The Campus Trilogy

by AnonYMous

  “And, Harry,” Pilkington broke in, “we don’t want any more formal complaints. Be careful in the future …”

  “Speaking of the future,” Wanda interrupted, “can I ask you about the letter that the VC sent all staff over fifty-five? You did get it, didn’t you?”

  “You mean the one about early retirement?” I replied. “I did. But I threw it away. It’s simply out of the question.”

  “Are you sure?” Wanda inquired. “Of course we don’t want you to leave. But, it’s important that younger members of the department have opportunities to take on senior roles. Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure, Wanda. I don’t want to retire. I’m far too young. I like my job, and I plan to stay at least until the official retirement age.”

  Wanda looked unconvinced. “There’s a lot you could do without university responsibilities,” she said. “You’d have time to do research without teaching and you could avoid administrative duties – though you seem to be good at that anyway. You and Victoria could travel. You should think about it.”

  “I have. But I’m not ready to go,” I said. The meeting had come to a close, and I stood up to leave.

  “Well, Harry,” Pilkington said, “let’s get back to work.” I wandered out of the Head of Department’s office in a confused state. At least the ordeal was over quickly. Lisa was not going to be a problem. Rumours would die down and life would continue. But I did have a sinking feeling about this last meeting. Had they agreed with the VC that I should go? Had this issue become a means of getting rid of me? As a senior professor, I was one of the most costly members of staff. I earned more than anyone else in the department. My leaving would be a major saving, and the money could be used for other purposes.

  When I got back to my office, I phoned Penelope to tell her about the meeting. She listened patiently, but cut in when I told her about Pilkington’s and Wanda’s comments about early retirement. “This isn’t good,” she declared. “They’re not supposed to mention anything like this in the context of a disciplinary matter. The union doesn’t like it. We’ve never agreed to anything like this. Anyway, keep me informed.”

  When I put the phone down, I heard a knock on my door. It was Magnus carrying more shopping. “Has anything happened yet?” he asked.

  “It won’t go any further. I’ve just come back from seeing Pilkington. There isn’t enough proof.”

  “That’s what I told you,” he said, as he slumped into my wing armchair. “Shall we celebrate?” He took two cans of Budweiser beer out of his bags and a chocolate sponge cake. “Got this at the Farmers’ Market cake sale in town,” he announced. He took a pen out of his top pocket, attempted to cut the cake with it dropping crumbs on my carpet in the process and handed me a piece.

  “Thanks Magnus,” I said, getting out a couple of glasses. “This is very good of you.”

  “Don’t mention it. I didn’t have breakfast, and this is my favourite,” he said, as he stuffed cake into his mouth. “Most delicious!”

  CHAPTER THREE

  It Sounds Like a Conspiracy to Me

  I was relieved to see that Lisa had disappeared from my first-year course on ethics. To my amazement, however, it appeared that a great many students from other departments had switched courses and were now enrolled in my class. There were even postgraduate students who asked if they could audit the course. Overnight the group was so large that another lecture room had to be found. Instead of being the target of suspicion, I had suddenly become a curiosity. Women students far outnumbered the men. When I told Victoria, she was amused.

  “The Don Juan of the Theology Department!” she mocked.

  “This isn’t funny,” I said. “Pilks and Bossyboots were horrid. They told me I had to be careful. They had even discussed the matter with the Vice-Chancellor. Really, Victoria, you’ve got to be more serious.”

  “Well,” she said, “you must admit it is ironic. You’re charged with sexual harassment. As a result, Women are lining up to get a glimpse of the St Sebastian’s stud.”

  “This is no joke,” I said.

  “Come on Harry, Lisa’s done you a favour. The students have always liked you, but this is the icing on the cake.”

  While the students gossiped about Lisa’s allegation, St Sebastian’s staff were preoccupied by the introduction of a new pay scale. Several years previously it was agreed by the unions and university management throughout Britain that academics would be shifted to a new pay structure based on roles within the institution. Each university was free to devise its own scheme, but it had to conform to national standards.

