The Campus Trilogy (8 page)

He was drinking a mug of coffee and eating a ginger nut biscuit while on the phone to the local garage. “Look,” he said, “you promised those tyres would get here today. Do you expect me to take the bus? I don’t care if you have to go to London to get them, I expect to drive home.”

Exasperated, he hung up. “Damn. Those people never keep their promises.”

“Do you want a lift?” I asked.

“Do you mind?”

I pushed several books off a chair as well as copies of the
Journal of Old Testament Studies
and sat down. Magnus handed me the biscuit tin. It had a picture of a country cottage and ducks in a pond. “So,” he said, “what’s the news?” I told him that Ralph Randolph and Patricia Parham were to be on the appeal panel.

“I wouldn’t trust Randolph,” he said. “Sneaky little shit. He’ll try to please Barraclough. But Parham might be good news. By the way, isn’t she living with some woman car mechanic? Maybe she could have got me some new tyres,” he mused.

“You really think Randolph would uphold the oral
warning
?” I asked

Magnus took another biscuit from the tin. “Help yourself,” he said.

“No Magnus, thanks.”

“Look Harry,” he continued. “Randolph knows if he
supports
you, the Registrar will be pissed off. And so will the VC. He’s nearing retirement, and they’d be sure to go after him. In addition, Chemistry has been under threat for years. It’s too expensive.”

“What about Parham?”

“I understand she just published a new book about
homosexuality
in the Third Reich. She’s bound to apply for a personal Chair. She has to have Barraclough’s support. You can’t get anywhere in this place without it.”

“But this has nothing to do with the merits of the appeal.”

The garage rang to tell Magnus that the tyres had arrived. When he put the phone down, he looked at me critically. “Harry,” he said. “You’re supposed to be an expert on ethics. But right and wrong have nothing to do with this. It’s not about justice; it’s about politics. An oral warning won’t kill you. It’s just a rap across the knuckles.”

“But it’s not fair!”

“Who said anything about fairness?” Magnus ate the last biscuit.

That night I told Victoria about my conversation with Penelope. “I forgot to tell you about the Registrar,” I said. “Barraclough and the Provost of St Sebastian’s Cathedral have put him up for the Acropolis.”

“Sloth? Have we got to meet that ghastly little man at the club?”

“So, you see, they’re all in this together.”

Victoria did not understand. “But that has nothing to do with the appeal.”

“On the contrary,” I explained, “it has everything to do with it. The Provost is Visitor of the University; he’s technically Barraclough and Sloth’s boss. If the Provost is matey with Sloth, Barraclough is bound to reject my appeal to protect Sloth’s wife. No wonder that lazy idiot has survived in his job so long. I had no idea he had friends in high places. Anyway Magnus thinks I should just accept the inevitable and live with an oral warning. It only lasts a year.”

“So why don’t you, and just drop the appeal?”

“I won’t,” I said.

“Why? If you’re going to lose …”

“Even if I lose, there’s the principle. I can’t just give in to injustice. Otherwise what am I doing teaching Christian ethics?”

“You’re earning an honest penny.”

“Yes, but …”

“Look, Harry. Ethics has nothing to do with the way the world works. Or how Christians behave either. Some of the worst people I know are clergymen.”

I was insulted. “How can you say that?” I said. “What about me? What about my Christian ethics textbook?”

Victoria kissed me. “You’re a darling. And the book’s a nice little earner. But really, Harry, you don’t live in the real world.”

Penelope and I arrived at Barraclough’s office ten minutes early for the appeal. We sat outside in a corridor; the door to the office was closed and we could hear voices inside. Eventually Jenny Sloth emerged followed by Malcolm Fishman, the Librarian. They looked pleased with themselves and smiled slyly as they passed. After several minutes the Registrar summoned us.

The Vice-Chancellor was sitting at the head of the table; the Registrar sat on his right, and Randolph and Parham on opposite sides. Barraclough had a pile of paper in front of him consisting of letters and emails. Randolph was wearing a shiny navy suit and a green tie with blue stripes. There was an indefinable chemical smell emitting from him. Parham was dressed in red dungarees. She looked as if she had been helping her friend mend motor car engines. Her fingernails were encrusted with grime. As usual, the Vice-Chancellor was dressed in a grey suit and was sporting his Acropolis tie. I wondered if I should have worn mine. Sloth looked nervous.

Barraclough began by telling us that he had interviewed Pilkington about the warning and had just met with Mrs Sloth. He briefly outlined the nature of Jenny’s complaint, and read out relevant correspondence. He then recounted Pilkington’s explanation of the need for the oral warning. At this point, Penelope went on the attack. She pointed out that Mrs Sloth had not done her job, and it was not unreasonable for academic staff to remind colleagues if a duty had been neglected.

