The Campus Trilogy (71 page)

‘Really, Magnus. It wasn’t very responsible. This is going to do the university a lot of damage. And after all, it’s only a draft report. They may have nicer things to say in the final document when they make their recommendations.’

‘Now come on Harry,’ Magnus was unrepentant. ‘I know you’re a clergyman, but there’s no need to be stuffy. In the first place, St Sebastian’s deserves it. Sloth and that wife of his should have been put out to grass years ago. And secondly, you know as well as I do that if I hadn’t leaked the report, someone else on the Council would have done so. It was only a matter of time …’

Later in the day I had a phone call from Penelope Ransome. She sounded desperate. ‘Harry,’ she said. ‘There’s a ghastly article in the
Times Higher Ed
. today. It quotes the Funding Council’s draft report and says that the university management is
incompetent
and should be removed. Sloth summoned me to his office. He’s certain that I sent it to the newspaper because we’ve been complaining to him about the redundancy committee. I told him I didn’t know anything about it.’

‘Are you on Council?’ I asked. ‘How does he think you got hold of the report?’

‘He can’t think! You know that! He suggested that someone who’s on Council leaked it to me and then I contacted the journalists. It’s completely untrue. I didn’t even know the
consultants had finished at the university and the article is the first I knew of the report.’

‘I don’t think you’ve anything to worry about,’ I said. ‘If you didn’t leak the document, then there’s no way he can prove that you did.’

‘But he doesn’t accept my word for it. He can get my
user-name
and password from the Computing department and he’s going to read all my emails. He’s on a fishing expedition and he insists that he has the right to do this.’

‘Well obviously that’s a disgrace. Your emails are private to you and your correspondents, but if you haven’t spoken to
journalists
, there’s still not a problem.’

Penelope’s voice became increasingly shrill on the other end of the telephone. ‘There is, Harry. I wasn’t responsible for this leak, I promise you. And I have no idea who was. But as president of the local union, I’ve sent out confidential emails to members all year. And I’ve received confidential emails back. There’s been lots of correspondence about Sloth and his awful wife. And now he can read everything.’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘I can see that it’s embarrassing, but being rude about one’s employer is not an illegal act. Even if you said
something
positively libellous, you’ll always have the defence of truth. So there’s nothing he can do about it.’

‘I don’t trust him. He’s a vindictive bastard.’

I was curious. ‘Penelope, does he really have the right to do this? You haven’t committed a crime. I shouldn’t think you’re a terrorist. I’d be surprised if you were part of a giant paedophiliac network. Can he really get into your emails just because he
suspects
you of speaking to a journalist?’

She sounded almost tearful. ‘He says the article is putting the university into disrepute. That’s gross misconduct and
technically
a sacking offence. I phoned Morris just after I left Sloth. He’s preoccupied with a mediation case up in East Anglia, so I didn’t feel he was really concentrating. But he did say that
tapping
my emails was an illegal violation of my human rights. As Acting Vice-Chancellor, Sloth is only justified in breaking into staff correspondence if there’s a suspicion that they’ve acted
illegally
. Morris has contacted him informing him of this. But you know what he’s like. It won’t make any difference.’

I tried to be consoling. ‘Sloth himself is in trouble after the Quality Control’s investigation and now the Funding Council’s report. If the article is accurate, he can’t survive much longer. Someone will have to put him out of his misery. So I don’t think you need be too concerned. He has other things to worry about.’

‘But, Harry,’ wailed Penelope, ‘you’ve no idea what I wrote about him on my computer. Among other things, I described him as a bald moron. He won’t like it! Really he won’t!’

The following week, I had a telephone call from Morris O’Murphy. He insisted on seeing me urgently within the next few days. I had already committed myself to a talk-dinner at the Acropolis Club on the following Wednesday night. Through the winter and spring, various eminent members gave lectures on their specialist subjects and there was a communal dinner
beforehand
. The occasion was always pleasant and this time my old friend Charles, the Bishop of Bosworth, was to be in the hot seat. He was going to talk on ‘Whither the Church of England?’ I felt he would probably need all the support he could muster.

