight from the North Pole had blown continuously through the
ill-fitting
lead of the stone mullion windows. It seemed as if every draught in Shropshire would gather round the feet of
unfortunate
visitors and even the faithful Bess would sneak away from her master for the comfort of the housekeeper’s old
wood-burning
stove.

All this had changed while we were in Virginia. Sir William had always been a highly competitive games-player. In his later years he had become interested in blackjack and after studying a scientific treatise on the game which I had bought him as a Christmas present, he had become an expert. Admittedly his first foray in casino gambling had been a fiasco. He had arrived in Las Vegas prepared to enjoy himself and break the bank. Unfortunately his skills were quickly spotted. He had been hauled into the manager’s office and informed in unmistakeable terms that he was no longer welcome in any of the Nevada casinos.

He had been more circumspect on his next attempt. Wearing a large stetson hat and a Hawaiian shirt, he and Victoria had
presented
themselves in one of the smaller Atlantic City casinos. Sir William made a point of losing a little money, before he settled down to what he described as ‘an amazingly lucky run … Eh? What!’ He repeated this performance in a different establishment every night for a fortnight with highly gratifying results. He was substantiallythermo-technology richer when he came home than when he arrived and the money had been spent on an extensive programme of repair. The roof no longer leaked; the walls had been repointed; the furniture had been mended and the final glory was a magnificent new central heating system … a master-piece of
thermo-technology
. For the first time in its history, it was possible to be warm in every room in the castle.

We both chorused our approval of the new arrangements. Victoria practised sitting on every chair in the room and was astonished to find that not a single one collapsed under her. Then, while she was taken on a tour to admire the mysteries of the new boiler-room, I went back to the car to gather together
our things. Lugging two heavy suitcases, I followed Victoria and Sir William down a long corridor where blood-stained Welsh and English flags were suspended high over our heads. We then went up a flight of stairs and down another long passage until we found ourselves at the other end of the building. We mounted a further stone circular staircase up to a landing at the top. This was the guest room that looked across open fields. The bathroom was down the hall. We had stayed there many times before, but we could not believe how comfortable it had become. There was a new carpet and the curtains actually covered the windows. The bed was soft, the water was hot and there was a cashmere
blanket
draped over an armchair. It might have been a boutique hotel.

Our long day had included a transatlantic flight. Bleary-eyed, Victoria and I unpacked and made our way back. We found Sir William in his usual cosy study, the old housekeeper’s room. Billy and Selina were already occupying the main part of the castle, but they had gone off to Selina’s brother’s cottage in Tuscany for a short autumn holiday. Sir William’s room looked much as usual. The furniture was old and battered. There was a mahogany long case clock with a brass face and one wall was lined with books. In front of the stove was my father-in-law’s special leather armchair and an old brown velvet sofa. Both looked as if they had been clawed continuously by the family cat since the time of the first baronet back in the early 1800s.

Sir William himself had taken off his tattered tweed coat and had put on a musty maroon smoking jacket. To our amazement he was sitting on a new seat. It was a strange contraption covered with an unfortunate knobbly brown tweed. ‘Saw this in
The Field
,’ he announced. ‘Damned clever! Just what I need now I’m getting a bit stiff!’ He pushed down on a lever and the chair thrust him upright. ‘That’s the ticket!’ he muttered. ‘D’you want a go?’

‘Really, Daddy,’ Victoria sniggered. ‘It’s hideous.’

‘Just the thing to get me up,’ he said. ‘I’m not as young as I once was, you know.’

Victoria poured sherry from an old crystal decanter with a tarnished silver label as Sir William complained about his
various
physical ailments. ‘Memory’s bad too,’ he sighed. ‘Can’t
remember the proper method for blackjack any more. I keep
forgetting
to count the cards. Damn and blast – whole system’s shot to pieces! Maybe I ought to go into a home. I don’t want to be a nuisance to Billy and Selina.’

‘I’m sure you’re not,’ Victoria said.

As usual, Bess was stretched out by Sir William’s feet. He stroked her ears as he announced, ‘if I do go somewhere, they’ve got to take us both. I’m not leaving my dog behind. We’re a
package
deal,’

‘We’ll find you a nice place,’ Victoria said. ‘That’s one of the reasons we’ve come down to Shropshire. Harry and I want to buy a new house anyway and we want you to be somewhere near. We’ll see if we can find you somewhere warm and
comfortable
with nice nubile young nurses to look after you… and of course Bess will go with you.’

