by AnonYMous
I then went to the Porter’s Lodge to collect my post. There was a large envelope marked Private and Confidential. It was from Pilkington. He was summoning me to an informal meeting to discuss Jenny’s letter, and he had enclosed the Grievance Procedure regulations. The meeting was to take place in a fortnight’s time, and I had the right to bring a union representative. He explained that he would initially meet with Jenny. He concluded by saying that his intention was to sort out our differences informally. He hoped to avoid a formal procedure which could take several months.
I immediately phoned Penelope. I read her the letter. She said she would go to the meeting with Pilkington. But she suggested that I should get together with the regional union representative who was planning to visit the university at the end of the week for a discussion with the new pay-scale committee. She said she would try to arrange for me to see him at ten; the pay-scale meeting was to begin at eleven. Later in the day I got a message from the regional officer, Morris O’Murphy, who said he could see me at the arranged time.
On Friday morning, I arrived early. Victoria had baked a chocolate cake which I brought with me. I knew I shouldn’t eat it, but I was having a bad time. I put on the kettle, assembled the letters I had received from Jenny and Pilkington, and waited for the regional officer to arrive. At 10:30 I heard a knock on my door. Morris O’Murphy was rotund and bespectacled. He had a red moustache and was wearing a turtle-neck sweater. In a strong Irish accent, he apologized for being late. “Bloody British Rail,” he said. “Always lets one down. And then I couldn’t get a taxi.” He plopped down on my sofa. I handed him a cup of coffee and a large piece of cake. “Great!” he said as he put the whole lot in his mouth.
“My wife made it,” I said. Morris slurped his coffee, and crumbs fell on his sweater. He eventually put the mug on the floor, pulled papers out of a tattered briefcase, took a large pen out of his pocket, and started to concentrate. “Ridiculous letter from Mrs Sloth!” he announced. “Can’t see what she has to complain about. There’s simply nothing here. No mention of bullying or harassment. Nothing.”
“So you think I’ve got nothing to worry about?” I asked.
“Well …” he paused. “I understand from Penelope that she’s the Registrar’s wife. Always a bad idea to employ husband and wife in the same institution! Still, can’t be helped!”
“Does that make a difference?”
“It shouldn’t, but it does, I’m afraid.”
“That’s not fair!”
“Who said things were fair?”
“Hell …”
Morris shook his head. “You see,” he explained, “in most cases, it’s simply a matter of power. This is a conflict between a professor and somebody who works in the library. Normally, the person in the library would be told to stop complaining. But, since she’s the wife of the Registrar, this isn’t going to happen. And Penelope tells me the VC may also be involved in this.”
“It’s possible,” I said.
“Because of the case with the student and her father?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“So, the situation is completely different. Management has more clout than professors. But,” he went on firmly, “the union has more clout than management.”
“It does?”
“Of course! No VC wants a strike or for the university to be black-listed by the union.”
“There could be a strike?” I asked incredulously.
“Not really,” Morris said with a grin, as he put his papers back in his briefcase. “But we can always threaten one. Anyway, keep me informed. Penelope will go with you to the meeting. Try not to worry. Sorry, but I’ve got to go to this pay-scale meeting. The VC’s going to be there. He’s terrified he might have to find more money.”
“Maybe that’s why he’s so anxious to have early retirements,” I said.
“Oh, yes, Penelope told me about that, too. Disgraceful! The union won’t have offers of early retirement connected with discipline. The VC should know that. Look,” he said as he stood up, “the union is here to help you.” He fished in his pocket and took out a UCU lapel pin and pinned it on my jacket. “Just regard it as an amulet to ward off the evil eye,” he smiled slyly, all Irish charm. “I don’t suppose I could have another piece of that delicious cake before I go, could I?”
