‘Can’t say I do. Are they any good in bed?’
‘Well, they’re certainly very caring. Unfortunately, recent surveys seem to suggest that women are doing the dirty on them by abandoning them in droves for brutish, hairy, selfish, libidinous throwbacks. Sexual politics is a nightmare, Bursar. Just as well for you that it passes you by.’
‘Would that it could,’ said the Bursar sighing. ‘Everything was very happy in this absurd old backwater until the Head Bitch arrived. It was uncomfortable but it was contented; it knew what it was about. What’s wrong with a collection of old biddies spending their lives trying to get their footnotes right and pass on to a new generation some belief in scholar ship and truth.’
‘Narrow elitism?’ queried Amiss.
‘Oh yes, the charge of narrowness has substance. And I’m not really entirely impervious to the need occasionally to open up to new ideas. But bugger the business about elitism. If you don’t have that in scholarship, you don’t have scholarship.
‘No, what the Bridget bitch is doing is levelling. If you level the way she’s going about it, you destroy the good and put nothing in its place except half-baked platitudes parroted by morons like Sandra who haven’t got the brains of a hen but apply the few they have to picking the nits out of the work of one of the greatest female geniuses of all time because they have concluded that she was a misguided apologist for a patriarchal society.’ She sat bolt upright and quivering. ‘Now let me test you to see if you’ve any notion how bad it is. Why is George Eliot persona non grata?’
‘Well, male ideology and all that stuff, I suppose.’
‘Christ, you have no realization of how simple-minded these cretins are. George Eliot was a woman, right?’
‘Right.’
‘She took on a man’s name.’
‘Yes?’
‘And you and I know why she did that.’ She looked at him expectantly.
‘Because otherwise she wouldn’t have been taken seriously, the 1860s being what it was.’
‘Ah, yes. That’s what you think and that’s what I think, and we think that in adopting noms de plume, she and the Brontës were adapting to reality and in a way pulling a fast one on the chaps. Well, it doesn’t seem that way to Sandra, because Sandra has a simple mind, and Sandra knows that when Marian Evans decided to call herself George Eliot she was denying her own sexuality.’
‘You mean selling out to the enemy?’
‘More than that. If I understand it correctly, Marian Evans was a dyke without the courage to acknowledge her dykeness. Therefore, subliminally, she expressed it by adopting a man’s name, living with men whom she was only pretending were sexual partners and using her books to cover herself with a hetero sexual patina that would hide her true feelings even from herself.’
‘Does the word anachronism mean anything to people like Sandra?’
‘Nothing,’ said the Bursar gloomily. ‘Nor does reason. For Christ’s sake, Sandra persists in talking about “herstory”, although I spelled out for her in words of one syllable the derviation of the word “history” and explained why it had nothing to do with men.’
‘She didn’t understand?’
‘In that little whiney voice of hers she told me that per ception was all.’
They fell silent. The Bursar leaned forward and poured some more whisky into Amiss’s glass. ‘What really pisses me off, the older I get,’ she said, ‘is that the world is full of talent and people with brains who get no chance, so serve out their lives using a tenth of their potential, while increasingly the universities seem to be full of quarter-wits educated beyond their intelligence. If I had my way I would swap half our undergraduates and Fellows instantly for an equivalent number of street sweepers, male and female, from Calcutta. Six months remedial teaching and we’d be on a winner.’
‘Well, that’s definitely an unethno-centric statement. Have you put it to Bridget?’
‘The only thing I’m likely to put to Bridget,’ said the Bursar breathing heavily, ‘is the muzzle of my elephant gun. Up her arse.’
‘And what about the mysterious Mary Lou? Is she as dim a hanger-on as Sandra?’
‘Finding that out is one of your jobs. They won’t have anything to do with me for the reasons I’m sure you’ve spotted. I haven’t a clue about Mary Lou; she’s a bit of a dark horse.’ She smote her forehead. ‘“Dark horse”. Excel lent: there’s an expression Bridget would have me blackballed for.’
