Mr Campion's Visit

by Mike Ripley

  ‘Ah, yes, the Geology Society,’ said Campion. ‘You mustn’t keep them waiting, so what I suggest is that we follow the fire drill.’

  ‘But there isn’t a fire.’

  ‘Thankfully not, and I do not intend to start one; but I have noticed these very helpful signs saying “Fire Exit”, with an arrow pointing the way dotted along this corridor at strategic points. They will, I very much hope, lead us to a stairwell and certainly not a lift shaft, as the lifts should not be working during my imaginary inferno. In that stairwell we should find a notice, prominently displayed, informing us of the location of our nearest Fire Assembly Point, which, if my sense of direction has not deserted me, will be located on the ground floor in Piazza 3, as it is called. It is there that numerous student bodies, political organizations, revolutionary and otherwise, societies and glee clubs have erected a market of stalls from which to dispense their wares and recruit members. I saw them setting up earlier. It’s a positive Moroccan souk down there, and I am sure the Geology Society must have staked a claim and pitched their tent.’

  Beverley Gunn-Lewis studied the old man with the mixture of curiosity and sympathy which only the young and still innocent can manage without causing offence.

  ‘You surely do make hard yakka of the simplest things,’ she said, ‘but I think you’re a kind soul who means well.’

  She gave Campion a curt nod, tugged on the shoulder straps of her rucksack and broke into a slow trot along the corridor following the Fire Exit signs.

  As he watched her go, Mr Campion reflected that it was a good thing this new university specialized in languages and linguistics. With luck he might find someone who could tell him what ‘yakka’ meant.

  Having met his first real, live student and performed for them a good deed, Mr Campion felt inordinately satisfied with himself. The rest of the day was, he felt, now his own, and he could concentrate on his prime objective, which was to find his way around the new campus, hopefully with as much self-confidence as Beverley Gunn-Lewis was doing, although the girl had a clear sense of purpose which Mr Campion felt he lacked.

  His remit for being on campus was tantalizingly vague, something which in his younger years would have appealed to his curiosity, not to say devilment, as it was an opportunity to observe a goodly cross-section of the country’s youth – perhaps the world’s – embarking on a university education in a purpose-built playground with most modern comforts, minimal financial responsibility, an equal ratio between the sexes (and few rules about their mixing) and safe in the knowledge that their parents were scores – if not hundreds – of miles away.

  As he saw it, it was his duty to discover the way a modern university worked, for his own experiences as an undergraduate at St Ignatius College Cambridge were so far in the past as to be not so much history as archaeology. Clearly, major changes in student life had taken place in the previous half-century. In Campion’s day, students had not been allowed cars, although the university statutes were conveniently vague about the status of chauffeurs who garaged their cars out of sight of the colleges. The University of Suffolk Coastal, according to its prospectus, not only allowed students to own cars but actively encouraged them by the generous provision of free parking. This could, Campion mused, be a cynical ploy by the university to attract a better class of student or, alternatively, a recognition that the campus was geographically isolated, three miles from the nearest village, six miles from the nearest railway station (technically a ‘halt’ rather than a station) and nine or ten miles as the country lanes snaked from Saxmundham, which was hardly a humming metropolis.

  Clearly the students were expected to venture further afield, to the fleshpots of Yarmouth or even Ipswich, for entertainment, should they require it, although from what Campion had read about the new generation of universities springing up as fast as concrete could be poured all over the country, the intention was very much to cater for all a student’s earthly needs on campus. There was to be a pub, a restaurant, a coffee bar and lecture theatres which could double as concert venues or cinemas when the lectures got too dry and boring, and a medical centre to cure all their ills. Certain sections of the popular press had even suggested that study-bedrooms in the university residences would be equipped with, of all things, televisions. The same popular press also claimed that readily available alcohol and illegal, but accessible, drugs would rot the minds of young undergraduates but Mr Campion, being an optimist, dismissed this alarmist view on the grounds that if there were televisions in bedrooms, their minds would already have rotted beyond repair.

  Yet the physical needs of the student intake, although part of his remit, he assumed, were not his priority. Rather it was the spiritual needs of the student flock and, to be truthful, it was the priority of the Bishop of St Edmondsbury, one of the guiding lights behind the creation of the University of Suffolk Coastal.