Since the surge in attendance at the beginning of term, my class had diminished in size. Some students dropped out, no doubt disappointed by the lack of scandal. Others were simply bored with the topic. Only occasionally did I see Lisa walking across campus. Invariably she looked in the other direction. Magnus and I continued to have lunch in the Senior Common Room; frequently Agnes sat with us, but this made it impossible to discuss the impending meeting with Pilkington.
On the day of the meeting, I arrived fifteen minutes early. I waited outside Pilkington’s office above Wendy Morehouse’s secretarial room. She was busy photocopying. I paced back and forth, rehearsing what I planned to say. Concerned that Penelope had forgotten, I phoned her on my mobile. She replied that she was sorry to be late, but that her cat had been sick over the hall carpet and she had had to clean it up. I knew all about her cat. His name was Rufus and he had come from the same breeder as Magnus’s Pushkin. Pushkin was a fusspot and Rufus was famous for his hypochondria. His being sick was just what I needed.
I heard voices inside Pilkington’s room and tried to listen in to what was being said. When the door opened, Jenny Sloth came out clutching a red leather briefcase. She was wearing a blue suit and high heels. She was followed by one of the library assistants. Both glared at me as they passed.
I heard footsteps and panting – Penelope was clutching a yellow and green file in one hand, and a cat basket in the other. “Got to take him to the vet,” she announced. Pilkington looked startled as we entered. “Sorry,” Penelope said. “cat’s sick. I called the vet, and I’ve got to take him there after the meeting.” I looked into the basket: Rufus stared back at me with his deep green eyes. I tried to stroke his nose, and he pointedly stood up and turned his back on me. This was not an auspicious start.
Penelope put her cat in the corner, where he growled. We sat around a table covered with papers. Pilkington picked up a folder, and took out a letter. “Well,” he began, “I have spoken to Jenny and the matter is more serious than I first thought. As you know, the university regulations specify that all complaints must be dealt with informally. You should regard this as an informal discussion initially. What we need to ascertain first is why you sent this letter to Mrs Sloth. I understand you had already sent a series of emails to her about library books.”
I explained that there had been an increase in the number of students attending my course, and I wanted to be able to supply them with textbooks. My book was written for the course, and the lectures were designed to explain their content. I emphasized that I knew an order form had already gone to the library over the summer, indicating how many books would be needed. But the increase in numbers had made it necessary to obtain more. I went on to describe the delays that had taken place as well as the students’ impatience with the lack of books. I also pointed out that student satisfaction with an important issue for the university.
When I finished, Pilkington picked up his pen and pointed it at the library regulations. “It says here,” he stated, “that all books should be ordered before the beginning of term.” Penelope interrupted, stressing that circumstances had changed.
Pilkington took no notice of Penelope’s comment, and pulled out a series of emails. “So you sent these emails?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied. “But only because no notice was taken of the request. The students were becoming increasingly agitated.”
“But you did pursue Mrs Sloth … and repeatedly sent her emails ….”
“What else could I do?” I asked.
“And then you sent her this inflammatory letter,” he continued.
“Only because she would not respond to my emails.”
“Really, Harry. You have shown little tact in the way you handled the entire matter. You must remember that you are a professor and Mrs Sloth is an assistant librarian. Your outburst was deeply threatening …”
“Threatening …?”
“Quite frankly, I think you were abusing your position as a professor in this university.”
Penelope’s cat had become increasingly distressed, and began meowing. He was trying to claw his way out of the cat basket and made wailing sounds. “I’m sorry, Penelope,” Pilkington said crossly. “This is an important meeting, and you can’t deposit your cat in my office if it continues to be uncontrolled.”
“Could he go in your secretary’s office?” she asked.
“I happen to know Wendy’s allergic to cats,” Pilkington said. “I’m afraid we’ll have to postpone this meeting if he stays.”
Penelope shook her head. “Well, John,” she said. “I really am sorry, but I’ve got to take him to the vet at twelve o’clock. There’s nowhere else for him to go.”
Pilkington looked confused. Penelope’s cat continued to wail. “The meeting will have to be adjourned,” he announced standing up. “I simply can’t concentrate with that wretched cat screaming.”
