The Campus Trilogy (69 page)

Again there was a small flutter of approval which this time had to be reproved by a court official. Then Sir William embarked on the nature of the crime. He was very breezy about it. ‘When all’s said and done, he was only keeping a bag for a friend. He was doing a favour for an old comrade. Of course he should have asked what was in the bag, but that’s the kind of mistake any of us could have made, Eh What!’

Then Sir William described how Kev had helped him with the Priory garden. ‘Splendid boy!’ he said. ‘I’d like to have had him in my regiment! He’d know how to fight for Queen and Country! Not like most of the lads you get nowadays!’ He pointing at Kev with his stick. ‘In my opinion we need more like him! He’s a good worker and a helpful young man! No point in sending him to prison! He’d be a damned nuisance there! We need him in the Priory garden.’

He turned to the judge. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘what it comes down to is we’re all counting on you to restore him to us. We are
expecting
to take him home with us in time for luncheon.’ He gave a brief salute and left the witness box. There was much nodding and a gentle ripple of applause from the public gallery.

Then there was a pause in the proceedings. Kev was led away and the judge repaired to his chambers. The rest of us took the lift upstairs to the canteen for coffee. Matron and I made everyone sit down and we organised the refreshments. The ladies all
clustered
round Sir William twittering their congratulations. He looked grim. ‘It all depends on that judge fella,’ he said. ‘I never did trust lawyers …’

Within half an hour, we were summoned back to the
courtroom
. Again we all stood as the judge entered. With considerable gravity he announced that he had listened carefully to what had been said. He recognised that the young man was a good worker and had earned considerable respect from the residents of his place of employment. However, receiving stolen goods was a very serious offence. For someone with Kevin’s record, a
custodial
sentence was to be expected.

He turned to Kev. ‘Therefore I have decided to sentence you to a year in prison…’

There was a gasp of horror from the public gallery and a small ‘Oh no!’ from Mrs Mackenzie … but the judge was still speaking.

‘… It will be suspended for two years! You have been
exceptionally
lucky to be given this extra chance. Make sure you do not betray the trust that has been placed in you.’ The ladies looked at each other. It took them a moment to understand what had been said. Then there was another spontaineous burst of clapping. The judge rose; the court officials bowed and the trial had come to an end.

Outside the courtroom Kev was mobbed by the old ladies. Matron invited Kev’s mother back to the Priory to have lunch with everyone. She looked awkward, but she was persuaded into the bus by Steve and Mrs Blenkensop. Sir William was the last to climb into the vehicle. ‘Excellent day’s work!’ he pronounced to Victoria. ‘Now the lads can get the bulbs planted for the autumn. Not a moment too soon in my opinion!’

The Funding Council consultants continued their visitation at the university. They were obviously doing a thorough job because they seemed to be interviewing literally everyone. But I heard nothing more. My own preoccupation was with the
cathedral
. Nearly every day I had a meeting with the Clerk of Works to discuss various options for dealing with our underground damp problems. Reg Blenkensop, as Canon-Treasurer, was often present on these occasions. He continued to ignore me, but he kept up an elaborate conversation with George Carpenter. As it happened, the Clerk of Works was also a rugby player although not at such an exalted level as Blenkensop. I had to endure a great deal of reminiscence about the glory days of the Oxford University team in the very early 1960s. In between, Reg was always complaining about the criminal expense of repairs. There were endless not-so-subtle hints that the only solution to our problems would be to impose admission charges. Secretly I was afraid he might be right.

One Monday morning I received a call from Penelope Ransome. She was a senior lecturer in Women’s Studies and
was the president of the trade union at St Sebastian’s. Several years previously, when I was facing my own difficulties at the university, she had given me considerable support in that
capacity
. I was delighted to hear from her. She said that there was an urgent matter which she needed to discuss with me. It could not wait so we arranged to meet at the Mitre at four o’clock that afternoon.

I arrived early and was greeted warmly by Miss Mildred and Miss Betty. There was a nice table free near the window, so I sat down and ordered tea for both of us. Several minutes after the cathedral clock had struck the hour, my guest arrived in a flurry. I think the Misses Monktons found her appearance
disconcerting
, but they were too well-bred to mention it. I had forgotten how Penelope presented herself. Dressed in grubby blue-jeans, Dr Martens boots and a phosphorescent lime green jumper, she was sporting large silver earrings. In the old days, her brownish hair had been streaked with emerald green, but now she was transformed into a dazzling platinum blonde. What had not changed was her mascara. It was still dotted all over her cheeks rather than on her eye-lashes.

I stood up when she entered. ‘Golly, Harry,’ she said, ‘I’ve never seen you in a dog-collar before. Am I supposed to call you Provost?’ Before I had a chance to reply, she flopped down in a chair and put a bag bulging with papers on the table. ‘What a day!’ she said.

Miss Mildred came over in her neat blue overall to ask if the new visitor would like anything to eat. Penelope looked hungrily towards the cake tray. ‘Are you having something?’ she asked.