‘You’re doing pretty well with the politically incorrect terminology, old girl. Does it come naturally or are you doing it on purpose?’
‘You don’t need to do it on purpose. You can offend in this place by blowing your nose.’ She suited the action to the words: the resulting explosion would have done credit to the elephant gun.
‘As I was saying, Mary Lou was unanimously recom mended by the Research Fellowship sub-committee which consisted of two Dykes and a Virgin, presumably because the Dykes forgave her having good academic qualifications because she was black and was conducting research on early twentieth-century myths about Sappho.’
‘So far so stereotyped. Now why do you think she didn’t throw herself into the fray this evening?’
‘Maybe she’s still finding her feet. I leave it to you to conduct your researches in whatever way you think fit. Now, would you care to see the agenda for tomorrow morning’s Council meeting. I would particularly like to draw your attention to item 3 a), Sandra’s draft equal opportunity policy statement. Listen.’
She declaimed rather than read out:
‘“St. Martha’s awareness that groups or individuals may have been disadvantaged educationally or otherwise in the past, has led to a decision that the balance should be redressed. Positive steps have therefore been taken to ensure that on every shortlist for every appointment in the college a majority of candidates will be from members of groups who have hitherto shared the experience of discrimination. Disadvan taged groups can be identified according to race, colour, creed, ethnic or national origin, disabilities, sex, sexual orientation or marital status.”’
‘I don’t believe it.’
She passed it over.
Amiss scanned it. ‘My God, I hope for your sake they recognize fat as a disability.’ The Bursar playfully threw a cushion at him. It knocked over his glass, the contents of which soaked both the equal opportunities paper and his tie.
‘Dries out,’ she said cheerfully, pouring him another. ‘Read on.’
‘“Often people are perceived to have had insufficient education because of preconceived opinions or judgements about what education s. St. Martha’s will endeavour to ensure that through the abolition of pre-set requirements, jobs will be open to the widest possible variety of candidate. Historic disadvantage will, however, be a relevant factor in the decision-making process…” Do I have to read the rest?’
‘No, that’s the nub.’
‘Do I understand this as meaning that the Dykes want qualifications to be unnecessary to get an academic job in this establishment?’
‘I think that’s about the size of it. And worse. It’s clear that they propose to apologize, through the appointments system, for historic wrongs against particular communities.’
‘So it’s bring on the one-legged black lesbians and only the one-legged black lesbians.’
‘We’re headed there. Mary Lou’s the black dyke, you’re supposed to be the crippled gay…’
‘And you?’
‘Oh, at the moment,’ said the Bursar, ‘I’m making the most of being fat and old and I’m keeping my sexuality even more of a secret than did George Eliot. Now drink up, it’s time you went to bed.’
‘I don’t know how to find my room.’
‘I will escort you and protect your virtue from any lurking sexual predators. I will also meet your cat. Now, I want you up at seven o’clock in the morning, in the garden or the front hall, to participate in the Swedish drill.’
‘Why?’ Even to his own ears, Amiss’s
scream was heartfelt.
‘Because you’ve had too much of the Dykes since you’ve arrived and I think it’s time you had a blast of the Virgins. You’re not here, you know, merely to enjoy yourself. There is,’ said the Bursar, smiling evilly, ‘no such thing as a free temporary Research Fellowship.’
Chapter 7
Plutarch awakened Amiss by kneading his chest in a par ticularly brutal fashion. Casting her aside with a loud oath, he established that the alarm was due to go off in two minutes and crawled miserably out of bed to dress for the physical jerks. He was relieved to see that it was raining and that he would be spared the dank dew of an early morning in the Fens.
He arrived clad in jeans and T-shirt and panting in the front hall at 7:09, having been delayed by Plutarch’s demand for food and a contretemps with a can opener. There were a half-dozen or so women already there, dressed in interest ingly individual garments. A dreamy-looking beanpole with cropped grey hair—later identified as the theologian, Miss Thackaberry—wore a long striped shirt inside out; the Bursar was simply turned out in knickers and vest; the Senior Tutor sported grey woollen stockings topped with an elongated grey woolly sweater; Miss Stamp, as ever, radiated brightness—this time in a tracksuit in Christmas-fairy pink with appliqued cats. ‘I hoped you’d turn up, Mr. Amiss. I wore this in honour of your dear pussycat.’