‘You’re a good girl!’ conceded Sir William. He pressed the lever for the umpteenth time and enjoyed the sensation of being evicted from his armchair.

Over the next fortnight we looked at several cottages, but none was exactly right. Then, when Selina and Billy returned home, we took a break ourselves and drove down to the Cotswolds for the weekend. One of Victoria’s school friends, Vanessa
Mandril-Fortescue
and her husband James lived just outside Upper Buttercup in a charming Georgian double-fronted house and Victoria was eager to see them again.

Several years ago James had retired from his job in the City and was doing some part-time consultancy. When we arrived on the Saturday afternoon, he was sitting under a large magnolia tree wearing old flannel trousers, a rumpled tweed jacket and a panama hat. He was speaking loudly into a mobile telephone about the drop in the stock market. Vanessa greeted us carrying a tray with a pretty tea pot, cups and a large chocolate cake. Sitting outside in the afternoon sun, Victoria looked longingly at the mellow stone cottage behind us. ‘Really Harry,’ she said, ‘we should have done this long ago.’

‘There’s a very pretty converted chapel for sale just outside the village,’ Vanessa said. ‘Just Harry’s kind of thing. There’s a
picture
of it in this week’s
Country Life
. Shall I get it?’

Vanessa and Victoria started talking about houses and James turned his attention to me. ‘So old boy,’ he said, putting his mobile in his top pocket, ‘you’ve finally retired. About time. I understand you made a packet at that college of yours in the States. Though you’ve never seemed to have much to worry about on that score. I wish I were in the same boat. This part-time consultancy job hasn’t been going so well this past year …’

James began a long ramble about the difficulties of the
monetary
world, the dangers of recession and the catastrophic fall in the market. I had always found financial affairs paralysingly
boring
and, after our drive down and the excellent chocolate cake, was having difficulty staying awake. Happily, my host did not seem to notice. Then, in the middle of James’s lament about the unpredictable behaviour of the Nikkei index, my mobile
telephone
rang. I woke with a start, reached into my inner pocket and mumbled ‘Hullo …’

To my astonishment, it was a call from the Archbishop of Cannonbury’s chaplain. He apologised for disturbing me and said he had been given my number by Sir William. ‘Professor Gilbert,’ he said, ‘the Archbishop has something he would like to ask you about rather urgently. He wonders if you might be free to come to his club, the Acropolis, on Monday at about four for tea.’

‘For tea?’

‘He’s due to go there after giving a speech about
homosexuality
in the House of Lords.’

‘We’ve just arrived in the Cotswolds,’ I said. ‘But yes, that would be all right. Can you give me some idea what it’s about?’

‘I don’t think I can go into detail,’ he said. ‘But there seems to be a problem at St Sebastian’s. And the Archbishop wants to talk to you about it.’

‘Right,’ I said, ‘I’ll be there.’

Not surprisingly, I was curious about this call. I had known the Archbishop since we had been students together at Cambridge. We still exchanged Christmas cards, but we seldom met. Although we were both ordained clergymen, I had chosen an academic career while he had risen to dizzy heights in the established Church. I wondered what he could possibly want to consult me about. Still St Sebastian’s was my old stomping ground. Perhaps there was some problem with the university.

We had a delightful couple of days in the Cotswolds with our old friends. Then on the Monday, when Victoria returned to Shropshire, I took the train from Upper Buttercup station to London. It was lunch-time and I ate some very nice smoked salmon sandwiches which Vanessa had packed up for me. I was surrounded by tweedy ladies going up to town to do some early Christmas shopping and a few serious businessmen talking urgently into their mobile telephones. Opposite me was a smartly-dressed young woman with dyed blonde hair. Her
fingernails
were painted a shocking pink and she was reading a copy of the
Daily Recorder
. I could not help but notice that on the front cover was a picture of a scantily dressed young woman brandishing a very large whip. Underneath was the headline: ‘MISS STRICT STRIKES BACK’.

When the woman left the train at Reading, she disposed of the newspaper in the luggage rack. No one seemed to be looking so I took it down and prepared to enjoy whatever scandal was being reported. I have to admit that even I was a little disconcerted. It turned out that young Miss Strict was a graduate of St Sebastian’s University. When she left, she had amassed
considerable
debts which she decided to clear by taking a part-time job as a dominatrix at a high-class escort agency. (This was the
newspaper
’s description of her place of work, not mine.) I thought it was unfortunate that any new graduate was so burdened by debts that she would even contemplate taking up this sort of career. When I was at Cambridge, students had grants to finance their education.