by AnonYMous
‘I’ll look at the essay,” I said, averting my eyes. “Even though students are allowed to submit an essay rather than take an exam for the course, I’m not sure about this. I’ll read your work and let you know. Come and see me tomorrow.”
Lisa stood up and smiled. “Thanks, Professor,” she said. “You won’t regret it.”
She shut the door behind her. I looked down from my office window at the students below. I saw Lisa walk off towards the Student Union. She glanced up. I retreated behind the curtains. The phone rang. It was Victoria, my wife. “Darling,” she said. “Don’t forget to pick up the wine. You know Daddy’s very particular.” Victoria’s father was coming to stay for the weekend.
“I know,” I said. “I’ll get some claret like we had last time. Should I get a magnum? The Buzzard seems to like big bottles of the stuff.”
“Please don’t call him the Buzzard.”
“But he does look like a buzzard. A craggy buzzard.”
My father-in-law – Sir William Dormouse – was over eighty, but still very vigorous. He had inherited an enormously draughty, crumbling castle on the Welsh border. The family was traditionally loyal to Wales. He had been educated at Shrewsbury School and was still active in the Old Salopian Club. Even though he was rather snobbish about my background ‘in trade’, as he called it, it pleased him to know that I too had been educated at Shrewsbury and that I had read theology at Cambridge. His great-great-grandfather, the second baronet, had been a don at Trinity some time in the early nineteenth century. When the elder brother had died in a hunting accident, he had given up his fellowship and returned to live the life of a country squire. The family had remained there, sending their children over the border to public school. Victoria had been to Cheltenham Ladies’ College and then on to Girton; her brothers had followed their father to Shrewsbury and Trinity. Victoria and I had met when she was an undergraduate and I was struggling with my PhD.
At dinner that night, I told my father-in-law about the RAE. Our two Siamese cats circled the table, hoping that we might share our sherry trifle with them. “The RAE takes place every few years,” I explained. “The purpose is to assess the research output of each academic.”
“Must be very time-consuming reading all that stuff,” Sir William said.
“Well, it is. At least for all the members of the Committee.”
“You’re on the Committee?” he asked.
“Not me. It’s composed of about a dozen experts in each field. They spend about a year reading each person’s best work.”
“Damn boring.”
“It must be. But it’s all very important, because money is distributed on the basis of the results.”
“Do you get any extra?”
“No, the department does. The Vice-Chancellor is obsessed by the RAE. It’s all he can think about. The same applies to the Dean and the heads of departments.”
“Harry’s department did jolly well last time,” Victoria interjected.
“Good for them!” he said. “How much extra money did you get?”
“Actually, we got less. You see, all the departments improved like we did. So there was less money to go around.”
“Damn stupid,” my father-in-law said. ‘Don’t see the point. Claret’s good; I’ll have another glass, there’s a good girl.”
After Sir William had gone to bed, Victoria and I sat in the drawing room. We had bought our house when I was appointed to the Chair of Christian Ethics; it was an old mill house in the country, about eight miles from St Sebastian’s. The cats were curled up on the sofa asleep in front of the log fire and Victoria had changed into her dressing gown. She was as slender and dark-haired as when I first saw her at a meeting of the Cambridge Arts Society. “So how was the Faculty meeting?” she asked as she finished the last of the claret.
“Boring as usual. Bossyboots (our nickname for Wanda Catnip) was in charge, and the VC gave us a pep-talk about the RAE. Magnus moaned through most of the meeting. Poor chap! He knows he’s not going to be included, and is going to have to teach more courses. He ought to take early retirement, but he told me he can’t afford to.”
“I can’t understand why he’s never written anything. You said he was brilliant.”
“He came with glowing references, but he simply dried up. It happens. Anyway I meant to tell you about one of the undergraduates in my first-year class. I think she tried to make a pass at me!”
Victoria laughed. “No!” she said, “How very flattering! What did she do?”