Amiss felt a momentary flash of resentment on Plutarch’s behalf; a cat of such determined fighting spirit and ferocity of temperament should not be thus slandered. As he strove to make some appropriate rejoinder, the Mistress came downstairs, looking trim in a maroon gymslip.
She stood with her back to her followers and went instantly into action, swinging her arms forwards and back wards in a warming-up exercise which the others followed faithfully. Within a minute and with no warning she swung into the in-out jump. Amiss had not participated in an exercise class since school but he had once observed one in action on civil service premises. On that occasion, half a dozen or so women dressed in leotards had been leaping about aerobically to a frightful din of hard rock interspersed with screamed instructions from a tarty-looking, over-made-up blonde. He was not enjoying himself, but he was grateful that at least the Virgins did it quietly.
His ruminations were shattered by a swift and extremely painful blow to the back of his neck, which turned out to be the Bursar’s delicate way of indicating that the assembled company had now moved on to toe-touching. Out of the corner of his eye he observed with pleasure that this exercise was giving her a little trouble. Even with the greatest exertion she could reach only as far as mid-calf. He was doing only slightly better, but the others—to a Virgin—appeared to be effortlessly hitting the spot.
The Mistress took them through four or five more movements and at 7:30 said, ‘Thank you, ladies, and Mr. Amiss,’ and took the stairs at commendable speed. All followed save the Bursar and Amiss, both of whom were short of breath.
‘I shall probably be unable to walk tomorrow,’ groaned Amiss.
‘That’s all right,’ she responded cheerfully. ‘You’re supposed to be a cripple.’
‘No thanks to you I’m not dead; you nearly broke my neck.’
‘All you youngsters nowadays seem to want to be treated like Dresden,’ she said contemptuously.
‘Well, you are certainly putting up a pretty good imitation of Bomber Command.’ He stopped for a moment to catch his breath. ‘Now what was I supposed to have got out of this new unpleasant experience? Oh, yes, I remember, snug gling up closer to the Virgins.’
The Bursar began to climb the stairs. ‘What did you notice?’
‘That they seem to be a united and happy team.’
‘That’s correct. Except for that old cow Deborah Windle sham…’
‘Who?’
‘The one who looks as if she’s just sucked on a lemon.’
‘Ah, and reads at meals.’
‘That’s her. But Maud keeps her in her place, so mostly she’s perforce a team player. What you saw there was the quintessential spirit of the college—enjoying duty and accepting leadership gratefully. That’s what I expect of you.’ Smiting him on the back from a sheer excess of good spirits she turned down her own corridor. ‘Breakfast at 8:00 sharp. Later, if it’s dry, we’ll see about the cat.’
***
When he entered the dining hall, Amiss decided to sit with the students rather the Fellows. Recognizing a prettyish face from the previous night’s fiasco, he sat beside it. He introduced himself as unthreateningly as possible. She said ‘Hello’ in a more or less civil way but did not give her name.
He helped her solicitously to cornflakes and milk and she appeared to thaw.
‘What’s your favourite course?’
‘Bridget Holdness’s Special: “Matriarchy meets Patriarchy; the fight for visibility”.’
‘Interesting?’
‘It’s not just interesting, it’s empowering. Once the scales have fallen from your eyes, everything becomes clear and you feel you can fulfil your potential and share in releasing the spirit of the sisterhood.’ Her eyes radiated devotion in a manner reminiscent of Sandra; it made her look rather attrac tive. ‘Otherwise…’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t like the rest of what I’m doing. It has nothing to do with me or my experience.’
‘What’s your subject?’
‘History.’
‘What? You mean you don’t like any of the other courses?’
‘Most of them are given by men, for heaven’s sake.’
‘Well, you must have known before you came here that the university teaching staff is predominantly male.’
