The Campus Trilogy

by AnonYMous

  Exasperated, he hung up. “Damn. Those people never keep their promises.”

  “Do you want a lift?” I asked.

  “Do you mind?”

  I pushed several books off a chair as well as copies of the Journal of Old Testament Studies and sat down. Magnus handed me the biscuit tin. It had a picture of a country cottage and ducks in a pond. “So,” he said, “what’s the news?” I told him that Ralph Randolph and Patricia Parham were to be on the appeal panel.

  “I wouldn’t trust Randolph,” he said. “Sneaky little shit. He’ll try to please Barraclough. But Parham might be good news. By the way, isn’t she living with some woman car mechanic? Maybe she could have got me some new tyres,” he mused.

  “You really think Randolph would uphold the oral warning?” I asked

  Magnus took another biscuit from the tin. “Help yourself,” he said.

  “No Magnus, thanks.”

  “Look Harry,” he continued. “Randolph knows if he supports you, the Registrar will be pissed off. And so will the VC. He’s nearing retirement, and they’d be sure to go after him. In addition, Chemistry has been under threat for years. It’s too expensive.”

  “What about Parham?”

  “I understand she just published a new book about homosexuality in the Third Reich. She’s bound to apply for a personal Chair. She has to have Barraclough’s support. You can’t get anywhere in this place without it.”

  “But this has nothing to do with the merits of the appeal.”

  The garage rang to tell Magnus that the tyres had arrived. When he put the phone down, he looked at me critically. “Harry,” he said. “You’re supposed to be an expert on ethics. But right and wrong have nothing to do with this. It’s not about justice; it’s about politics. An oral warning won’t kill you. It’s just a rap across the knuckles.”

  “But it’s not fair!”

  “Who said anything about fairness?” Magnus ate the last biscuit.

  That night I told Victoria about my conversation with Penelope. “I forgot to tell you about the Registrar,” I said. “Barraclough and the Provost of St Sebastian’s Cathedral have put him up for the Acropolis.”

  “Sloth? Have we got to meet that ghastly little man at the club?”

  “So, you see, they’re all in this together.”

  Victoria did not understand. “But that has nothing to do with the appeal.”

  “On the contrary,” I explained, “it has everything to do with it. The Provost is Visitor of the University; he’s technically Barraclough and Sloth’s boss. If the Provost is matey with Sloth, Barraclough is bound to reject my appeal to protect Sloth’s wife. No wonder that lazy idiot has survived in his job so long. I had no idea he had friends in high places. Anyway Magnus thinks I should just accept the inevitable and live with an oral warning. It only lasts a year.”

  “So why don’t you, and just drop the appeal?”

  “I won’t,” I said.

  “Why? If you’re going to lose …”

  “Even if I lose, there’s the principle. I can’t just give in to injustice. Otherwise what am I doing teaching Christian ethics?”

  “You’re earning an honest penny.”

  “Yes, but …”

  “Look, Harry. Ethics has nothing to do with the way the world works. Or how Christians behave either. Some of the worst people I know are clergymen.”

  I was insulted. “How can you say that?” I said. “What about me? What about my Christian ethics textbook?”

  Victoria kissed me. “You’re a darling. And the book’s a nice little earner. But really, Harry, you don’t live in the real world.”

  Penelope and I arrived at Barraclough’s office ten minutes early for the appeal. We sat outside in a corridor; the door to the office was closed and we could hear voices inside. Eventually Jenny Sloth emerged followed by Malcolm Fishman, the Librarian. They looked pleased with themselves and smiled slyly as they passed. After several minutes the Registrar summoned us.

  The Vice-Chancellor was sitting at the head of the table; the Registrar sat on his right, and Randolph and Parham on opposite sides. Barraclough had a pile of paper in front of him consisting of letters and emails. Randolph was wearing a shiny navy suit and a green tie with blue stripes. There was an indefinable chemical smell emitting from him. Parham was dressed in red dungarees. She looked as if she had been helping her friend mend motor car engines. Her fingernails were encrusted with grime. As usual, the Vice-Chancellor was dressed in a grey suit and was sporting his Acropolis tie. I wondered if I should have worn mine. Sloth looked nervous.

  Barraclough began by telling us that he had interviewed Pilkington about the warning and had just met with Mrs Sloth. He briefly outlined the nature of Jenny’s complaint, and read out relevant correspondence. He then recounted Pilkington’s explanation of the need for the oral warning. At this point, Penelope went on the attack. She pointed out that Mrs Sloth had not done her job, and it was not unreasonable for academic staff to remind colleagues if a duty had been neglected.

