Wilt on High (3 page)

‘And he took it?’ said Eva, genuinely astounded now.

‘Oh, he takes it all right. He’s always been keen on vitamins, especially Vitamin E. So I just swapped the capsules in the bottle. They’re some sort of hormone or steroid and he takes one in the morning and two at night. Of course, they’re still in the experimental stage but she told me they’d worked very well with pigs and they can’t do any harm. I mean he’s put on some weight and he’s complained about his teats being a bit swollen, but he’s certainly quietened down a lot. He never goes out in the evening. Just sits in front of the telly and dozes off. It’s made quite a change.’

‘I should think it has,’ said Eva, remembering how randy Patrick Mottram had always been. ‘But are you really sure it’s safe?’

‘Absolutely. Dr Kores assured me they’re going to use it on gays and transvestites who are frightened of
a sex-change operation. It shrinks the testicles or something.’

‘That doesn’t sound very nice. I wouldn’t want Henry’s shrinking.’

‘I daresay not,’ said Mavis, who had once made a pass at Wilt at a party, and still resented the fact that he hadn’t responded. ‘In his case she could probably give you something to stimulate him.’

‘Do you really think so?’

‘You can always try,’ said Mavis. ‘Dr Kores does understand women’s problems and that’s more than you can say for most doctors.’

‘But I didn’t think she was a proper doctor like Dr Buchman. Isn’t she something in the University?’

Mavis Mottram stifled an impulse to say that, yes, she was a consultant in animal husbandry at that, which should suit Henry Wilt’s needs even better than Patrick’s.

‘The two aren’t mutually incompatible, Eva. I mean there is a medical school at the University, you know. Anyway, the point is, she’s set up a clinic for women with problems, and I do think you’d find her very sympathetic and helpful.’

By the time Eva left and returned to 45 Oakhurst Avenue and a lunch of celery soup with bran magi-mixed into it, she was convinced. She would phone Dr Kores and go and see her about Henry. She was also rather pleased with herself. She had managed to divert Mavis from the depressing topic of the Bomb and on to alternative medicine and the need for women to
determine the future because men had made such a mess of the past. Eva was all for that, and when she drove down to fetch the quads it was definitely one of her better days. New possibilities were burgeoning all over the place.

They were burgeoning all over the place for Wilt as well, but he wouldn’t have put the day into the category of one of his better ones. He had returned to his office smelling of The Pig In A Poke’s best bitter and hoping he could do some work on his lecture at the airbase without being disturbed, only to find the County Advisor on Communication Skills waiting for him with another man in a dark suit. ‘This is Mr Scudd from the Ministry of Education,’ said the Advisor. ‘He’s making a series of random visits to Colleges of Further Education on behalf of the Minister, to ascertain the degree of relevance of certain curricula.’

‘How do you do,’ said Wilt, and retreated behind his desk. He didn’t like the County Advisor very much, but it was as nothing to his terror of men in dark grey suits, and three-piece ones at that, who acted on behalf of the Minister of Education. ‘Do take a seat.’

Mr Scudd stood his ground. ‘I don’t think there’s anything to be gained from sitting in your office discussing theoretical assumptions,’ he said. ‘My particular mandate is to report my observations, my personal observations, of what is actually taking place on the classroom floor.’

‘Quite,’ said Wilt, hoping to hell nothing was actually taking place on any of his classroom floors. There had been a singularly nasty incident some years before when he’d had to stop what had the makings of a multiple rape of a rather too attractive student teacher by Tyres Two, who’d been inflamed by a passage in
By Love Possessed
which had been recommended by the Head of English.

‘Then if you’ll lead the way,’ said Mr Scudd and opened the door. Behind him, even the County Advisor had assumed a hangdog look. Wilt led the way into the corridor.

‘I wonder if you’d mind commenting on the ideological bias of your staff,’ said Mr Scudd, promptly disrupting Wilt’s desperate attempt to decide which class it would be safest to take the man into. ‘I noticed you had a number of books on Marxism – Leninism in your office.’

‘As a matter of fact, I do,’ said Wilt and bided his time. If the sod had come on some sort of political witch-hunt, the emollient response seemed best. That way the bastard would land with his bum in the butter, but fast.

‘And you consider them suitable reading matter for the working-class apprentices?’

‘I can think of worse,’ said Wilt.

‘Really? So you admit to a left-wing tendency in your teaching.’