Since I was going up to London anyway, I arranged to catch an earlier train and I invited Morris to meet me for tea in the club. We arrived together at the Pall Mall entrance at four o’clock and I ushered him inside. This was not the first time I had entertained him at the Acropolis. Several years previously, when I was
having
my difficulties at St Sebastian’s, we had had lunch together in the ground floor dining room. Then we had discussed how to save my job. This time we were going to talk about how to save the university.

Morris had made an effort to conform to the rules. At our
previous
lunch, he had been astonished to discover that the club insisted on a jacket and a tie. Since he had arrived without either, he had had to be kitted out with a selection of leftover garments by the porters. The result was most peculiar. Today there were no problems. He was wearing dark green corduroy trousers, a green tweed sports coat and a natty green and white polka-dot tie. ‘Very elegant, Morris,’ I said smiling.

‘Like the boy scouts,’ he said, ‘you’ve got to be prepared for all eventualities in life!’

We went up the magnificent staircase. It was presided over by
a vast portrait of George IV who had been the reigning monarch when the club was founded. As we entered the drawing room, we passed a group of three women, all wearing dog-collars. They were chattering merrily together. ‘Did you see that?’ Morris asked as we sat down. ‘Are they allowed in here?’

‘One of them has to be a member,’ I said.

‘But did you notice that they’re all vicars?’ He was fascinated.

‘They’re like the Vicar of Dibley on the television – only there are three of them! I thought this was a gentlemen’s club …’

‘It was, but recently the members decided to admit ladies as well. After all, Morris, even the Acropolis believes in equal opportunities nowadays!’

‘Bugger me! I thought it was just a working men’s club, only posh!’ The waiter arrived to take our order. We asked for cups of tea and four toasted tea cakes. I thought Morris could probably eat three.

Almost before the attendant had left, he had reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a crumpled document. ‘This is what I wanted to talk to you about,’ he said.

‘I hate to tell you this,’ I said. ‘But we can’t look at any papers while we eat.’

‘What?’

‘It’s a club regulation.’

Morris looked around the room. ‘This place is a madhouse,’ he said. ‘You have to wear a jacket and a tie. You can’t look at documents when you eat. They won’t allow mobile telephones anywhere. The members fall asleep on the sofas. Some of them have probably been dead for a couple of days, but everyone is too polite to mention it. There are gaggles of lady-vicars nattering together and the place is haunted by a cat who takes the best chair.’ He sighed and put the papers back in his pocket.

Looking around the beautiful room, which was decorated in the original 1830s colour-scheme, I could see what he meant. The scene was very much as he described it. I had not noticed the cat, but he was indeed asleep on a large padded sofa next to a bust of Spinoza. According to the annual report, the club employed him to keep the mice down in the kitchens and cellars.
Not surprisingly, he preferred the conviviality of upstairs. Some of the chairs were very comfortable.

Morris had positioned himself near the window overlooking Pall Mall. ‘Look, Harry,’ he said, ‘I don’t want to break any of the sacred club rules, but do you think you might be able to read the material I brought if you hid it behind a newspaper?’

‘I’ll look at it as soon as we’ve eaten our tea cakes,’ I promised.

Morris rolled his eyes. ‘Damn strangest place I’ve ever been in!’ he pronounced.

Despite his complaints, Morris was enjoying himself. He drank three cups of tea and he commended the tea cakes. ‘I like them swimming in butter,’ he said. ‘These are excellent!’ I
wondered
if I should order another, but he was anxious to show me his document.

It turned out to be a further instalment of the paper Morris had shown me when he had stayed at the Provost’s House. This time the barrister went further. It was entitled: ‘Injunction against St Sebastian’s University’ and it ran to eight pages. There was no doubt that Sloth had seriously bungled the whole redundancy process. One university statute after another had been ignored or violated. On the final page the document concluded: ‘It is clear that the university has carried out the redundancy process in breach of its statutes and has acted
ultra vires
.’ The whole opinion was signed by one Solomon Shapiro QC, 12 Stone Chambers, Clements Inn.