‘I didn’t realize what that meant, then. That was before I understood. I was brainwashed at school. Can you believe that I chose St. Martha’s because it was particularly strong in constitutional history.’ She snorted.
‘Isn’t it?’
‘That’s not the point. It’s all right for what it is but it’s irrelevant. Why should I waste myself on the study of male political ideology?’
‘Know your enemy?’
‘Well, yes, there is that,’ she said grudgingly. ‘But it’s very hard to get Dr. Windlesham to address herself to the centrality of misogyny in the development of constitutional theory. Like, you know, how the Irish constitution encourages women to stay at home and outlaws abortion, and the American constitution, by guaranteeing freedom of speech, deliberately encourages pornography.’
‘Deliberately? I hardly imagine the founding fathers had that in mind.’
‘They were men, weren’t they? And slave owners at that.’ She pushed her cereal plate away savagely, her cheeks pink with outrage.
‘Well, you seem to be enjoying the course anyway, and presumably Dr. Windlesham has taken some of your ideas on board.’ He rather doubted it. Remembering that old harridan grimly reading her medieval constitutional documents throughout dinner, he doubted if she was likely to be much affected by changing intellectual fashion. His companion’s snort confirmed his guess. ‘It’ll be different next year when Bridget gets the centre going.’
‘What centre?’
‘The Alice Toon Centre for Women’s and Black Studies.’
Amiss put on his enquiring look. ‘Tell me about it. I’m too new to know anything.’
‘St. Martha’s has been left a lot of money and it’s all going to go to that.’
‘Really? I wouldn’t have thought the Mistress would be very keen.’
‘Who cares what she thinks. She and her sort have had their day.’
Amiss repressed the observation that that didn’t sound like a very sisterly pronouncement. ‘But doesn’t she control the way the money is spent?’
‘Bridget’s going to win that battle. She’s got us—Sisters in Love.’
‘In love with…?’
‘Sisterhood of course.’
‘And how do you demonstrate it?’
Her mischievous smile was almost flirtatious. ‘You’ll see.’
There was a general pu
shing back of chairs and Amiss and his companions stood up along with everyone else. ‘Fancy a drink sometime?’ he asked.
She looked at him dubiously. ‘Maybe.’
‘You didn’t tell me your name.’
‘Pippa.’
‘Nice to meet you,’ he said quickly. ‘See you around.’
‘Was that the date-raped Pippa?’ he asked the Bursar, as they went to converse with Plutarch.
‘The very same. I worried for you when I saw you sitting together. You should have sought the safety of high table. Control your passionate impulses, my lad. Confine them to your cat.’
‘You don’t understand my cat. Plutarch accuses one of date rape if one so much as gives her the time of day, as you will shortly find out if you are intent on this mad scheme of taking her for a walk.’
‘Rubbish, cats are putty in my hands. We got on famously last night. You’ll see. She’ll jump to my word of command.’
***
Plutarch in fact jumped to the Bursar’s bribe—a large sausage which she extracted from her jacket pocket.
‘That’s a fine red-blooded cat.’ She scooped the animal into her arms, receiving—to Amiss’s chagrin—a loud purr.
‘Open the basket,’ she said, as she tickled Plutarch’s ear: Amiss followed instructions. Stealthily, for a woman of such solidity, the Bursar traversed the room—distracting the cat’s attention awhile with rough endearments—reached the basket, dropped her in and slammed the lid shut.
‘Howzzat?’
‘You do realize you betrayed her trust?’
‘Nonsense, it’s for her own good. She needs a bit of fresh air. Now come along. Buckle up.’
The all too familiar feline yodelling drowned all conver sation as they made their way down the back staircase, out of a great oak door and into the open air. Amiss put the basket down and scratched his head. ‘What’s a medieval cloister doing in the middle of a neo-Gothic pile?’
‘An essential part of the vision of old Jeremiah Ridley; contemplation was to be encouraged along with sewing, knitting and daily exercises.’
‘You don’t mean he had anything to do with that carry-on this morning?’
Matricide at St. Martha's Page 5