I was quite stout enough, but I could see that this was an
occasion
when temptation was not going to be resisted. ‘Try the victoria sponge. It’s nectar and ambrosia,’ I said.

‘Oh goodie!’ said Penelope. ‘I need it. I really do.’

Miss Mildred brought over two very large slices of cake and Penelope and I smiled at each other. ‘What’s going on?’ I asked.

The words tumbled over each other. ‘Harry, you won’t believe what St Sebastian’s is like now. It’s completely changed since you left. We had the most appalling Vice-Chancellor. A complete nightmare! But anyway he’s gone – to the House of Lords would you believe! He’s become the opposition spokesman for higher
education. Honestly! One doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry! But the point is he’s left the place in a total shambles. When he was with us he went into partnership with the most dubious
institutions
. And he introduced degree programmes and diplomas in the most ridiculous subjects.’

‘I understand he attracted a lot of students,’ I observed mildly.

‘Oh he attracted them all right. He just didn’t educate them. It was a complete exercise in dumbing-down. The most popular undergraduate subject in the university now is Celebrity Studies! I ask you … Celebrity Studies! We even give university
certificates
in pole-dancing as part of the Artistic Dance programme. The place is littered with nubile models from a partnership
college
in Florida. No one bothers to check if the students can read or write. As long as they can writhe around a pole, they get their certificate. We’ve become a laughing stock in the world of higher education …’

‘But I believe it’s very lucrative …’ As a professional ethicist, I always try to see both sides of any question.

‘Oh yes … Flanagan knew how to make money. It was only by the grace of God we’re not educating half the American Mafia. He was determined to combine with some gambling establishment in Las Vegas and introduce a degree programme in casino management for them.’ I had heard about that particular scheme. To Victoria’s amusement, my father-in-law had been instrumental in its destruction.

‘Anyway,’ continued Penelope, ‘the whole thing is a total
disgrace
. None of these courses or partnerships have been properly vetted, and it appears that a team of investigators from the University Funding Council has just uncovered what’s going on …’

‘Yes, I know,’ I said. ‘I spoke to them on their first day. Sloth thought I would make a good impression.’

Penelope giggled. She remembered my conflicts with Registrar Sloth in the past. ‘Times have changed!’ she chortled.

‘So what’s going on?’ I asked again.

‘Well,’ said Penelope, ‘last week I was summoned to see the Registrar. That bald creep is now the Acting Vice-Chancellor, if you can believe it. You know what he’s like – most of the time he’s asleep. Well, he told me that all the idiotic partnerships that Flanagan set up are going to be shut down. Apparently they’re
illegal. There’s no justification for the British taxpayer
subsidising
fly-by-night colleges abroad. Well that seems reasonable to me. I just can’t understand how the old Vice-Chancellor got away with it as long as he did. But the upshot is that the
university
is faced with a loss of rather more than three million pounds every year.’

I felt slightly sick. ‘I heard this was happening. Why did he tell you?’ I asked.

‘I’m in charge of the union and he has to consult me if he wants any employment changes.’

‘I see,’ I said.

‘As Acting Vice-Chancellor,’ Penelope continued, ‘He’s now in charge of finances, and he showed me the budget for next year. Council had planned for a surplus of nearly half a million pounds. But without the partnerships, instead we’ll be in deficit by at least two and a half million. So Sloth wants to solve the situation by getting rid of staff. And he’s insisting that everything is sorted out by the end of April. He wanted the union to know what’s happening.’

‘By April? That’s impossible! We’re already in March.’

‘That’s what I told him. Anway, he said that the University Council is setting up a redundancy committee this week, and they’re planning to make at least ten people compulsorily
redundant
.’

‘Ten people compulsorily redundant!’ I echoed. ‘That’s
disgraceful
. Surely the union won’t stand for it.’

‘We won’t,’ Penelope reached into her bag and took out a large red looseleaf folder. I recognised it as the old Staff Handbook. I used to keep one in my desk. ‘They’re also planning to ignore the proper redundancy procedures,’ she said. ‘But we’re determined not to let them.’ She turned to the relevant pages in the handbook and read out the statutes regarding redundancy. ‘You see Harry,’ she explained, ‘the university is compelled to take every step
possible
to avoid compulsion. Compulsory redundancy is the absolutely final resort and is only acceptable if nothing else can be done.’

‘What are the alternatives?’ I asked.

‘Well,’ said Penelope, ‘first the Council is obliged to introduce a voluntary severance and an early retirement scheme. All
vacant posts should be frozen. If a vacancy does occur which really has to be filled, every effort must be made to appoint
someone
already on the staff from an area under threat. I explained all this to Sloth, but he just wouldn’t listen.’

‘But if it’s in the Staff Handbook …? Surely …’ I shook my head.

‘I took mine in with me when I went to see him. But he paid no attention. You know what he said? He insisted that the Staff Handbook hasn’t been revised recently and is therefore out of date. Consequently the statutes are irrelevant.’

‘That can’t be right,’ I said.