Barraclough emphasized that the question was not whether staff could make requests, but rather how such requests should be made. “Dr Sloth,” he said, “tells me that poor Jenny was most upset by it all, and has had to have several days off with stress-related illnesses.”

“For heaven sakes,” Penelope interjected, “she was being asked to do her job! Nothing more, nothing less!”

“In this case,” the Vice-Chancellor continued, as if Penelope had not spoken, “the objection was to Harry’s lack of tact. And after all, this is not a unique instance.” I looked astonished. No one had ever complained before. “There have already been complaints this term from a student about Harry’s behaviour.”

“Untrue and unsubstantiated,” I interrupted indignantly.

“So we know Harry has a tendency towards this kind of behaviour,” continued Barraclough magisterially.

“My staff are always complaining about how rude he is,” said Sloth. During this discussion, Randolph looked out the window, and Parham fiddled with her hair. Neither made eye contact with me or Penelope.

The Vice-Chancellor then asked me to present my account of events. I stressed that the number of students in my first year Christian ethics class had risen dramatically at the beginning of term. Randolph smirked and muttered something to Parham who frowned. I then explained that I had initially asked Jenny to order additional copies of my textbook. I had had no response. As a result, I sent her additional emails and eventually wrote a letter asking that she deal with the matter. It was her delay, I said, which had created the current problem. In my view, there were no reasonable grounds for an oral warning. I had acted properly throughout. Jenny, on the other hand, had neglected her responsibilities as a librarian.

The Vice-Chancellor took notes as I spoke. He took the Staff Handbook from the bottom of his pile of papers, opened it to the section dealing with discipline, and read out the regulations. The difficulty, he said, was that although there was an attempt at an informal solution to the problem, this had not been achieved.

Penelope shifted in her chair. “Look,” she said. “Dr
Pilkington
gave no opportunity for an informal solution. Professor Gilbert was willing to apologize for upsetting Mrs Sloth, but Dr Pilkington insisted this would not be sufficient. He was determined to issue an oral warning from the start.”

Barraclough looked through his papers and pulled out a letter from Pilkington. He read it out loud:

Neither Randolph nor Parham had said anything during the meeting. The Vice-Chancellor asked if they would like to ask any questions. There was no response. He then asked if I wanted to make a final comment.

“Look, Vice-Chancellor,” I said. “I have been an academic here for ten years. Prior to this year, I never had a complaint from either staff or students. I have always tried to be courteous; it was never my intention to cause offence. I’m sorry if Jenny was upset by my request for books. I only had the welfare of my students in mind. I told my Head of Department that I was prepared to write an apology to Jenny. But, I must stress that
I don’t think I was wrong to persist in asking for these books. Nor do I think my requests were in any sense abusive. The real question is why Jenny is so sensitive. I’m sorry she had to take time off for stress. If she does find being a librarian overly taxing, then she ought to consider whether she should continue. I consider myself totally innocent in this affair. Furthermore, I think you would be creating a serious precedent if you uphold the Head of Department’s warning to me. It would mean that any member of staff – either academic or non-academic – who did not want to do a particular job, could issue a formal grievance against the member of staff who made the request. Do you really want this to happen?”

“You can hear how arrogant he is,” said Sloth. For once he was fully awake. “How dare he suggest my wife should give up her job – that’s just typical of him! Rich and arrogant!” He realized he had gone too far and lapsed into silence.

“We are not here,” the Vice-Chancellor said with dignity, “to determine how I should manage the university. The question is whether Professor Gilbert behaved in an offensive fashion. The Committee will give its decision, and I will communicate it to you in writing.” He stood up and escorted Penelope and me to the door. He thanked us for coming, and slammed it shut behind us.

Forlornly I walked back to my office with Penelope. “That didn’t go very well, did it?” I said.

“They want to get rid of you,” she said. “You’re expensive, and they probably have someone in the wings. I know the signs. Keep a close eye on your graduate students.” Fleetingly I thought back to the scene of young Grundy with Wanda. I told myself I was being paranoid.

I found Magnus in the Senior Common Room. He was struggling with the
Times
crossword. “Damn difficult today,” he announced. “Can’t seem to make any sense of most of it. So, how was Barraclough?”

“Terrible,” I said.

“Didn’t go well then?”

“I didn’t have a chance. How could I, with Sloth running the show?”

“How were Randolph and Parham?”

“They just sat there. They didn’t even look at me.”

“Oh dear. Well, Harry, you’ll just have to live with an oral warning. It could be worse. You might have to teach summer school.”