It took me some time to unravel the impenetrable legal
language
and to understand the flow of the argument. Mr Shapiro was demonstrating that the university had acted against its own regulations and that therefore the whole process could be halted by an injunction in the High Court. Morris explained that the union was determined to follow this recommendation. This would prevent the Acting Vice-Chancellor continuing on his chosen path. ‘The union’s legal department has already approved taking out the injunction,’ Morris said, ‘and the Executive Committee has authorised it.’

‘How much is all this going to cost?’ I was familiar enough with the law to know that it was very expensive.

‘At least forty thousand pounds. Maybe more. Initially, we’ll seek an interim injunction. But then there has to be a hearing in
the High Court. All the barristers have to be paid. These things don’t come cheap.’

‘And the union’s prepared to spend that amount of money on St Sebastians?’ I was amazed.

‘We don’t approve of compulsory redundancy when there are alternatives,’ said Morris sanctimoniously. Then he laughed. ‘Actually, we hope that in the end it won’t be our money. It’ll be the university’s. They’re in the wrong and that means they’ll have to pay our costs. And this is just the beginning. If they’re stupid enough to contest it in the High Court – and I wouldn’t put anything past Sloth – the bill could run to hundreds of thousands of pounds.’

These sums of money made me nervous. ‘Is the union certain it will win?’ I asked.

‘Well you can never be absolutely sure. Our lawyers are pretty positive. There’s no doubt Sloth has made every mistake in the book, but there’s no certainity in this business. Sometimes you can come up against a rogue judge … but the odds are very much in our favour.’

I felt out of my depth. ‘Why are you telling me all this, Morris?’

‘Because you’re the university Visitor. It’s hard to believe it when you think of the situation you were in a few years ago. But now you’re a person of influence. We want you to tell Sloth not to challenge the action … or, better still, to draw back even before we go to the High Court.’

I took a deep breath. ‘Morris, I don’t think you understand. I’m the Visitor. That means I’m a sort of neutral
eminence grise
. I’m not even on the Council and this ultimately must be a Council decision …’

‘Oh come on Harry,’ Morris was impatient, ‘you know as well as I do that the St Sebastian’s Council has just been a rubber stamp for years. It got into the habit of doing whatever Flanagan told it. And it’ll do the same for Sloth. That’s why we need you to talk to him.’

It was an accurate assessment of the situation. I sighed. ‘What exactly is going to be my task?’ I asked.

Morris leaned forward in his seat. ‘It’s crazy, but the
injunction
will have to be served within the next few days. Sloth is
determined to make at least ten people redundant even before the Funding Council consultants issue their final report. So we’ve got to get in there first. It’s idiotic to sack people before the long-term plans for the university are known.’

I could see what he meant. It would be characteristic of Sloth to destroy the very departments which the Funding Council was in fact prepared to finance.

‘St Sebastian’s would also be mad to embark on a lengthy legal battle. But you know what Sloth is like. He never listens to
reason
. He won’t even understand how much it’s going to cost and if we try to tell him, he’ll go to sleep.’

‘I agree he’s very obstinate …,’ I began.

‘I know,’ Morris nodded. ‘That’s just the trouble. I’m sure he thinks that it doesn’t matter if he gets into a complicated legal fight with the union. If he understands it at all, he’s probably decided that if costs are awarded against St Sebastian’s, the
university
can find the money by making a few more people
redundant
. The next thing you know, there’ll be no academics left at all …’

I nodded. The scenario sounded all too probable.

‘So we’re counting on you, Harry,’ Morris continued. ‘You’ve got to pull him back from the brink before it’s too late …’

I felt despondant. I could see that I was not going to have an easy couple of months. Morris, however, had cheered up. As we were talking, he had noticed that the waiters were uncovering the drinks table nearby. He looked longingly towards it. ‘Harry,’ he said, ‘you don’t think we could have a little something from over there. I don’t want to be greedy, but I’ve had a hard day. And all those nuts and olives would be particularly tasty with a small glass of Scotch …’

Holy Week began in the first week of April. I was always glad to see Lent coming to an end. I do not have the temperament for penetential gloom – although I am well aware that there are plenty of things I should be gloomy and penetential about. Consequently, Palm Sunday always felt like the light at the end of the tunnel. To add to my relief, the Precentor had chosen a good mixture of traditional and modern hymns and anthems, all of which were appropriate to the festival.