  Barraclough emphasized that the question was not whether staff could make requests, but rather how such requests should be made. “Dr Sloth,” he said, “tells me that poor Jenny was most upset by it all, and has had to have several days off with stress-related illnesses.”

  “For heaven sakes,” Penelope interjected, “she was being asked to do her job! Nothing more, nothing less!”

  “In this case,” the Vice-Chancellor continued, as if Penelope had not spoken, “the objection was to Harry’s lack of tact. And after all, this is not a unique instance.” I looked astonished. No one had ever complained before. “There have already been complaints this term from a student about Harry’s behaviour.”

  “Untrue and unsubstantiated,” I interrupted indignantly.

  “So we know Harry has a tendency towards this kind of behaviour,” continued Barraclough magisterially.

  “My staff are always complaining about how rude he is,” said Sloth. During this discussion, Randolph looked out the window, and Parham fiddled with her hair. Neither made eye contact with me or Penelope.

  The Vice-Chancellor then asked me to present my account of events. I stressed that the number of students in my first year Christian ethics class had risen dramatically at the beginning of term. Randolph smirked and muttered something to Parham who frowned. I then explained that I had initially asked Jenny to order additional copies of my textbook. I had had no response. As a result, I sent her additional emails and eventually wrote a letter asking that she deal with the matter. It was her delay, I said, which had created the current problem. In my view, there were no reasonable grounds for an oral warning. I had acted properly throughout. Jenny, on the other hand, had neglected her responsibilities as a librarian.

  The Vice-Chancellor took notes as I spoke. He took the Staff Handbook from the bottom of his pile of papers, opened it to the section dealing with discipline, and read out the regulations. The difficulty, he said, was that although there was an attempt at an informal solution to the problem, this had not been achieved.

  Penelope shifted in her chair. “Look,” she said. “Dr Pilkington gave no opportunity for an informal solution. Professor Gilbert was willing to apologize for upsetting Mrs Sloth, but Dr Pilkington insisted this would not be sufficient. He was determined to issue an oral warning from the start.”

  Barraclough looked through his papers and pulled out a letter from Pilkington. He read it out loud:

  “Dear Vice-Chancellor,

  It is with regret that I am writing to you about an unfortunate incident involving a member of my department. Several weeks ago Professor Harry Gilbert contacted one of the librarians, Mrs Jenny Sloth, requesting additional books for his Christian ethics class. This was due to an increase in student numbers at the beginning of term. This was followed by a series of emails and eventually a highly critical letter. As you know, the library is extremely busy at the start of term. Mrs Sloth was unable to respond immediately to Profe
ssor Gilbert’s request due to the pressures of work. Professor Gilbert, however, was insensitive to the situation. Instead of patiently waiting for a response, he adopted a hectoring tone throughout. I have always been concerned for the welfare of my department as well as for staff throughout the university. It appears to me that Professor Gilbert has misused his position as a professor in acting in this tactless way. It is for this reason that I have had no option but to issue an oral warning.”

  Yours ever

  John

  Dr John Pilkington,

  Head of the Department of Theology”

  Neither Randolph nor Parham had said anything during the meeting. The Vice-Chancellor asked if they would like to ask any questions. There was no response. He then asked if I wanted to make a final comment.

  “Look, Vice-Chancellor,” I said. “I have been an academic here for ten years. Prior to this year, I never had a complaint from either staff or students. I have always tried to be courteous; it was never my intention to cause offence. I’m sorry if Jenny was upset by my request for books. I only had the welfare of my students in mind. I told my Head of Department that I was prepared to write an apology to Jenny. But, I must stress that I don’t think I was wrong to persist in asking for these books. Nor do I think my requests were in any sense abusive. The real question is why Jenny is so sensitive. I’m sorry she had to take time off for stress. If she does find being a librarian overly taxing, then she ought to consider whether she should continue. I consider myself totally innocent in this affair. Furthermore, I think you would be creating a serious precedent if you uphold the Head of Department’s warning to me. It would mean that any member of staff – either academic or non-academic – who did not want to do a particular job, could issue a formal grievance against the member of staff who made the request. Do you really want this to happen?”

  “You can hear how arrogant he is,” said Sloth. For once he was fully awake. “How dare he suggest my wife should give up her job – that’s just typical of him! Rich and arrogant!” He realized he had gone too far and lapsed into silence.

  “We are not here,” the Vice-Chancellor said with dignity, “to determine how I should manage the university. The question is whether Professor Gilbert behaved in an offensive fashion. The Committee will give its decision, and I will communicate it to you in writing.” He stood up and escorted Penelope and me to the door. He thanked us for coming, and slammed it shut behind us.