Later in the afternoon, I had a brief note from Barraclough telling me that my appeal had been rejected. I wasn’t in the mood to do anything, but I had to attend the Talks Dinner Committee at the Acropolis at six. I caught the train and arrived a half hour late. Afterwards I stayed for dinner and sat at the Club Table. When I went up to the drawing room, I looked in the candidates’ book to see if anyone had supported Sloth. To my surprise the page with his name and supporters had been removed. I saw the secretary of the club standing by the bar and went over to speak to him.

“I was looking for a candidate’s name in the book,” I said. “But it seems to have vanished.”

“Who’s that?” he queried.

“Dr Sloth. He’s the Registrar of my university.”

“Oh yes,” he said. “He was a candidate. But his supporter and seconder have asked that his name be removed.”

“Really?”

“Yes, there seems to have been a problem about his page. I’m afraid someone defaced it. I think his supporters thought there might be opposition to his election.”

“Oh dear!” I said.

“Well, someone was certainly determined he shouldn’t be a member.”

This was cheery news. I felt much happier and decided to have a little celebration. I ordered a glass of champagne and took a bowl of peanuts to eat as I read the latest issue of the
Church Times
.

Over the next few days I looked at Pilkington’s party invitation on the mantelpiece. I was in no mood to attend, but Victoria was insistent. “If you don’t go,” she said, “it will look as though they’ve won. And I want to have another peek at their extraordinary decor. Don’t forget to use the downstairs loo so you can see what colour it is.”

“Really Victoria, you are a snob!”

“I am not! I love my friends in the Women’s Institute. It’s just the Pilkingtons. They’re ghastly. I wouldn’t miss their party for anything.”

On the day, I reluctantly drove to the party, picking up Magnus on the way. He lived in a small flat near the university. It was littered with books and potsherds from the Middle East. In the dining room was a massive Assyrian sculpture. When he brought it home from Iraq, customs thought it was a bomb and Magnus was detained at the airport. On the way, he told us that he had just had a Christmas present from his aunt. She sent him
a hundred pound premium bond. “If I win,” he announced, “I’ll take the early retirement deal.”

“But Magnus,” Victoria said, “it’s like the lottery. The odds are about twenty thousand million to one.”

“That bad?” he asked.

“Nobody ever wins the big prizes, Magnus,” I said. “Well, somebody does. But it won’t be you.”

Cars were lined up outside the Pilkingtons’ bungalow, stretching down the street. Their house was part of a small, modern estate on the outskirts of St Sebastian’s. When we rang the doorbell, one of the department postgraduate students opened the door. I noticed that the hall carpet had not improved. The dining room was crowded with members of the university. In the corner, I noticed Wanda talking to Jenny Sloth and the Provost of St Sebastian’s Cathedral. Victoria marched over to say hello. I felt a stab of pride. Victoria was wearing a wine-red velvet dress. I happened to know she had bought it at an Oxfam shop in Knightsbridge, but it had once been very expensive. It was cut simply and showed off her dark slenderness to
perfection
. She looked like an elegant butterfly among the dowdy polyester moths of the other wives.

Magnus and I took glasses of wine from the dining room table. “Probably cheap plonk,” Magnus muttered. He was right. Maureen Pilkington was handing out canapés from a large tray. They seemed to be pieces of cheese and pineapple on orange sticks. Magnus took three. I shook my head. They did not look worth getting fat for. Maureen greeted us as she passed. “Look Magnus,” I said, “I promised Victoria I’d go see the downstairs loo. I’d better get it over with.”

“But we just arrived.”

“I know. But Victoria thinks the colour is extraordinary. She said I had to look.”

Magnus looked amused as I made my way through the crowd. The door was ajar and I entered. Victoria was right, their lavatory was the colour of chewed bubblegum. I wondered what it said about Pilkington’s anal obsessions. On the way out, I saw Barraclough leaving. As in the past, he was making a brief appearance. I didn’t look forward to running into the Registrar, and hovered over the drinks table. Magnus had refilled his glass,
and was looking for alternative hors d’oeuvres in the kitchen. He came out with a plate loaded with plastic-looking vol-
au-vents
. Throughout the evening, I managed to avoid Wanda and the Sloths. They were also keeping their distance. By the time we were ready to leave, Magnus had drunk at least six glasses of wine and looked increasingly morose. On the way home, he warbled: “An old don’s life is not a happy one.”