It was a particularly busy time in the cathedral. In many ways St Sebastian’s was old-fashioned. Not only did we go through all the offices, but we had the full three hour service on Good Friday with seven meditations on the Words from the Cross. There was also a splendid rendering of Bach’s ‘St Matthew’s Passion’ in the evening, performed by the local choral society with professional soloists. Altogether it was an exhausting twenty-four hours. On the Saturday we had a midnight Easter Vigil and, of course, there was the full programme of services on Easter Day itself.

Because I was preoccupied, I rather lost track of what was happening at the university. Normally, I would have had regular
bulletins from Magnus, but he had gone to visit his Aunt Ursula in Norfolk. He was a little nervous about it as he was taking Miss Upton with him. The two ladies had got on very well together nearly forty years previously, but as Magnus observed, that was no guarantee of present harmony. However, as soon as the Easter Bank Holiday was over, we received a postcard from him. It showed a view of Norwich Cathedral. The message on the back was reassuring. Dorothy Upton and Ursula Hamilton still liked each other.

The classes on antiques began again the next week. This time, Victoria decided that the series would be about collecting old silver. It was a popular choice. The Secretary of the university Continuing Education department informed her that over a hundred people had registered. We realised it was going to be a tight squeeze in the drawing room. We asked the Clerk of Works to instruct his men to bring even more chairs than usual over from the cathedral.

The old people remained faithful. Matron herself professed an interest in the subject so it was she who drove the Priory party over in the minibus just before seven. The days were growing longer and it was still light when they all arrived. I had reserved a special parking place in front of the house, so that no one would have to walk too far. Even so, it was not easy to extract the
residents
with all their sticks and handbags. There were eight old people all together. As usual Sir William was accompanied by old Mrs Blenkensop, Mrs Germaney and Mrs Mackenzie. An
unexpected
and not altogether welcome addition was Pookie on a lead.

‘He’s a bit under the weather,’ explained Mrs Mackenzie as I helped her out of the bus. ‘I hope you don’t mind. I didn’t want to leave him by himself. He’ll be a good boy …’ Before I could find something civil to say in response, I noticed a ginger figure crouching nearby. Marmaduke had emerged from the
undergrowth
. He sounded like a kettle boiling over and it was clear that he was about to spring at the unfortunate poodle. With enormous presence of mind, Sir William, who was standing next to me, stepped forward and started hitting at the cat with his stick. Marmaduke was stopped in his tracks. He spat and he swore, but he realised that he was outmatched. Growling in fury,
he turned tail. Trying to look dignified, he stalked away across the Green Court. I noticed that after about twenty yards, he broke into a run.

Mrs Mackenzie was all of a flutter. We took her and Pookie into the hall and sat her down on a chair. Mercifully, the little dog was untouched. He did not seem to be a particularly intelligent creature and had no appreciation that he had been in danger of his life. Mrs Mackenzie lifted him onto her knee and stroked his head. ‘My poor Pookie,’ she said. Pookie licked her hand.

Mrs Germaney was particularly outraged. She could not believe what had happened. ‘It was an act of unprovoked
aggression
!’ she kept saying. ‘Who does that cat belong to? Surely not to you, Provost! Somebody ought to do something about him!’

I was able to reassure her that he was nothing to do with me. Our own two were safely tucked up on our bed. ‘Marmaduke is rather a trial to us all,’ I said.

Mrs Blenkensop did not shrink from hard facts. ‘I’m afraid,’ she said, ‘it’s my son’s cat.’

Mrs Mackenzie continued to stroke Pookie fondly. ‘He should be locked up, shouldn’t he darling? What a nasty creature!’ She consoled him.

