by Mike Ripley
There was one twinge of familiarity: the shapeless pitch-black timber and brick structure to the left of the main house, so close it seemed to be leaning on it. It had been refurbished and strengthened, but Campion remembered it as a rather ramshackle garage where house-party guests were expected to deposit their cars for the weekend and once out of sight, out of mind. They would not need them as there would be no escape for those invited to Black Dudley, especially those partaking of the ritual of the dagger (whether they wanted to or not).
That idiotic, puerile game, played with the lights off, of course, with the sole purpose of eliciting squeals of mock outrage from young ladies and embarrassed huffing and red faces from the young men who had pursued the wrong female into the darkness. It was a choreographed piece of social frippery in which one had to partake or face the shame of the stigma of being the one who sucked the life and soul out of the party. Campion knew that the young people arriving at the new campus would go through their own embarrassing rituals of youthful interaction, and he was confident that by dint of the fact that they came from a wide variety of places and backgrounds, their only common denominator being their intelligence, they would survive the process and probably better than his generation had.
He was, however, resigned to the fact that he would have to talk about the ritual of the Black Dudley dagger, foolery though it was, so he adjusted his fedora to its regulation jaunty angle, strode across the remainder of the bridge and marched up to the house.
‘Campion? You are early – or am I running late?’
‘I am unforgivably early for lunch, Vice Chancellor,’ said Mr Campion, ‘and usually only late on the uptake, as my wife would say. I got here early to have a snoop round the campus, get my bearings so to speak. If it’s inconvenient, you could put me in a cupboard somewhere with a torch and an improving book.’
‘Nonsense, my dear fellow, you are more than welcome. I am sure we can rustle up some coffee, or perhaps you might like to look around the house. There have been a few improvements since you were here last, I think.’
‘Electricity being one innovation, I see,’ observed Campion.
Dr Roger Downes was terribly young for a vice chancellor, though Campion really had no notion of what the optimum age should be. Perhaps it was a sign of his own age that vice chancellors, like policemen, seemed to be getting younger.
Having done his homework as a good student should, Campion knew that Downes was more than twenty years his junior and – when the same age as most of those innocent and slightly confused faces swarming around the Freshers’ Fair in Piazza 3 – had been a teenage pilot flying a Boulton Paul Defiant, the Royal Air Force’s make-do-and-mend night fighter during the Battle of Britain. He could imagine Downes as a dashing young pilot, his immaculate uniform kept immaculate in order to attract the girls, which it undoubtedly did, for he still retained boyish good looks, especially when he smiled. The hair would have had fewer flecks of grey, but the eyes would have been just as blue and would have twinkled just as much. Campion wondered if Downes had ever allowed those females who fluttered moth-like around his uniform to assume he was a Spitfire pilot, the Spitfire being the pin-up aircraft of the battle rather than the ungainly Defiant or the Hurricane, which actually did much of the hard work, but he dismissed the thought as ungenerous.
Downes would still be attractive to the ladies, the uniform now replaced by a fashionable Italian-cut two-piece suit and a healthy tan which Campion guessed had been acquired in his academic career, which may have been budded in rainy Oxford but had bloomed into flower under Spanish suns both in Europe and South America. For Dr Downes was that relatively rare breed: he was a Hispanist. It was a field of academic study which had been fruitful for him, having brought him a fabulously beautiful Spanish wife (or so Campion had been briefed by his wife via the glossier fashion magazines); regular appearances on radio and television news bulletins as an interpreter of South American politics and, given the year, football; a useful sideline as a book reviewer and authority on Spanish and Catalan literature; a reputation as an outspoken political campaigner for students of all ages to speak a foreign language; and now the vice chancellorship of one of Britain’s newest, and Suffolk’s first, university.