“Well she’s a transfer student and she came around after the staff meeting. She wanted me to give her credit for my second-year course because she’d already written an essay on the subject. I said I’d look at her work, but she kept wriggling and she promised she’d make it worth my while!”
“No!” said Victoria again, “What did you do?”
“I sent her away and told her to come back tomorrow. But actually there’s a problem with her essay. I’ve had one almost identical last year. I think she probably copied it off the internet.”
“Oh dear.” Victoria looked thoughtful. “Do be careful. She sounds as if she could be a lot of trouble and you don’t want to end up as one of those sad old men who are always chasing young girls!”
“I don’t think there’s much danger of that with you around” I said, and we smiled at each other.
The next day I went into the university for a departmental meeting. The Head of Department, Dr John Pilkington, was a tall, bearded biblical scholar whose PhD thesis on St Luke’s Gospel had eventually been published by the University of Exeter Press ten years ago. In addition, over a twenty-year career at St Sebastian’s, he had written a half dozen articles for learned journals and two years ago he had been appointed senior lecturer. No one wanted to serve as Head of Department, and he was elected unopposed. A dedicated servant of the university, he volunteered to sit on nearly every committee. It was rumoured that he had ambitions to succeed Wanda Catnip as Dean. He and his wife, Maureen, lived in a modern bungalow on the outskirts of St Sebastian’s. Since he became Head of Department, they hosted the annual Christmas party in their house.
As this was the first meeting of the term, all fifteen of us including Wendy Morehouse, the departmental secretary, assembled in the largest seminar room in the Humanities building. Located across from the Old College, it was a modern structure of steel and glass. Only Magnus and I had refused to have our offices there; it was too ugly. So we still worked in the Old College. I sat next to Magnus who was dunking chocolate biscuits into his coffee. To keep myself from falling asleep, I drew sketches of my colleagues. I began with John Pilkington who, like Wanda the day before, focussed on the significance of the RAE. Convinced that our department was one of the best in the country, he expected us to have an outstanding score.
“Guy’s as batty as the VC,” Magnus muttered.
“So,” Pilkington droned on, “we’ve got to pull our socks up. If you haven’t published your stuff by now, you’ve got to get going. It takes publishers at least a year to get a book into print, and journals can take even longer. There’s just two years left before the RAE deadline.”
I passed my drawing to Magnus who giggled and handed it back. I then gave it to Agnes who was sitting nearby. She looked quizzical and hid it under her papers. “You’d better not show it to Pilks,” Magnus cautioned.
After a lengthy discussion of other items on the agenda, Magnus and I left the building. Together we walked to the Old College. Magnus was on his way to the corner shop to buy food for the rest of the week. “I say,” he said, as we crossed the street, “isn’t that the girl who was in your room yesterday?” Lisa was standing on the steps smoking a cigarette. She smiled as she saw us.
“Hi, Professor,” she said. “Can you spare a minute?” Magnus waved as he left us and walked in the direction of the shop.
Lisa followed me up the steps, and we went by the chapel where volunteers from the town were arranging flowers. When w
e reached my office, I hung up Lisa’s jacket on my door. She sat on my sofa. I placed myself opposite her in a wing armchair.
“So?” she asked.
“I’m sorry, Lisa,” I said. “Your essay was very good. Really excellent. But it would set a precedent. If you had taken the exam, then you could have credit for the course. But since you didn’t, I’m afraid I can’t give you an exemption. You’ll have to fulfil the requirements here. But if you choose an essay dealing with the same subject, then you can adapt and rewrite what you’ve already written…’
“Come on, Professor,” Lisa said, leaning forward and exposing her cleavage, “I said I’d make it worth your while.”