  Mr Campion was no more than the bishop’s unofficial agent in the matter, and it was not a role he relished, for it made him feel uncomfortably like a Jesuit spy at the court of the first Queen Elizabeth, which explained a certain amount of foot-dragging on his part.

  It was why he was wandering rather aimlessly in the Administration block, inhaling the mingled perfumes of fresh plaster and new paintwork, seeking the office of the university chaplain who was, Campion felt, far better suited to be the bishop’s special agent.

  After two more angular turns in the windowless corridor – why did a rectangular building have to have internal twists and turns? – and peering at the name plates on more than two dozen identical doors, he identified the lair of his prey.

  The name stencilled on the plywood door in a fashionably bold font said simply: George Tinkler, Chaplain. There was no ‘Reverend’ or ‘Rev.’ in front of the name and, unlike the row of labelled doors he had passed to get there, no university degree signified behind it, which struck Campion as odd. George Tinkler, he surmised, did not seem keen to advertise his presence on campus but, given that his immediate superior was the Bishop of St Edmondsbury, that was probably a shrewd tactical move.

  His polite knock was answered by a muffled squeak, which Campion took to be an invitation to enter. The man who had squeaked was sitting at a flat-topped desk aligned against the right-hand wall of the office, to which had been attached a metal frame holding four long shelves which ran the length of the room. Apart from five books, clearly Bibles, and a pair of bronze elephants acting as bookends, the shelves were completely empty. The desk, however, was covered in paper, sheet upon sheet of loose lined paper and several open spiral notepads which High Street stationers called Reporters’ Notebooks, all covered or in the process of being covered with spidery handwriting.

  The spider scribbling away with a vintage Pelikan tortoiseshell gold-nibbed fountain pen did not look up from whatever manuscript he was working on, which might have been a sermon, a shopping list or an angry letter to The Times. It was impossible to tell from Campion’s restricted view over the spider’s hunched shoulder and to lean over and peer would be simply rude. Therefore he coughed discreetly, which at least caused the spider to stop scratching and say, ‘Yes, my dear, how can I help?’ although his eyes remained fixed on the hieroglyphs marching across the page he had pinned to the desk by his left forearm.

  ‘I do hope I am not interrupting your creative flow,’ said Campion, ‘but I thought I had better introduce myself as I think we are sharing a platform tomorrow.’

  The interrupted scribe slowly and with some ritual screwed the top on his fountain pen and laid it perfectly parallel to the top of the sheet of paper in front of him before raising his head to observe his visitor for the first time through a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez.

  ‘You must be Campion,’ he said in a sing-song falsetto. ‘The bishop warned me you would be coming.’

  Mr Campion, being of the generation who valued good manners, bit his tongue to counter the immediate thought that, with a name like Tinkler, that high-pitched voice and the pince-nez, the chap
lain was best suited to a post in an ivory tower, albeit one made of concrete, as he would not last a week as the incumbent of one of the rougher parishes of, say, Felixstowe or Ipswich, and probably not five minutes as a teacher of religious education in a boys’ prep school.

  Mr Tinkler, who struggled to his feet with laboured reluctance and offered Campion a handshake so limp his wrist positively drooped earthwards, like a divining rod casually indicating water, was blessed with little in the way of charm or charisma. The only reason, Campion supposed, that students – if they were his congregation – would be tempted to visit his office was because its floor-to-ceiling window offered a spectacular view over the piazza below where, as he had advised Miss Gunn-Lewis, tables, colourful banners and even balloons indicated that the Freshers’ Fair was under way and drawing a healthy crowd.

  ‘I hope it wasn’t a storm warning,’ Campion quipped. ‘I’m really not worth more than a prediction of a light morning dew.’

  Behind his pince-nez, Mr Tinkler’s face remained defiantly impassive, while behind his oversized tortoiseshell frames, Mr Campion’s assumed a deceptive vagueness.

  ‘I don’t get many visitors,’ said the chaplain, as if answering an unasked question.

  ‘Well, term hasn’t technically started yet,’ offered his visitor.