Mrs Blenkensop did not disagree. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘he’s a
complete
menace. I keep telling Reg he should be neutered.’

I was astonished. ‘You mean to say he’s never had the
operation
? He’s still a tom cat?’

Old Mrs Blenkensop nodded. ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘Reg doesn’t approve of neutering animals. He thinks it’s unnatural. My daughter-in-law’s more sensible and she’d have had it done, but Reg likes things his own way. You’ve probably
discovered
that by now …’ She glanced at me over Mrs Mackenzie’s head.

‘It’s a disgrace!’ pronounced Sir William. ‘Even the RSPCA tells people to neuter their pets. What’s the man thinking of? Someone should take control of the situation!’

‘No wonder our two are so terrified of him,’ I said.

Time was moving on and Matron took the lead. The lecture was scheduled to begin. She shepherded her charges up the stairs and they all settled down to enjoy Victoria’s talk and slides. It must be said that Pookie behaved impeccably throughout.

I worked downstairs in my study while my wife did her piece. When I heard the audience making a move, I went to the front door to say goodbye. The little group from the Priory came down the stairs last. Victoria asked them if they would like a cup of tea before they left. ‘It’ll calm everyone’s nerves,’ she said.

Sir William seated himself between Mrs Blenkensop and Mrs Germaney on the large Victorian sofa; Matron and the other
residents
sat in armchairs in front of the fire. They had all had a good time and were full of praise for the session. After asking a few questions, they were soon engaged in a cosy discussion as to the best way to polish silver.

While this conversation was going on, Mrs Blenkensop who was seated near me apologised about Marmaduke. ‘I’m sure he’s terrible in the precincts,’ she said. ‘Reg won’t hear a bad word about him, but I know he’s a dreadful cat. I’ve heard rumours about his activites.’

It was hard to disagree with her. I tried to compromise by
suggesting
that he was very handsome. ‘Handsome is as handsome does!’ pronounced Mrs Blenkensop crisply. ‘You know,’ she continued, ‘I’ve got to go in and feed him next month. Reg is at a college reunion in Oxford and Henrietta is seizing the
opportunity
to stay with her sister in Somerset while he’s away.’

‘Reg must have been quite a star when he was up at the
university
,’ I said.

‘You mean at games?’ she asked. ‘He’s a nice boy, but he was certainly no great shakes intellectually. His sister was the clever one. I always had a struggle making him concentrate on his books.’

‘Still the rugger …,’ I said. ‘It’s really quite something to win a blue. I certainly was nowhere near it in any sport …’

Mrs Blenkensop looked surprised. ‘He never won a blue …,’ she said. ‘My husband did. He was a wonderful sportsman. Reg was big and strong enough, but he lacked finesse. He was in the first team at school, of course, and he played for his college, but he never made it into the first university team. It was a
disappointment
to his father …’

‘Well children must forge their own paths,’ I remarked.

‘That’s what I always told my husband,’ pronounced old Mrs Blenkensop.

After we had waved the Priory party off, I talked to Victoria about what I had learned. She shook her head. ‘Poor Reg. He’s never managed to escape from his father’s expectations. Think about it … a sister who was brighter than he was and a
dominating
father who was satisfied with nothing less than
outstanding
sporting success. That’s not much fun for a boy.’

‘Old Mrs Blenkensop’s nice,’ I pointed out.

‘Yes, she is,’ Victoria agreed. ‘She was very kind to Kev’s mother after the trial. And there’s no doubt that Reg is devoted to her. But he must have been very damaged by his father. It’s sad that he has to pretend to his colleagues that he did better at Oxford than he did.’

‘Why do you think he won’t have Marmaduke neutered?’ I asked.

Victoria shrugged. ‘Who knows? No doubt the psychiatrists would say that he projects his uncertainities about his own
masculinity
onto that cat.’

I put on a Viennese accent. ‘You mean it’s all to do wiz zee muzzer.’

‘Actually, in this particular case, I suspect it was zee fahzzer who was the problem,’ retorted Victoria. ‘Anyway I always said that cat was a bad influence.’