I stood up and handed back the essay. “Anyway,” I spoke more severely than I felt, “although it was very good, I do have to say that your paper was very similar to one I read last term. You are aware, aren’t you, that all essays submitted for formal assessment have to be gone through by the departmental secretary? They are checked against anti-plagiarism software to make sure that no one had copied material directly off the internet or anything like that. I’m sure you wouldn’t think of doing such a thing, but…”
Lisa turned bright red. She interrupted me, “How dare you suggest I would copy an essay!” She snatched the paper out of my hand, grabbed her jacket and turned on her heel, “You’ll hear more about this!” she said and she flounced out of the room.
I was disturbed by this encounter. Had I done the wrong thing to warn my student of the dangers of plagiarism? Was she upset that I had rejected her advances? Or was she just a spoilt child used to getting her own way? I picked up the telephone and rang Magnus’s mobile.
“Look,” I said, “something very upsetting has happened! I think I may be in trouble!”
“What have you done?” Magnus was interested. “Did you hit Wanda? Or even better, the VC?”
“No … Nothing like that. I’ve just had the most extraordinary encounter with that student.”
“I thought she might be a problem. What did she do? Try to seduce you?”
“Well actually, yes. She wanted to get credit for my course on the basis of a single essay she wrote at her last university. And she said she would make it worth my while if I agreed. I had to admit it was a very good essay, but the problem was that there was no proof she had written it and it was very similar to an essay another student wrote for me last year.”
“So you said no?”
“Yes. And I warned her about the dangers of plagiarism from the internet.”
“I wonder what she meant about making it worth your while.” Magnus’s voice took on a faraway expression. “She really didn’t have many clothes to take off.”
“Don’t be absurd, Magnus. I don’t know what she meant and I don’t care. What matters is she bounced out of the room slamming the door and she gave me to understand that I hadn’t heard the last of it.”
“Why don’t I come round and you can make me a cup of coffee? I’ve just finished shopping and I’m exhausted.”
Within a couple of minutes there was a knock on the door and Magnus appeared. He was loaded down with three plastic shopping bags and a huge sack of cat litter. Like Victoria and me, Magnus was very fond of cats. His large middle-aged tabby was called Pushkin. He was known to be extremely fussy and would only eat the most expensive cat food and use the most rarefied cat litter. Magnus tossed his bags into a corner and stretched out on my sofa.
“I think you may have missed a splendid opportunity,” he said.
“Don’t be stupid Magnus. I’m sixty. I’m not interested in the undergraduates.”
“Well, she did look a particularly toothsome young thing …”
I frowned. “What I’m concerned about is what she’s going to do next. I was hoping for a nice quiet term when I could get on with my new book. I really don’t want to have to deal with Wanda Catnip and accusations and counter-accusations and heaven knows what.”
Magnus took a sip of his coffee. “I don’t think you have any cause for worry. She’ll get over it. After all you didn’t do anything wrong … or did you?” He looked at me slyly over his spectacles.
“No I did not. I acted perfectly properly and that’s what I’ll say if I’m asked.”
“I’m not sure acting ‘perfectly properly’ is what goes down well in this establishment,” remarked Magnus gloomily. “In my experience deceit, vanity and self-aggrandizement are far more successful.”
CHAPTER TWO
There’s Nothing They Can Do
When I arrived home, I told Victoria what had happened. She was dismayed. “Are the students really like that?” she asked in amazement.
“It’s never happened before.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear it. What a horrid, spoiled girl!”
“But what if she wants to make trouble? The last thing I want is a student complaint.”
“But you didn’t do anything wrong. You just warned her of the consequences of plagiarism. And anyway, your colleagues will support you. Magnus would.”
“But he doesn’t have any influence. If anything, his support will just make matters worse. If there’s a hint of a complaint, Pilks will want to set up an official inquiry. Bossyboots will be frightful. She’ll take the matter through formal proceedings. She loves that sort of thing.”
Victoria giggled. She put on her special Catnip manner, “Now Harry, this is a very serious matter …” She reverted to her usual tone. “I don’t see what the girl has to complain about. You rejected her advances and told her not to copy her work off the internet. That’s exactly what you’re supposed to do.”