  Wanda sent out a note to everyone requesting that they attend a meeting where this would be discussed. Magnus and I joined over a hundred staff assembled in the Great Hall to listen to a talk by the Director of Personnel. Julie Hummer was a beaky, large woman with curly grey hair; she wore an eau-de-nil two-piece suit with a cream blouse. Throughout a complex PowerPoint presentation, she explained how it would work. In essence, we were all to be transferred from the previous, age-based pay scale to a new scale based on responsibilities.

  Afterwards Magnus accompanied me back to my room. “That was about the stupidest thing I ever heard,” he complained.

  “The PowerPoint presentation was rather good,” I objected.

  “Look, Harry. The whole idea is ludicrous – people being paid for what they actually do … You must be joking!”

  “Well,” I said, “there is a logic to it.”

  “But it’s impossible to implement. Senior staff dump all the awful jobs on lecturers. They’re the ones who do all the work. The whole system’s based on exploitation.”

  “But, Magnus,” I said, “you don’t do any administration. You’ve refused for years.”

  “That’s why I never get promoted,” he sulked.

  “But, don’t you see? It’s a vicious cycle. You won’t take on administrative roles because you think professors or readers or senior lecturers should do the work. And so, you don’t get promoted because only those who put up with the drudgery do. Then, when they get the senior positions, they promptly give up all administration. The new system does seem a bit fairer.” I handed Magnus a cup of coffee and a chocolate digestive biscuit.

  “Well,” he said, “things may not be exactly looking up for you with this new system.”

  “Oh?” I said.

  “Julie said salaries would be based on roles. But you’re not Dean or Head of Department. So, they might conclude that you don’t earn your professorial salary. And they’ll either make you Dean or Head, or reduce your pay packet.”

  “Do you think they might?” This aspect of the matter had not occurred to me.

  “With Barraclough,” Magnus mused, “anything is possible.”

  The next day I had a phone call from a Rabbi Wally Wachman whom I had met at a conference of the Council of Christians and Jews in London a year previously. I did not know him well, so I was surprised by his call. He was the senior rabbi at the largest synagogue in Finchley. A graduate of London University, he later gained a PhD from Manchester in medieval Jewish philosophy. I had a vague recollection of him as a stout jolly person with a flowing grey beard. His PhD had been in Maimonidean ethics, and he had given a paper about medical issues.

  “You may not remember me,” the rabbi said, as he introduced himself on the phone, “We spoke a year ago at a CCJ Conference in London. I gave a very dull paper on Maimonides and you asked a very sensible question.”

  “Of course I remember. It was a most interesting paper,” I said. “How are you, Wally?”

  “I don’t want to interrupt you, but I thought I should get in touch. The Golds are members of my congregation,” he explained. “And they have come to see me about their daughter Lisa, who is one of your students.”

  I had a sinking feeling. He went on. “They told me that their daughter Lisa has had some trouble at your university.”

  “Trouble of her own making. I’m afraid she told a pack of lies about me
,” I said.

  “Oh dear! Anyway, I’m sure you are distressed about it. The point is that something similar happened here several years ago at the synagogue. It didn’t involve me. It was my assistant, Rabbi Fine, who had the problem. Lisa was in his confirmation class. She had misbehaved and Fine talked to her afterwards. Apparently they had a most disagreeable conversation about her attitude. She is not what I would describe as an industrious student. But then – and this is why I called you – she accused him of trying to seduce her. Of course, there were no grounds for this accusation. Rabbi Fine is a most moral and upright chap. He’s married with three children. But when Lisa complained, I had to listen. The president of the congregation, who is a close business associate of the Golds, intervened, and Rabbi Fine was dismissed. Mercifully, I managed to get him a job in Florida where he has rather a good congregation. Even though I am sure he was innocent, the president insisted he had to go.”