‘Yes, Black Dudley has all mod cons now,’ said Downes, shaking Campion’s hand warmly. ‘I think the electricity was put in by the army during the war but the whole place has been rewired courtesy of the Ministry of Education. Both the plumbing and heating now work without shaking the plaster off the wall, we have telephones, telex and the latest facsimile machine, which can transmit a letter to the recipient in six minutes!’
‘That could make the second post redundant,’ Campion said with a smile, ‘assuming that the addressee of your letter also has a fax machine.’
‘And we have a computer,’ Dr Downes continued enthusiastically, proving his credentials as the very model of a modern vice chancellor. ‘Well, actually we have a terminal here in the Dudley – we tend to call it that, by the way. The main Computing Centre is in Piazza 1 and, on a fine day, you can play it at chess.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Outdoor chess. The piazza is marked out with chessboard squares and we have large wooden black and white pieces.’
‘I think I saw them in the distance,’ said Campion airily. ‘At first I thought it was a gathering of penguins. Something to do with the Zoology department, perhaps?’
Dr Downes, having experienced student rags and pranks on more than one continent and several languages, knew when his leg was being pulled.
‘It would not surprise me in the least if the Students’ Union had started a Rescue-A-Penguin Society, as they are something of an endangered species in Suffolk, but the university does not run to a Zoology department, at least not yet. We are very young and taking our first steps here and I am determined that we should only offer subjects where we can deliver top-quality teaching and the best facilities for research. We do not, for example, offer courses in theology.’
The vice chancellor’s choice of example was clearly a testing of the water.
‘I got the impression that that was a source of disappointment to the Bishop of St Edmondsbury who chaired your Foundation Committee,’ said Campion. ‘Though I believe I am also something of a disappointment to the bishop, being a last-minute substitute, as it were.’
‘Ah, yes,’ sighed Dr Downes, ‘our original Visitor … shocking business, really. Who would have suspected an MP of sleeping with the enemy, as it were?’
‘Probably quite a lot of people. I hope his apprehension by our security services has not had an adverse impact on the university.’
‘Not at all. If anything it has boosted applications from the more left-wing student fraternity, but then anything slightly left is always popular among the young.’
‘And is that not healthy?’ quizzed Campion lightly. ‘Let them march, riot and blow off steam calling for the revolution. Just as long as they don’t start stringing up us old intellectuals from the nearest lamppost.’
‘You’re not being serious, are you?’ Dr Downes seemed genuinely taken aback.
‘Of course not.’ Campion grinned. ‘I may be old but I’m far from being an intellectual. I should be quite safe as long as I don’t put my foot in it with the student body. I’ve met one of them already and she seems jolly nice.’
‘Most of them are,’ said Dr Downes, and there was no disputing his sincerity, ‘and though we go out of our way to encourage applications from the less privileged sections of society – where the child is the first from a family to go to university – and actively recruit from the comprehensive schools, the majority of our intake does come from decent, middle-class homes. Of course the Sociology department would say that is exactly where you find the most radicalized young mind, the students who become political activists but are really rebelling against their parents.’
‘Well, the very pleasant young first-year I met is studying geology, not sociology, and see
med more intent on impressing her tutor than fomenting revolution.’
‘Would that be Tabitha King?’ Dr Downes’s eyes narrowed like dipped headlights.
‘No, her name was Bev, short for Beverley, Gunn-Lewis. Quite distinctive, I thought, and she’s a New Zealander, and Kiwis aren’t usually the first to man the barricades.’
‘I meant her tutor. Tabitha King is a senior lecturer in earth sciences.’
‘Sorry, but I’ve no idea on that score. Why? Is she a dangerous radical?’
‘Certain people may think so, I could not possibly pass an opinion,’ said the vice chancellor diplomatically. ‘I doubt you’ll come across her, but you should meet the head of her department, he’s one of our prize assets. He’s joining us for lunch, as is the pro-vice-chancellor, who is responsible for student discipline. You’ll also be meeting our founding professor of sociology. I should warn you, he is not one of the bishop’s favourite people.’