“The VC would love a complaint, however ridiculous. He’s only concerned about money and he’s longing to get rid of anyone who’s over fifty and expensive. He’ll make any excuse to suggest early retirement again.”
Throughout dinner, we continued to discuss the incident. Our cat, Cleo, sat on my lap and tried to lick cream from the silver cream jug.
“Look,” I said, “I think we just have to wait and see. So far nothing’s happened. This girl, Lisa, fled from my office, and hopefully she won’t come back to class. She doesn’t want a fight. What would be the point? She won’t gain anything by making a fuss.” Eventually I let Cleo finish the cream. She then jumped down and was instantly sick over our Heriz carpet.
The next day I arrived early for class. On the way to my office, I stopped in the Porter’s Lodge to collect my post. One of the letters was marked Private and Confidential. It was from the Head of the Department. This was bad. When I got to my office, I opened it. It read:
Dear Harry,
Yesterday a second year student, Lisa Gold, came to see me about an incident that took place in your office in the afternoon following the staff meeting. She has accused you of sexual harassment. As you know, this is a most serious offence. I am therefore treating this matter as a disciplinary case under Provision 24 of the University Statutes. I am scheduling a meeting to discuss this accusation for next Monday at 11:00 in my office. You are entitled to bring a representative to the meeting. I shall be accompanied by the Dean. Please let me know if this date is convenient.
Yours ever,
John
Dr John Pilkington,
Head of the Department of Theology
A formal disciplinary case! I had never faced such a thing! I sat looking out of my window at the trees which were now shedding their leaves. Why didn’t Pilkington come to see me? Surely he could have informally discussed such an accusation before proceeding. John Pilkington and his wife had entertained us at his house at Christmas, and we asked them to our annual drinks party. We had not been on bad terms, even though we were not particularly friendly. It was true that Victoria was patronizing about their bungalow in private. She thought his wife was suburban; she made fun of their neat lawn and tidy hedges. But these comments were made only to me. Could the Pilkingtons have found out what she thought?
What would be the implications of such a formal complain
t? Pilkington had already told Wanda because she was going to be present at the meeting. Could they really believe I had been so foolish? And what about Barraclough? Had he been informed too? Probably everybody would soon know. I looked at the envelope marked ‘Private and Confidential’. This was to be a private and confidential matter. But it wouldn’t be. Everyone would soon know. The Professor of Christian Ethics accused of sexual harassment. What a story! What humiliation! What disgrace!
After my classes I went to the Senior Common Room for lunch. Pilkington was standing in the queue ahead of me talking with Wanda. When they saw me, they smiled. Surely they must have discussed Lisa’s complaint, but they gave no indication. They were engrossed in a conversation about the RAE. I ordered a tuna sandwich, coffee and a packet of shortbread biscuits and sat down in an armchair next to Magnus who was deeply engrossed in The Times. He was reading the obituary column. “Look at this,” he said. “My supervisor, Rupert Berry, just died. He was a fossil thirty years ago. I had no idea he was still alive.”
“Magnus,” I whispered. “I just got a note from Pilks. That girl put in a formal complaint. She said I harassed her sexually and they’re going to investigate it.”
Magnus looked up. “Really,” he said. “She is a tough little so-and-so. Perhaps you should have been more accommodating!”
“Come on Magnus!”
“Just a suggestion. By the way, what did Victoria say?”
“She was very cross … not with me, but with the girl.”
“You know,” Magnus said turning over the pages of The Times, “Berry never wrote much. I think he only published his PhD thesis and then he got a Chair.”
Exasperated, I spluttered: “Magnus, you’re not taking this very seriously. I’m in trouble. Real trouble. Pilkington wants to investigate this affair under some University Statute.”
“Probably Provision 24. That’s Discipline leading to Dismissal. I looked it up when Pilks sent me a note about not getting my essays marked on time. He actually mentioned it in his letter?”