Penelope got up, scooped up her papers and marched off with her cat. I followed behind. On the stairs she stopped. “I am sorry, Harry,” she said as she turned around. “But that man is totally insensitive. Rufus isn’t himself, and he’s got to see the doctor.” She stalked off, and I heard Pilkington’s door slam.
Later in the day, I received an email from Pilkington asking that we resume the discussion without Penelope’s cat. He suggested we meet on Friday at three o’clock. I phoned Penelope and left a message asking if she could come. She emailed me back, mentioning that Rufus had vomited up a hair ball and was now much better.
On Friday I met Penelope in my room before the meeting. She brought photographs of Rufus, since I had asked after his health. We walked across the campus to Pilkington’s office. When Pilkington opened his door, he looked relieved when he saw there was no cat. I asked if he had any pets, and to our astonishment he replied that in his view the only reason to keep an animal was to eat it. Penelope thought this was a joke in bad taste. Pilkington, however, was serious. Citing Thomas Aquinas’ opinion that animals lack souls, he maintained that animals were created only for the benefit of man. Penelope disagreed – loudly and vehemently. This was yet another inauspicious start to our meeting.
“Now that we are not being interrupted,” Pilkington began, “I think we can address the issues raised by Jenny’s letter.”
“Look,” I said. “It wasn’t my intention to upset Jenny. I think she should have ordered books for my students. That’s her job. But I don’t want to make this a matter of principle. I’m quite willing to write an apology for upsetting her, although I think I will have to say that the books should have been ordered.”
Pilkington looked troubled. “You must apologise,” he said. “You were very tactless. I’ve talked this over with Wanda and the VC, and in our view we think you were misusing your position as a professor. But an apology is not enough. I’m afraid I am going to have to issue you with an oral warning.” He opened the Staff Handbook which was lying on his desk. “This has been an informal meeting so far,” he continued, “but given the gravity of the situation, I’m proceeding from Provision 14 (Grievance) to Provision 24 (Discipline). This states that an oral warning can be given in situations where there has been serious misconduct. As Head of Department I am empowered to issue such a warning as long as I’ve consulted the Dean and Vice-Chancellor. They both agree that this would be the correct action given the circumstances. Of course you have the right of appeal. But I would strongly urge you not to invoke it.”
Penelope was outraged. “This is ridiculous,” she said. “As an officer of the union, I must protest in the strongest terms. There is simply no reason for issuing an oral warning. The regional officer of the UCU will be very annoyed when he hears. Jenny Sloth should have ordered books for Harry’s students. She didn’t answer his request. He emailed her. This was quite proper. There was no response. So he emailed her again. And then he wrote her a letter. Throughout he has acted professionally. You would have been the first to criticize if he had ignored student complaints …”
“Well,” Pilkington interrupted, “that’s not the way the Dean and the Vice-Chancellor see it.” He sat at his desk and frowned at us. “You can do as you wish,” he said. “Don’t think I take any pleasure in this matter. You should be relieved this isn’t going to be a written warning. In any event, an oral warning lasts for a year and will be cancelled assuming there is no repetition of similar behaviour. I will confirm in writing that I have given you an oral warning. It takes effect immediately.”
Penelope and I stood up and walked to the door. Enraged, Penelope complained all the way to my room. “The man’s an idiot,” she said. “He’s nothing more than a little creep. And what about his attitude toward animals … he’s a complete barbarian,” she announced loudly. “Rufus should have bitten him when he had a chance.”
Pilkington’s letter arrived the following week. He informed me that I had been given an oral warning which was effective from the date of the meeting and would be in force for a full year. Any similar offence, Pilkington stated, would be regarded with the utmost seriousness. He went on to emphasize that both the Dean and the VC had been consulted and had authorized this action. He concluded by saying that I had the right to appeal against his decision – if I did wish to do so, I should write directly to the Registrar.