‘I think that,’ said Campion, ‘is a very short list, and I doubt I am on it either. In fact I am sure I got the position of Visitor as a result of mistaken identity.’
‘Oh dear,’ sympathized the vice chancellor. ‘Why did you accept?’
‘It seemed churlish to refuse the honour, and I am cursed with good manners, though I am still not clear as to what a Visitor does, or what is expected of one.’
‘We will discuss that over lunch. Suffice to say, your duties will not be onerous, and we are, of course, delighted to have you on board. We’ve put you up in one of the guest rooms here at the Dudley. Only my wife and I live here, above the shop, so to speak, so it’s quite secluded, but all staff and students are encouraged to mix on campus. We do not have senior or junior common rooms, and our bar, restaurant and coffee bar are open to all. It can get quite lively on campus in the evenings.’
‘I may well investigate later,’ said Campion, ‘but I would like a wash and brush-up before lunch, so if you could point me in the general direction of my room, I’ll nip and get my case out of the car.’
Dr Downes showed the palms of his hands. ‘Please, you are our guest. Let me summon Meade. He will get your luggage and show you to your room.’
‘Meade? I presume you do not mean the drink made from honey which has caught many a West Country monk unawares.’
The vice chancellor laughed politely. ‘Meade is our head porter and, effectively, our head of security. The students call him “Big Gerry” because his real name is, unbelievably, Gerontius. He has the distinction of being the first member of staff to be appointed here, so he pre-dates all of us. In more ways than one, actually, as he’s a local chap, lives in White Dudley and is fiercely loyal to the house.’
‘Meade, did you say? Why does that name sound familiar? Distant, but familiar. Where can I have come across it before?’
‘I think such a thing unlikely, Campion. Dear old Gerontius doesn’t own a passport and hasn’t travelled further afield than Ipswich, as far as I know. In fact, I’m pretty sure he’s never been out of Suffolk in his life. He sort of came with the place, part of the fixtures and fittings. I think his mother worked here before the war.’
‘Oh, goodness me,’ breathed Campion as realization dawned. ‘He must be the son of the ferocious Mrs Meade.’
‘You knew Big Gerry’s mother?’
‘Briefly, I’m glad to say, if that does not sound too ungallant. I seem to vaguely recall being trapped with her in an attic here. We were somewhat under siege at the time – I’m sure you’ve heard the story – and Mrs Meade wasn’t exactly helpful. She kept on about her son, who seemed to like nothing more than a good punch-up and who would sort everything out. An awkward woman, prone to bouts of religious evangelism, I seem to recall. The sort who would have got on well with the bishop, I fear.’
‘Funny you should say that, as Gerontius came with a solid gold testimonial from the bishop.’
‘I did not realize the bishop was responsible for recruiting the staff here,’ Campion observed.
‘He’s not,’ said Dr Downes with a trace of bitterness. ‘He just doesn’t accept the fact. I sometimes wonder how we got any of the academic staff appointed in time to teach our first students, but we did and now they’re a unified, well-drilled, dedicated team of top minds working to a single goal: to make this the best university in the country.’
Mr Campion bit his lip, not wishing to douse Dr Downes’s clearly sincere pride and enthusiasm, even though the temptation was great to declare that he had never heard the words ‘unified, well-drilled and dedicated to a single goal’ applied to any group of academics, as those characteristics tended to go against the species’ mentality. And just what was the collective noun for a group of academics? A flock? A gathering? A senate?
Instead he remembered his manners and said: ‘I look forward to meeting them. I do hope one of them is clever enough to tell me what my duties are.’
Eight Years Previously …
‘Naturally we recognize Dr Downes nem. con. as chairman of the Initial Appointments Sub-Committee, and of course we welcome him today as the vice-chancellor-in-waiting, as it were, of the University of Suffolk Coastal.’ The bishop drew breath, leaving the meeting in no doubt that there was a ‘but’ coming. ‘And while the lay members, if I may call us that’ – he paused for laughter, but received no more than a polite titter – ‘have no direct responsibility for academic appointments, I do hope that any observations and input we may have to offer will be given due consideration.’