‘It isn’t. He’s the Registrar. It was his responsibility to update the handbook. He was meant to revise it and distribute the new versions round the staff at least once a year. But he didn’t. And anyway there aren’t any more in print. So after my meeting with Sloth, I checked it out with Morris O’Murphy – he’s still our regional union officer by the way – and he told me the statutes remain in force unless they’ve been replaced by new ones. He sent an email to Sloth explaining this in simple language, but inevitably he hasn’t received a reply.’

‘Appalling!’ I said.

‘Harry, you’re now the Visitor. That’s why I’ve come to you. We’re not asking you to act yet, but we want to keep you informed. Next week we’re going to have a union meeting to explain the situation to our members …’

As Penelope was speaking, her telephone rang. She delved in her pocket and took out a shiny pillar-box-red Blackberry. ‘It’s Morris,’ she said. ‘Do you want to speak to him?’

Several years ago at the end of my time at the university, Morris had also helped me through my ordeals. Both Victoria and I were very fond of him. We had kept up by Christmas card, but I had not spoken to him since I left the university. Penelope handed me her phone. ‘Hello, Morris,’ I said, ‘It’s Harry Gilbert!’

There was noisy shouting and rattling in the background. ‘Hi Harry. I heard from Penelope that you’re now Provost. Welcome back!’

‘I can barely hear you,’ I said.

‘I’m on the train going to a hearing in Manchester. I’m dealing with some fifty-eight-year-old professor who’s got involved with
one of his first-year students. Silly bugger! He denies the whole thing, but she kept tapes of their recent encounters. They’re quite sensational … Anyway, has Penelope filled you in?’

‘She just told me,’ I said.

‘Typical of your university. St Sebastian’s never follows the rules. They make up procedures as they go along. And it’s even worse now that that dozy ignoramus Robert Sloth is in charge. God help us all!’

‘Are you visiting St Sebastian’s? Why don’t you come and see us?’ I asked.

‘I’ll be there for a set of meetings on Thursday and Friday,’ he said.

‘Look, Morris. We’re living in the Provost’s House now and we’ve got plenty of room. Come and stay with us. I can’t take sides in this dispute. As the Visitor, I officially have to be neutral. But Victoria would love to see you.’

‘Are you sure? That’s really kind!’ There was a pause. ‘Look, Harry. Let me take you both to that splendid Indian restaurant we went to after your case. Wasn’t it called something like the Red Fort?’

‘The Taj Mahal,’ I said.

‘That’s the one! The union’ll pay and I’ll let you in to all the gory details of what your university is up to.’

I felt confident about asking people to stay. I knew Victoria was anxious to have visitors. Since the New Year, on and off, we had had workmen in the house. My wife was good at organisation and had planned the whole thing like a military operation. Because of her classes and because she did not want me disturbed, she had insisted that the drawing room, our bedroom and bathroom, the dining room, the hall and the study be painted while we were away for our summer holidays. But all the other bedrooms, bathrooms and domestic quarters were finished. They looked superb and I knew Victoria wanted to show off her handiwork.

Morris came on the appointed day. He had arrived in St Sebastian’s early in the afternoon and had been closeted for a couple of hours with Sloth and Penelope. Because of his
suitcases
, he took a taxi from the university to the precincts and, when he arrived at six o’clock, he was just polishing off a packet of crisps.

‘I needed some refreshment. That Registrar of yours hasn’t been improved by becoming Acting Vice-Chancellor. It’s hard to believe that anyone can be so dense!’ he remarked.

He and Victoria were delighted to see one another and he was most impressed by the Provost’s House. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘this
certainly
puts your old colleagues’ noses out of joint.’

Between the three of us, we manoeuvred his two suitcases, his bulging brief case and his two tatty carrier bags into the hall.

‘How long are you planning to stay, Morris?’ asked Victoria.

‘Oh these are just a few papers and my laptop … and the remains of one or two snacks. I’ve got to keep my strength up. I’ve had a very stressful couple of days …’ He stared round at all the portraits in the hall. ‘Who are all these geezers?’

‘They’re all former Provosts,’ I replied

‘Wow! … Are you going to have your picture painted too? They all look pretty solemn. You might liven them up a bit!’

‘No one’s suggested it yet,’ I admitted.

I took Morris to see his room. He was overwhelmed by the bathroom. Victoria had converted a neighbouring
dressing
-room and she had found an original Victorian bathroom suite in the cellar. The bath was enormous and the lavatory resembled a vast mahogany throne.

‘I’ll be too nervous to use it,’ said Morris. ‘I’ll feel as if the
butler
is about to come in at any moment …’

‘Don’t worry,’ I reassured him, ‘the poor old Church of England can’t even afford to provide us with a tweeny, let alone a butler.’

Morris was as stout as I remembered him, but this did not deter him from insisting we have what he referred to as ‘a slap up meal’ at the Taj Mahal. ‘Treat’s on me,’ he insisted. Before we went, Victoria provided him with a large mug of tea and a tin of biscuits and he disappeared into his room for an hour’s nap. ‘I need it after dealing with your Dr Sloth,’ he said.