  ‘Even when term is in full flow, I am rarely consulted and usually never on spiritual matters. It’s normally the girls asking if I think they should go on the pill.’

  Mr Campion hid his surprise that any young female should seek counsel from Mr Tinkler on any subject, let alone one so sensitive.

  ‘And what advice do you give them, if I may ask?’

  Tinkler put his head on one side, made a great play of removing his pince-nez, and wafted the air with them before replacing them firmly into the indentations they had already made on either side of his rather fleshy nose.

  ‘I tell them to go and see the university doctor. She’s a woman and far better equipped than I to advise on such matters, though from what I hear she dishes them out like Smarties. Still, it’s not my place to lecture them on the sin of carnal lust.’

  ‘Forgive me, Chaplain, but I thought that would have been exactly your remit.’

  Mr Tinkler sighed as he sat down again, waving a limp hand to indicate that Campion should avail himself of the plastic chair against the wall, the only other seat in the office. As if on cue, from down in the piazza below came the sound of a trumpet and a clarinet giving a fair impression of traditional New Orleans jazz.

  ‘If I had a church and a parish and a pulpit, I would naturally be preaching most vociferously against the loose morals of today’s youth, but I have none of those things. I compose sermon after sermon’ – he waved a hand over the explosion of paper on his desk – ‘but never get to deliver them. I am confined to this concrete box by the liberal ideals of a modern university which does not accept that it is in loco parentis, especially now most students have the vote. I am the victim of liberal attitudes, Mr Campion. Liberal attitudes!’

  Campion crossed one long thin leg over the other and felt an unexpected pang of regret that he had given up smoking.

  ‘My dear chap, are you suggesting that your activities on campus are being restricted by the university administration?’ he asked calmly.

  ‘Restricted?’ There was distinct colour in the chaplain’s cheeks now which Campion noted thankfully as a sign of life in this otherwise cold fish. ‘I would go further than that, sir, I would say I was being muzzled. Muzzled by the radicals and liberals in authority. From the vice chancellor downwards, they proudly profess atheism and agnosticism in equal proportions.’

  ‘Surely the bishop, who was so instrumental in the founding of the university, must take a dim view of that.’

  On even the briefest of acquaintance, Campion was pretty sure the bishop took a dim view of most things in the twentieth century.

  ‘Oh, he does,’ said Tinkler, ‘if you are referring to the Bishop of St Edmondsbury, that is. Unfortunately, by some bizarre ecclesiastical oversight or quirk of history, this particular corner of north-east Suffolk is not actually within the See of St Edmondsbury, which has sometimes been called …’

  ‘The Cruel See,’ said Campion cheerfully, pleased that he could complete the punchline.

  ‘Quite,’ said Mr Tinkler, clearly familiar with the role of straight man. ‘We are in fact in the See of Norwich, and the bishop there is as progressive and as liberal as Edmondsbury is … is …’

  ‘Not?’ Campion offered with a straight face.

  ‘I was going to say “traditional”. He has a seat on the university council and certainly has influence, but no direct power. I understand that he is keen to make sure the university, which has started from scratch, establishes its own traditions as quickly as possible, though I fear his ideas have so far been roundly rebuffed by the academic and administrative staff.’

  ‘My own alma mater had lots of traditions, none of which enhanced my education, such as it was,’ said Campion. ‘Many were incomprehensible to me, then and now, and appeared to be only there to limit my enjoyment.’

  ‘Bulldogs and scouts, that sort of thing?’

  ‘Good gracious, no. You’re thinking of Oxford. I was a Cambridge man, not being clever enough to be considered for Oxford but wise enough to realize that a light blue goes with my complexion much better than a dark. But that was back in the mists of time and we did indeed have some strange rituals, such as wearing academic gowns when sitting examinations, although silk pyjamas would have been far more comfortable. Come to think of it, there was a chap who sat his finals in silk pyjamas and a gown, though it didn’t help with that sticky question on the Enlightenment …’

  ‘The bishop certainly suggested that students should wear academic dress at all times,’ said Tinkler, ‘but that idea was quickly rebuffed, except for the day when they collect their degrees. When most of the lecturers here do not possess a tie, let alone a gown, one cannot expect students to wear them, not these days. Anything goes, it seems, and the student uniform of choice seems to be jeans and a T-shirt advertising a dubious political message. The bishop’s other ideas – an official university grace in Latin, a requirement to eat a set number of dinners in hall, even though we have no halls, only a self-service restaurant where the quality of the food is abysmal—’

  ‘Well, that is certainly traditional,’ interjected Campion.