‘But of course, Bishop,’ said Dr Downes, who for this encounter with the bishop felt on totally firm ground, ‘all views would be welcome. I would, however, remind the committee that I personally have been charged with supervising the appointment of the heads of our first three academic departments, and two of those posts will be the first professorial chairs offered by the university.’
‘Why not all three?’ asked the chairman of the county council, thinking he ought to at least attempt a contribution to the discussion, preferably one which would not antagonize the bishop.
‘Budgetary constraints, I’m afraid,’ said Downes. ‘Until we have actually attracted some students and, hopefully, some external research funding, the university is limited to the number of chairs it can offer at salaries which would attract the best candidates from other institutions.’
The bishop exhaled loudly, a warning sign to the others around the table. ‘You make it sound, Vice Chancellor, as if we are in the football transfer market.’
‘In a way, Bishop, we are. As a new institution, we have no track record or tradition of excellence, so we must attract the best people sometimes by commercial means.’
‘Why not blow the budget on a footballer then? They seem to increase in value; just look at that Scottish chap Denis Law. Went from Manchester to Italy then back to Manchester, the price going up each time. Obscene amounts of money, they were.’
Dr Downes remained calm, preserving his strength for the battles to come. ‘A very good example, my lord. Two institutions – in this case two different Manchester teams and one Italian one, Torino, I think – competing for a player who is at the top of his field. Albeit a football field,’ he added, and that did get a polite laugh. ‘I’m glad to say that for our first three appointments, I am confident we have the top men in their fields. Their academic CVs are in front of you, gentlemen, but I will give a brief description of each before putting their appointment to the committee.’
‘For rubber-stamping.’
‘For approval by consensus, I hope.’
Dr Downes put his head down and shuffled his papers. ‘You are all aware that I regard the teaching of languages, modern languages, as one of the primary functions of the university,’ he said, scanning the faces of the committee for traces of surprise or dismay, ‘and that a considerable amount of investment will go into providing the most advanced language laboratories in the country. My first recommendation then, I am delighted to say, to be head of the Language and Linguistics departmen
t and, effectively, my second-in-command, is Dr J.K. Szmodics, currently professor of Finno-Ugrian studies at Birmingham.’
The bishop grabbed the top typewritten sheet of paper in front of him on the table and brought it up to his face, as though examining it for fingerprints.
‘Isn’t there a spelling mistake here?’
‘No, bishop, the spelling is accurate, but the correct pronunciation is “Smoditch”,’ Dr Downes answered crisply.
‘No, the other thing. What’s a Finno-Ugrian?’
‘It is the group of languages which include Finnish and Hungarian, two of the most distinct and difficult languages in Europe.’
The bishop lowered the paper slightly, so that his eyes emerged over the top of the sheet.
‘And there is a demand for learning such … unusual … languages? You’ll be telling us next that students should be learning Mandarin for when the Chinese take over the world!’
‘That is an interesting idea for the future, Bishop,’ said Downes smoothly, ‘and should be noted in the minutes, with due credit to yourself, for future reference. In the meantime, I would point out that Dr Szmodics is pre-eminent in his field and will, in fact, be taking a slight drop in status in joining us as we cannot as yet offer him a professorial chair.’
Dr Downes reached for a new sheaf of papers and the rest of the committee, with a loud rustling noise, followed suit. ‘Now to the first of our inaugural chairs, and I am delighted to say we have attracted a very bright star indeed. As head of the Earth Sciences department, we will be welcoming one of the world’s youngest and most dynamic geologists, Professor Pascual Perez-Catalan.’
‘Another foreigner,’ said the bishop, not quite as sotto voce as he could have.