I phoned Magnus and asked him to meet me for tea in the Senior Common Room. When I arrived, there was a table in the corner. I put my coat on a chair and ordered lemon tea for us both plus two toasted teacakes each. I felt guilty about the tea cakes, but I thought they might cheer us up. The SCR was empty except for two Law lecturers who were poring over papers spread out on their table. When I read the letter to Magnus, he groaned. “They fixed it up,” he said. “They’ve decided you’ve got to go. No doubt about it. Are you sure you don’t want to take a retirement deal?”
“But this is entirely unfair,” I replied. “I spoke to Penelope earlier today. She said I should appeal against Pilkington. She tells me that the Appeal Committee is chaired by the Vice-Chancellor and two other members drawn from Senate. Whatever I finally decide,” I declared, “I’m going to clear my name.”
Magnus slumped in his chair and ate his tea cakes. They were sticky with butter which dribbled on to his Harris tweed jacket. “Delicious,” he mumbled. Wiping butter from his chin, he spread open The Times. “Look here,” he said gazing at the obituaries, “the Regius Professor of Theology at St Patricks has just died. He was only fifty-nine. He was at my college at Oxford. Biggest crawler in my year. How he became Regius Professor, God only knows!”
“Didn’t he write a book about divine omniscience?” I asked.
“It was his PhD thesis.”
“So he must have known that God would know!” I said brightly.
“The only thing that chap knew about was how to play his cards right. Regius Professor! He only wrote one book, for Christ’s sake.”
“Magnus, you’ve got to concentrate on the matter in hand. What am I supposed to do?”
Magnus flicked through The Times. “There’s only one thing to do,” he said. “Wait and see.”
Victoria and I had planned to go to London on Sunday; she had a commission to write a review of the Chelsea Antiques Fair for Country Life magazine. Over the last few years she had written a regular column about antiques for the St Sebastian Gazette, and had recently published several articles for The Times. This was her first publication in a glossy magazine. We arranged to stay at the Acropolis on Saturday night and have lunch at the fair. Our room at the club was spartan, not unlike my schoolboy room at Shrewsbury.
We had dinner in the coffee room and coffee afterwards in the drawing room. We sat on a green leat
her sofa near the door. Victoria was reading the magazines and I was enjoying myself looking up my own entry in the latest Who’s Who. Suddenly I heard a familiar voice. It was Barraclough who was with a group of elderly men. As he passed, he greeted us briefly.
“Looks rather guilty, don’t you think?” Victoria commented.
“More than a bit,” I said.
“Who are those men?”
“I’ve never seen them before. Perhaps they’re fellow Vice-Chancellors.”
Barraclough and the others had assembled by the drinks table. They were joined by several churchmen, including the Provost of St Sebastian’s Cathedral. Barraclough and the Provost were speaking animatedly, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying. “Harry,” Victoria said, holding up her magazine, “look at this house.” It was a Georgian cottage in the Cotswolds. “Don’t you think it’s lovely?”
“Victoria,” I said, “I don’t want to move. Please.”
“Just thought you might be interested, that’s all.”
Gloomily I looked over at Barraclough and the others who had seated themselves near the library. “I wonder what the Provost and the VC are talking about,” I ruminated. “Probably me.”
The next day Victoria and I took a taxi to Chelsea. We had been sent invitations to the fair from Country Life and we had lunch there with Vanessa Mandril-Fortescue, one of Victoria’s old friends from Cheltenham Ladies’ College. She lived just off the King’s Road in a small town house. Her husband, James, had just retired from the City and had been given an enormous golden handshake. She was at the fair looking for a pair of Queen Anne chairs for their new cottage in Gloucestershire. “Come round to the house for tea,” she said as we finished lunch.
“We’d love to,” Victoria said. “I want to hear about the cottage. Perhaps you can persuade Harry to move near you. There’s a delicious little place for sale in Upper Honeycomb.”