  “But surely there are employment laws?” I said.

  “Yes. But if he had stayed, we would have lost the Golds, and in any case rumours get around. No smoke without fire. That sort of thing. Fine would never have got another job in the British Jewish community. The Golds are big donors – though I have to say they tend to promise more than they deliver. At that stage they had pledged a sizeable contribution to the building fund. The president had to take action, otherwise we would have lost the money. We’re in the middle of a big building programme, and we are dependent on the goodwill of individual donors. It isn’t always easy and, alas, sometimes principles go out of the window.”

  “Thank goodness universities aren’t like that.”

  “Oh,” he said. “I thought they were going the same way. Well, I felt you might want to know. Lisa’s no doubt got you into trouble.”

  “Well, frankly she has. But I think it’s all right. I’ve been told that it was my word against hers, and I do have tenure. But, it’s terrible about your assistant. How has he taken it?”

  “He’s done very well. They’re lucky to have him. But he did have to start again in the States. I hear from him occasionally. I understand he’s now doing his own radio programme, and is taking a course in psychological counselling. But the point is, I didn’t want you to feel bad about your difficulties with Lisa. I thought knowing about Rabbi Fine might help.”

  “Wally … Can I ask a favour? You wouldn’t be willing to testify to all this, in case there are problems?”

  There was a long pause. “Can’t really,” he replied. “The Golds would be furious if they knew I was telling you this, and my job would be on the line if I put it in writing. I hope you’ll understand.”

  The call ended with mutual expressions of esteem. Later in the afternoon, I went to the library. On the way in I ran into the Registrar, Dr Robert Sloth, and his wife. After finishing a PhD on John Galsworthy at Goldsmiths’ College, London, he joined the Registry at the University of Southampton, where he met and married his wife, Jenny, who was working in the library. Dr Sloth had a large office next door to the Vice-Chancellor and reputedly spent every afternoon asleep on a sofa. He always snored at university meetings except when he was in the chair. He was clutching a stack of books. I waved. He smiled. I glanced at the titles as he passed. One of the books had a photograph of a university on the cover: it was entitled Risk Management in Higher Education.

  It was my turn to take chapel services for the week. Since Barraclough had ruled that the university could no longer afford a full-time chaplain, the chapel services were conducted by a rota of part-timers. Magnus and I met up for a drink before Evensong. I told him about my encounter with the Registrar.

  “Risk management is the new buzz word,” Magnus announced. “I read about it in the Times Higher last week.” I had a vague recollection of the article, but I had skipped over it to look at the reviews, just in case someone had written about my last book.

  “‘Universities can’t be too careful,” Magnus said. “But you can be sure Sloth will never understand it. He’s incapable of finishing anything he starts. How big was the book?”

  “Looked quite thick,” I said.

  “Well … Sloth by name and sloth by nature. He really should get some sort of concession for procrastination,” Magnus announced. “Didn’t his doctor say he had some kind of disease?”

  “Narcolepsy,” I said.

  “Oh. I thought it was necrophilia,” Magnus smiled.

  For the rest of the week there was no mention of Lisa. However, the following Tuesday there was an official envelope marked Private and Confidential in my pigeonhole. It was from the Vice-Chancellor. I was summoned to a meeting later in the day in his office. He said that Robert Sloth would be accompanying him. I immediately phoned his secretary to ask what it was about. She said she didn’t know. I asked if I should bring a union representative. She wasn’t sure but would check. Before lunch I received an email from Barraclough stating that it would be an informal meeting, and therefore there was no need to bring someone from the union. But he didn’t say what it was about. To be on the safe side, I phoned Penelope. She told me not to worry, but if anything emerged that concerned the union I should phone back.