On Saturday, Victoria and I went Christmas shopping in London. We bought a large stilton for my father-in-law from Fortnum and Mason, ties for Victoria’s brothers from a shop in the Burlington Arcade, and scarves from Liberty for the sisters-in-law. There were also tokens for the five nephews and nieces. As we walked up South Audley Street, we passed a travel agency which was advertising skiing holidays in Aspen, Colorado. “Harry, why don’t we go?” Victoria said. “You deserve a treat.”

Inside the shop we looked at several brochures, and
eventually
decided on a seven-night package holiday including meals. The hotel, the Aspen Siesta, was next to the ski lift and overlooked the town. We were to arrive at Heathrow on 27 December and fly to Denver and then on to Aspen. I hadn’t skied since I was at Cambridge, but Victoria assured me that I would remember everything. Victoria hadn’t been on the snow for many years either, but was undeterred.

The day before Christmas, we loaded up the car with presents and set off for Wales. Our neighbours promised to look after the cats while we were gone, and we booked a kennel for them for our trip to the States. When we arrived at the castle, Sir William was decorating a gigantic Christmas tree in the drawing room with the help of his grandchildren. Victoria’s brother, Anthony, was seated at the piano practising Christmas hymns. Her sister-in-law, Joanna, was preparing tea. Victoria’s eldest brother, Billy, and Selina, his wife, were walking their undisciplined bearded collie.

In the evening there was the usual Christmas party for all the children in the village school. By tradition the owner of the castle was the chairman of the governors. Billy had taken on this duty, but Sir William still insisted on giving the party. Over the years the number of children in the school had dwindled, but
each child was still given a carefully chosen present off the tree. Because the children did not know me, it had become my duty to dress up as Father Christmas. I wore the old, slightly
musty-smelling
costume which had been in the family for generations. To my annoyance, I noticed it was tighter than last year.

After the party we had dinner. It was noisy – everyone talked at once. Victoria struggled to tell the family about our
forthcoming
trip. After dinner, the grandchildren disappeared and Sir William insisted we play Scrabble. I had the lowest score and was teased about losing. Aided by a large bottle of claret, Sir William put all his letters down on a triple word score and was particularly triumphant.

On Christmas day I preached a sermon on humility in the village church. Sir William sat in his usual pew with Victoria, Billy, Selina and young Will, the oldest grandson. The rest of the family stayed at home, preparing the food. After a delicious lunch we opened our presents, and later Victoria and I took Buggins, her brother’s dog, for a walk across the hills. Snow had fallen in the morning, and had covered the ground. As we walked towards the village, past grey stone cottages, Victoria brought up the issue of retirement again.

“Harry,” she said. “It’s so lovely in the country. I do think we ought to consider buying a little house in the Cotswolds.” Victoria had been looking through old issues of
Country Life
since we arrived. “The university is awful. I can’t see how you’re possibly going to enjoy teaching if you have to worry all the time about this wretched oral warning.”

“It’ll only last a year,” I said. “And it doesn’t really matter.”

“But what if someone else complains? Then it could get worse.”

Victoria was right. But I was determined not to let Pilkington and Wanda Catnip drive me out. “Look,” I said. “I’m going to retire in a few years anyway. Why should I give up a job I like just because Barraclough wants me to leave?” In the distance we heard the honking of geese. Buggins shot off, chasing after a rabbit. Country life was delightful. I wondered if Victoria had a point.

After Boxing Day we left the castle for one night at home. Our plane was to leave Heathrow at eleven o’clock in the morning
of the following day. We parked in the long-stay car park, and headed for Terminal 4. Crowds of passengers jostled us as we made our way through immigration. Eventually we went to an airport lounge. Victoria ordered a gin and tonic and settled into a comfortable armchair. I sat in front of one of the computers and checked to see if there were any emails. One was a Christmas greeting from Magnus who had gone to see his aunt who lived in East Anglia. It included a cartoon of Father Christmas who looked remarkably like Barraclough. Wanda Catnip had sent the entire academic staff a letter about university developments last term and concluded with a sentimental holiday greeting. There was also an email from Pilkington asking for marks from last term.

When our plane was announced, Victoria and I walked to the gate. A half hour later the plane took off, and I looked through the magazine to see what films were being shown. Our package holiday included economy-class tickets. Behind me was a little girl who giggled and kicked against the back of my seat. I turned around and glared at her parents. They glared back. “Do you want to change seats?” Victoria asked.

I shook my head. “If I can endure Catnip,” I said, “I can put up with this.”