  ‘And then there was the question of segregation,’ continued Tinkler, flexing the fingers of his right hand as if counting off a list. ‘Edmondsbury was quite insistent that the sexes should be completely segregated, not just in residential accommodation but in lectures and seminars as well. That was clearly seen as a backward step too far in this day and age. “This is a modern university, not a monastery!” was the vice chancellor’s response.’

  ‘That was brave of him,’ mooted Campion.

  ‘Perhaps so, but it might have queered his chances of a knighthood if the bishop has anything to do with it. If the VC has a failing, it is his determination to be progressive at every opportunity. I take it you know him?’

  ‘Only by his academic reputation, which is outstanding,’ said Campion. ‘I will be meeting Dr Downes for the first time over lunch today. I was something of a last-minute replacement for the original Visitor, I fear.’

  ‘Ah, yes, of course.’ For the first time Campion detected an emotion flitting across the chaplain’s face, something akin to a smug salaciousness. ‘The disgraced MP – Labour, of course. Isn’t he suspected of spying for the Russians?’

  ‘No, he wasn’t a Cambridge man,’ said Campion patiently, ‘and I think he had rather dubious connections to the Czechs rather than the Russians, though that is pure speculation and the trial is still pending. For some reason the position of Visitor was thought too important to be left vacant and the bishop recommended little old me.’

  ‘So, you are the bishop’s man?’

  Campion bridled. ‘My wife would c
laim I am her man exclusively, and I would happily agree to that, but otherwise my allegiances are fluid when it comes to football teams and non-existent if politics are involved.’

  ‘Then how was it you were offered the position?’

  ‘I’m not exactly sure. I did once have an uncle who was the Bishop of Devizes, which may have counted as a sort of reference, but otherwise I consider myself totally unqualified. I do, however, have family connections with Suffolk and, having long since abandoned the hope of any sort of gainful employment, I now have time on my hands, so I could hardly refuse.’

  Mr Tinkler, suddenly confident, probed further. ‘So you do not report back to the bishop?’

  ‘Not if I can help it,’ said Campion reasonably. ‘Unless you think there is something which should be reported …’

  ‘No, no, not at all. I was merely trying to establish why you should have called on me this morning.’

  ‘Time spent in reconnaissance is never wasted, which I believe is the motto of the Girl Guides,’ said Campion. ‘I thought I would make contact informally with the key figures at the university as soon as I could, before the more formal proceedings tomorrow.’

  Mr Tinkler adjusted his pince-nez and his face melted with satisfaction at the implied compliment.

  ‘The Freshers’ Welcome, of course.’ Mr Tinkler spoke as if the concept had only just occurred to him, but without any trace of enthusiasm. ‘Yes, we’ll all be there giving our two-minute party pieces.’

  Campion flashed a glance at the reams of paper covering the chaplain’s desk and wondered how all those scribblings could be pushed through a two-minute eye of a needle.

  ‘The vice chancellor gives his all-inclusive speech of welcome,’ continued Tinkler, ‘stressing how modern and liberal and progressive we are here. Then the dean of students, who is supposed to be responsible for discipline, though his workload cannot be heavy if you ask me, will lay down the rules and regulations such as they are. The medical officer, that’s Dr Heather Woodford, who looks young enough to be a student herself, but thankfully doesn’t dress like one, will talk about sex, which is always the most popular part of the proceedings if the giggling is anything to go by. To prove we are an egalitarian institution, the head porter, a local man employed for his bulk rather than his intellect, will treat us to his usual folksy homilies about Suffolk and how to mix with the indigenous population, not that the students get to meet many of them as we’re rather isolated out here. Then, and only then, will the university chaplain’ – Tinkler gave a slow bow as if acknowledging imaginary applause – ‘be allowed to say a few words.’