  At two o’clock I knocked on the Vice-Chancellor’s door. He was sitting at his large mahogany desk; the Registrar was in a leather armchair opposite. Barraclough’s office was located on the floor above the chapel overlooking the cathedral. The room had been freshly painted a sickly pale green and there were acres of emerald green carpet on the floor. In the corner of the room was a Victorian long-case clock. There was a highly polished reproduction Sheraton dining table in the corner surrounded by dining chairs – this was used for official meetings as well as interviews of candidates for jobs. Over ten years ago I had been interviewed here for the Chair of Christian Ethics. Without standing, he gestured that I should sit next to the Registrar. He was holding a letter in his hand.

  “Harry,” the VC began, “I just had this letter from the father of one of your students: Lisa Gold.” The Registrar sighed. He looked as if he was about to go to sleep. “I have heard about this matter from Wanda,” Barraclough continued, “and I know what happened. I understand this girl’s allegation has been dealt with …”

  “Look,” I interrupted, “I’m sorry. But Lisa is deranged. I understand from her rabbi that she’s done this before.”

  Barraclough looked puzzled. “You’ve spoken to her rabbi?” he asked.

  “He phoned me. But the point is – I’m completely innocent.”

  “That’s neither here nor there. I want you to hear what her father has written to me.” He read it aloud.

  “Dear Vice-Chancellor,

  I have just had a most distressing conversation with my daughter, Lisa, who is a student at your university. You may know that she transferred this year from London where she was not particularly happy. She was anxious to live in a small campus community where she would receive individual attention. However, it appears that she has had a very unpleasant encounter with one of your teachers. She tells me that this person, Professor Gilbert, tried to seduce her in his office. She says that he molested her. I am very shocked about this, and I expect the university to conduct a thorough investigation. This is all most distressing because I had intended to make a sizeable gift to the university on Lisa’s graduation in memory of my dear mother. I know Lisa’s grandmother would have been very proud of her granddaughter if she had been alive. But, after hearing how students are treated in your university, I have regrettably decided that this might not be the best way to remember Mother.

  Yours sincerely,

  Freddy Gold, MBE

  Gold and Gold Manufacturers.”

  Sloth shook his head. “We could have done with the money.”

  “So, Harry, you see what we are facing. The loss of a substantial donation,” continued the VC.

  “But …” I stammered.

  “Now, Harry,” Barraclough was not going to let the matter go, “there is no question of taking action
here. But I do want to discuss the letter I sent you some time ago about early retirement. I have had no reply. Are you sure this is something you wouldn’t like to consider? You are reaching retirement age, and we could make you a good offer.”

  “’Look,” I said. “I’m sixty, and that gives me five more years. As a matter of fact, the government is considering abolishing retirement age altogether because of the European Directive outlawing age discrimination. So I might be able to continue after sixty-five. I have no intention of leaving at present.”

  The Registrar sighed again. Undeterred, the VC went on: “No one denies you have done a great deal for the university in the time you’ve been here. We are all most grateful for your contribution. But most academics retire by the age of sixty-two. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to have more free time, liberated from teaching and marking essays?”

  “I like it here,” I said indignantly.

  “Good. I’m glad you do. I’m not suggesting you leave us altogether. I’m simply indicating a change in contract might be beneficial to everyone. Part-time teaching. You could keep your room …”

  “Vice-Chancellor,” I said, “I’m not interested. There’s no reason I should go just because some over-indulgent father is offering a bribe to get rid of me.”

  The Registrar looked up. He had been doing some calculations on his pocket calculator. “Do we know what kind of manufacturing Mr Gold is involved in?” he asked.

  “I understand he is in the corsetry business,” the VC said. “His company is the biggest bra manufacturer in Europe.”

  When I got back to my office, I phoned Magnus and told him what had happened. “The bra business,” he chortled. “That’s even worse than your Pa with his frozen fish fingers.”

  “My father was an importer of high class comestibles,” I said with some dignity. “At one stage he was the sole supplier of black caviar into this country. He inherited the business from my grandfather who had a licence from the Romanovs themselves.”