The flight seemed interminable, but I was able to sleep after the meal despite being poked from behind at regular intervals. When we arrived in Denver, we changed planes and flew to Aspen in a small jet with several other skiers. One of the passengers, a tall distinguished-looking man, was accompanied by a well-dressed, brown-haired woman wearing a mink coat. He was carrying a leather bag stamped with a college crest. They were seated across the aisle, and immediately they started chatting with Victoria. It emerged that he was the President of a small Southern liberal arts college in Virginia. Sweetpea College was founded at the end of the eighteenth century by an Ebenezer Sweetpea, a plantation owner and philanthropist who had established the college for young Southern gentlemen. In the l970s, women had been accepted for the first time, and it was now fully coeducational.

Victoria told them that I was the Professor of Christian Ethics at St Sebastian’s. The husband, Oscar Billstone III, had
been a Rhodes Scholar at Oxford. Subsequently, he had studied at Harvard for a PhD. His first job was at Princeton, where he became Dean. Six years ago, he was appointed President of Sweetpea. His wife, Nancy, was from an old New England family and had been educated at Mount Holyoke College. She had still been a student when she met Oscar. They had two children. The son was a stockbroker in Wall Street; their daughter worked at the Metropolitan Museum in New York, specializing in Flemish painting. They, too, were staying at the Aspen Siesta. By the time we landed, we had made plans to get together for dinner.

The Aspen Siesta is an old hotel located outside of Aspen. Surrounded by trees, it overlooks snow-covered peaks. The sun was setting when we arrived. We unpacked and quickly fell asleep, exhausted from our journey. Later we met the Billstones in the dining-room. Over dinner, Oscar told us about his experiences at Oxford while his wife looked on admiringly. They asked where Victoria and I had met, and about her background. When they learned she was the daughter of a baronet, they looked at each other. “Thomas would be fascinated,” Nancy said. “He’s one of the trustees of the college. He adores the English aristocracy.”

“We’re not really aristocratic …” began Victoria, but Nancy was in full flow.

“Thomas is from an old American family. His mother was a prominent member of the Daughters of the American
Revolution
in Virginia. His great-great-great-grandfather, Thomas Jefferson Porpoise I, owned the plantation on which the college is located. He sold the land very cheaply to Ebenezer Sweetpea. Thomas is actually Thomas Jefferson Porpoise VI. His family have been major benefactors to the college for over two hundred years. Our collection of Paul Revere silver was a recent bequest. Thomas went to Harvard and specialized in art history, but he has always been loyal to Sweetpea. I wonder if he’s heard of Victoria’s family.”

“I doubt it,” Victoria said.” My father isn’t a peer; he’s just a baronet. He’s in
Debretts
, but we’re not an old family. Mr Porpoise sounds grander than us.”

“That’s not what the old Buzzard would think,” I said.

“Please, Harry, I don’t think Oscar and Nancy want to hear about my father.”

“But we do,” Nancy said. She clearly meant it.

“Well, he lives in a draughty castle on the Welsh border. It’s desperately cold in winter, and whenever we visit we have to carry a hot-water bottle everywhere. Daddy refuses to put in central heating. He thinks it’s self-indulgent.”

“And expensive,” I added.

Oscar took out a small notebook. “I’ll write a note to Thomas. What’s the family name?”

“Dormouse,” Victoria said. “The crest is a dormouse
couchant
. And the motto is
Melius dormire quam pugnare
.” Nancy looked mystified. “‘It is better to sleep than to fight,”’ I said.

Everyone giggled. Oscar diligently wrote down what I said. “Thomas will be enchanted – you must meet him when you come to Sweetpea.”

The next morning, Victoria and I set off for the slopes after breakfast. We hired boots, skis and poles, bought our lift pass, and rode the chairlift to the top of the mountain. I was having a difficult time with the moguls. I fell several times while Victoria skied ahead. As we came round to the other side of the mountain, Victoria plunged into a large gulley and took a spectacular fall. I skied over and saw she was in severe pain. “Harry,” she cried, “I think I may have broken my ankle.”

I reached down to help her. She couldn’t stand up. “It really hurts,” she said. “I hate to be a bore, but I think you’d better get the ski patrol.” I skied down to the bottom as quickly as I could and found one of the ski instructors. Eventually the ski patrol brought Victoria down in a sled. One of the paramedics examined her ankle; it was swollen, but he was sure it wasn’t anything more than a sprain. Victoria hobbled off to the lodge. “Don’t worry about me,” she said. “I’ll have some hot chocolate, and then I’m going shopping.” I could see this was going to be an expensive holiday.

The rest of the day, I skied by myself. Late in the afternoon I returned to the Aspen Siesta. Victoria was sitting by a fire in the lobby of the hotel talking to Nancy. She was also drinking a large cocktail, nibbling olives and wearing a turquoise necklace
I had never seen before. “Look what I bought!” she said. “There was this charming Indian shop in the centre of town. Isn’t it lovely?”