‘Admit? I didn’t admit to anything. You said I had books on Marxism – Leninism in my office. I don’t see what that’s got to do with what I teach.’

‘But you also said you could think of worse reading material for your students,’ said Mr Scudd.

‘Yes,’ said Wilt, ‘that’s exactly what I said.’ The bloke was really getting on his wick now.

‘Would you mind amplifying that statement?’

‘Glad to. How about
Naked Lunch
for starters?’

‘
Naked Lunch?
’

‘Or
Last Exit From Brooklyn
. Nice healthy reading stuff for young minds, don’t you think?’

‘Dear God,’ muttered the County Advisor, who had gone quite ashen.

Mr Scudd didn’t look any too good either, though he inclined to puce rather than grey. ‘Are you seriously telling me that you regard those two revolting books … that you encourage the reading of books like that?’

Wilt stopped outside a lecture room in which Mr Ridgeway was fighting a losing battle with a class of first-year A-level students who didn’t want to hear what he thought about Bismark. ‘Who said anything about encouraging students to read any particular books?’ he asked above the din.

Mr Scudd’s eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t think you quite understand the tenor of my questions,’ he said, ‘I am here …’ He stopped. The noise coming from Ridgeway’s class made conversation inaudible.

‘So I’ve noticed,’ shouted Wilt.

The County Advisor staggered to intervene. ‘I really think, Mr Wilt,’ he began, but Mr Scudd was staring maniacally through the glass pane at the class. At the
back, a youth had just passed what looked suspiciously like a joint to a girl with yellow hair in Mohawk style who could have done with a bra.

‘Would you say this was a typical class?’ he demanded and turned back to Wilt to make himself heard.

‘Typical of what?’ said Wilt, who was beginning to enjoy the situation. Ridgeway’s inability to interest or control supposedly high motivated A-level students would prepare Scudd nicely for the docility of Cake Two and Major Millfield.

‘Typical of the way your students are allowed to behave.’

‘My students? Nothing to do with me. That’s History, not Communication Skills.’ And before Mr Scudd could ask what the hell they were doing standing outside a classroom with bedlam going on inside, Wilt had walked on down the corridor. ‘You still haven’t answered my question,’ said Mr Scudd when he had caught up.

‘Which one?’

Mr Scudd tried to remember. The sight of that bloody girl had thrown his concentration. ‘The one about the pornographic and revoltingly violent reading matter,’ he said finally.

‘Interesting,’ said Wilt. ‘Very interesting.’

‘What’s interesting?’

‘That you read that sort of stuff. I certainly don’t.’

They went up a staircase and Mr Scudd made use of the handkerchief he kept folded for decoration in his
breast pocket. ‘I don’t read that filth,’ he said breathlessly when they reached the top landing.

‘Glad to hear it,’ said Wilt.

‘And I’d be glad to hear why you raised the issue.’ Mr Scudd’s patience was on a short leash.

‘I didn’t,’ said Wilt, who, having reached the classroom in which Major Millfield was taking Cake Two, had reassured himself that the class was as orderly as he’d hoped. ‘You raised it in connection with some historical literature you found in my office.’

‘You call Lenin’s
State and Revolution
historical literature? I most certainly don’t. It’s communist propaganda of a particularly virulent kind, and I find the notion that it’s being fed to young minds in your department extremely sinister.’

Wilt permitted himself a smile. ‘Do go on,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing I enjoy more than listening to a highly trained intelligence leapfrogging common sense and coming to the wrong conclusions. It gives me renewed faith in parliamentary democracy.’

Mr Scudd took a deep breath. In a career spanning some thirty years of uninterrupted authority and bolstered by an inflation-linked pension in the near future, he had come to have a high regard for his own intelligence and he had no intention of having it disparaged now. ‘Mr Wilt,’ he said, ‘I would be grateful to know what conclusions I am supposed to draw from the observation that the Head of Communication Skills at this College has a shelf full of works of Lenin in his office.’

‘Personally, I’d be inclined not to draw any,’ said Wilt, ‘but if you press me …’

‘I most certainly do,’ said Mr Scudd.

‘Well, one thing’s for certain. I wouldn’t suppose that the bloke was a raving Marxist.’

‘Not a very positive answer.’

‘Not a very positive question, come to that,’ said Wilt. ‘You asked me what conclusions I’d arrive at and when I tell you I wouldn’t arrive at any, you’re still not satisfied. I don’t see what more I can do.’