The more I thought about Reg Blenkensop, the sadder I found it. He had certainly always given the impression that he had played rugby for Oxford. And there was no doubt that this had
contributed
to his image as an athletic and powerful figure. I had always felt somehow physically inferior beside him. Yet his whole persona was built on sand. Clearly he was not as self-
confident
and impregnable as he seemed.

Later in the week, I had a chance to speak to him by himself. As I was walking into the town, I came across him chaining his bicycle to the railings. ‘I saw your mother this week,’ I said. ‘She’s a great friend of Victoria’s father and she’s coming to the lectures at the Provost’s House. She said you’ll be in Oxford next month.’

Blenkensop decided to be civil. He was excited about his trip. He told me that this was a five-yearly event. He was planning to meet up with all his old rugby friends for Sunday lunch the day after the college feast.

‘That’ll be fun,’ I said. ‘It must have been hard following in your father’s footsteps. I understand he was a very brilliant
rugger
man. I always think it’s difficult trying to live up to one’s
parents
’ expectations.’

Blenkensop flushed. For a moment we looked at each other. Something passed between us. He knew that I knew.

‘You must excuse me, Provost,’ he said abruptly. ‘I’ve got an important appointment at eleven.’ And without another word, he turned on his heel and strode off in the direction of the
diocesan
office.

The university was closed over the Easter period so I was not too worried about my commission from Morris. However, once things started up again, and particularly after Victoria’s class, I knew I would have to bestir myself. Through his secretary, I tried to make an appointment to see Robert Sloth.

I told her that I had heard some disturbing rumours. Firstly, I was aware that the Funding Council consultants had not been altogether complimentary about the St Sebastian’s
administration
. Secondly, that many of the partnership were likely to be dissolved and that this would have unfortunate financial
implications
. Thirdly, that I understood the Acting Vice-Chancellor intended to cover the projected shortfall by a programme of staff redundancies. As Visitor of the university, I felt it my duty to hear from Dr Sloth himself what was happening.

There was no response to my message. Clearly Sloth did not like my questions. Nothing daunted, I telephoned again two days later. This time I insisted on speaking to the great man himself.

I was kept waiting for several minutes and when he finally came on the line, he was less than forthcoming. He conceded that the consultants’ draft report had been disappointing, but he insisted that the tone of the final document would be very
different
. He also admitted that there was a problem with Flanagan’s partnerships and that ‘minor adjustments’ would have to be made to the budget. He was not, however, prepared to discuss future staffing arrangements. Initially, he pretended that the
projected
redundancies were merely gossip and had no foundation in fact. He was disconcerted to find that I already knew all about the establishment of the redundancy committee.

We fenced around these points for a good ten minutes. In the end I lost patience and pulled rank. ‘Robert,’ I said, ‘It’s my duty as Visitor to know what’s happening in the university and it’s your duty as Acting Vice-Chancellor to keep me informed. Consequently, I propose making a formal visit next Wednesday afternoon at two o’clock. I hope that will be agreeable to you. I have already checked with your secretary that you are free at that time.’

He had no defence. He did his best to put me off, but I cut through his excuses. I told him that I looked forward to seeing him and I rang off. Then I put the engagement in my diary.

However, two days before my appointment at the university, I received a distraught call from Penelope Ransome. She asked if I could see her immediately. As it happened, I had a free hour at two o’clock and I invited her over to the Provost’s House.

When she arrived, she looked even more untidy than usual. She told me that she had just been to the doctor to renew a
prescription
. He had insisted on taking her blood-pressure and had been appalled at the result. Penelope was going to have to take a serious course of medication and what was needed was rest and relaxation. Given that the university had just delivered a
bombshell
, these remedies were unlikely to be available.

I sat her down in an armchair in front of the fire and went to make us both some coffee. When I returned, she was wiping her eyes and was clearly miserable. ‘What is it?’ I asked.

Silently she rummaged around in her shopping bag and brought out a document. It was a letter from the personnel
department
and it stated in the bluntest possible terms that she was one of the ten university employees who had been selected for
redundancy
. Her contract would terminate at the end of the month.