But before Mr Scudd could reply, the County Advisor forced himself to intervene. ‘I think Mr Scudd simply wants to know if there’s any political bias in the teaching in your department.’

‘Masses,’ said Wilt.

‘Masses?’ said Mr Scudd.

‘Masses?’ echoed the County Advisor.

‘Absolutely stuffed with it. In fact, if you were to ask me …’

‘I am,’ said Mr Scudd. ‘That’s precisely what I’m doing.’

‘What?’ said Wilt.

‘Asking you how much political bias there is,’ said Mr Scudd, having recourse to his handkerchief again.

‘In the first place, I’ve told you, and in the second, I thought you said you didn’t think there was anything to be gained from discussing theoretical assumptions and you’d come to see for yourself what went on on the classroom floor. Right?’ Mr Scudd swallowed and looked
desperately at the County Advisor, but Wilt went on. ‘Right. Well you just take a shuftie in there where Major Millfield is having a class with Fulltime Caterers brackets Confectionery and Bakery close brackets Year Two, affectionately known as Cake Two, and then come and tell me how much political bias you’ve managed to squeeze out of the visit.’ And without waiting for any further questions, Wilt went back down the stairs to his office.

‘Squeeze out?’ said the Principal two hours later. ‘You have to ask the Minister of Education’s Personal Private Secretary how much political bias he can squeeze out of Cake Two?’

‘Oh, is that who he was, the Minister of Education’s own Personal Private Secretary?’ said Wilt. Well, what do you know about that? Now if he’d been an HMI …’

‘Wilt,’ said the Principal with some difficulty, ‘if you think that bastard isn’t going to lumber us with one of Her Majesty’s Inspectors – in fact I shouldn’t be surprised if the entire Inspectorate doesn’t descend upon us – and all thanks to you, you’d better think again.’

Wilt looked round at the ad hoc committee that had been set up to deal with the crisis. It consisted of the Principal, the V-P, the County Advisor and, for no apparent reason, the Bursar. ‘It’s no skin off my nose how many Inspectors he rustles up. Only too glad to have them.’

‘You may be but I rather doubt …’ The Principal hesitated. The County Advisor’s presence didn’t make for a free flow of opinion on the deficiencies of other departments. ‘I take it that any remarks I make will be treated as off the record and entirely confidential,’ he said finally.

‘Absolutely,’ said the County Advisor, ‘I’m only interested in Liberal Studies and …’

‘How nice to hear that term used again. That’s the second time this afternoon,’ said Wilt.

‘And you might have added the bloody studies,’ snarled the Advisor, ‘instead of leaving the wretched man with the impression that that other idiot lecturer was a fee-paying member of the Young Liberals and a personal friend of Peter Tatchell.’

‘Mr Tatchell isn’t a Young Liberal,’ said Wilt. ‘To the best of my knowledge he’s a member of the Labour Party, left of centre of course, but …’

‘And a fucking homosexual.’

‘I’ve no idea. Anyway, I thought the compassionate word was “gay”.’

‘Shit,’ muttered the Principal.

‘Or that if you prefer,’ said Wilt, ‘though I’d hardly describe the term as compassionate. Anyway, as I was saying …’

‘I am not interested in what you are saying. It’s what you said in front of Mr Scudd that matters. You deliberately led him to believe that this College, instead of being devoted to Further Education …’

‘I like that “devoted”. I really do,’ interrupted Wilt.

‘Yes, devoted to Further Education, Wilt, and you led him to think we employ nobody but paid-up members of the Communist Party and at the other extreme a bunch of lunatics from the National Front.’

‘Major Millfield isn’t a member of any party to the best of my knowledge,’ said Wilt. ‘The fact that he was discussing the social implications of immigration policies –’

‘Immigration policies!’ exploded the County Advisor. ‘He was doing no such thing. He was talking about cannibalism among wogs in Africa and some swine who keeps heads in his fridge.’

‘Idi Amin,’ said Wilt.

‘Never mind who. The fact remains that he was demonstrating a degree of racial bias that could get him prosecuted by the Race Relations Board and you had to tell Mr Scudd to go in and listen.’

‘How the hell was I to know what the Major was on about? The class was quiet and I had to warn the other lecturers that the sod was on his way. I mean if you choose to pitch up out of the blue with a bloke who’s got no official status …’