  Forlornly I walked back to my office with Penelope. “That didn’t go very well, did it?” I said.

  “They want to get rid of you,” she said. “You’re expensive, and they probably have someone in the wings. I know the signs. Keep a close eye on your graduate students.” Fleetingly I thought back to the scene of young Grundy with Wanda. I told myself I was being paranoid.

  I found Magnus in the Senior Common Room. He was struggling with the Times crossword. “Damn difficult today,” he announced. “Can’t seem to make any sense of most of it. So, how was Barraclough?”

  “Terrible,” I said.

  “Didn’t go well then?”

  “I didn’t have a chance. How could I, with Sloth running the show?”

  “How were Randolph and Parham?”

  “They just sat there. They didn’t even look at me.”

  “Oh dear. Well, Harry, you’ll just have to live with an oral warning. It could be worse. You might have to teach summer school.”

  Later in the afternoon, I had a brief note from Barraclough telling me that my appeal had been rejected. I wasn’t in the mood to do anything, but I had to attend the Talks Dinner Committee at the Acropolis at six. I caught the train and arrived a half hour late. Afterwards I stayed for dinner and sat at the Club Table. When I went up to the drawing room, I looked in the candidates’ book to see if anyone had supported Sloth. To my surprise the page with his name and supporters had been removed. I saw the secretary of the club standing by the bar and went over to speak to him.

  “I was looking for a candidate’s name in the book,” I said. “But it seems to have vanished.”

  “Who’s that?” he queried.

  “Dr Sloth. He’s the Registrar of my university.”

  “Oh yes,” he said. “He was a candidate. But his supporter and seconder have asked that his name be removed.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, there seems to have been a problem about his page. I’m afraid someone defaced it. I think his supporters thought there might be opposition to his election.”

  “Oh dear!” I said.

  “Well, someone was certainly determined he shouldn’t be a member.”

  This was cheery news. I felt much happier and decided to have a little celebration. I ordered a glass of champagne and took a bowl of peanuts to eat as I read the latest issue of the Church Times.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Better to Sleep Than to Fight

  Over the next few days I looked at Pilkington’s party invitation on the mantelpiece. I was in no mood to attend, but Victoria was insistent. “If you don’t go,” she said, “it will look as though they’ve won. And I want to have another peek at their extraordinary decor. Don’t forget to use the downstairs loo so you can see what colour it is.”

  “Really Victoria, you are a snob!”

  “I am not! I love my friends in the Women’s Institute. It’s just the Pilkingtons. They’re ghastly. I wouldn’t miss their party for anything.”

  On the day, I reluctantly drove to the party, picking up Magnus on the way. He lived in a small flat near the university. It was littered with books and potsherds from the Middle East. In the dining room was a massive Assyrian sculpture. When he brought it home from Iraq, customs thought it was a bomb and Magnus was detained at the airport. On the way, he told us that he had just had a Christmas present from his aunt. She sent him a hundred pound premium bond. “If I win,” he announced, “I’ll take the early retirement deal.”

  “But Magnus,” Victoria said, “it’s like the lottery. The odds are about twenty thousand million to one.”

  “That bad?” he asked.

  “Nobody ever wins the big prizes, Magnus,” I said. “Well, somebody does. But it won’t be you.”

  Cars were lined up outside the Pilkingtons’ bungalow, stretching down the street. Their house was part of a small, modern estate on the outskirts of St Sebastian’s. When we rang the doorbell, one of the department postgraduate students opened the door. I noticed that the hall carpet had not improved. The dining room was crowded with members of the university. In the corner, I noticed Wanda talking to Jenny Sloth and the Provost of St Sebastian’s Cathedral. Victoria marched over to say hello. I felt a stab of pride. Victoria was wearing a wine-red velvet dress. I happened to know she had bought it at an Oxfam shop in Knightsbridge, but it had once been very expensive. It was cut simply and showed off her dark slenderness to perfection. She looked like an elegant butterfly among the dowdy polyester moths of the other wives.

  Magnus and I took glasses of wine from the dining room table. “Probably cheap plonk,” Magnus muttered. He was right. Maureen Pilkington was handing out canapés from a large tray. They seemed to be pieces of cheese and pineapple on orange sticks. Magnus took three. I shook my head. They did not look worth getting fat for. Maureen greeted us as she passed. “Look Magnus,” I said, “I promised Victoria I’d go see the downstairs loo. I’d better get it over with.”

  “But we just arrived.”

  “I know. But Victoria thinks the colour is extraordinary. She said I had to look.”

  Magnus looked amused as I made my way through the crowd. The door was ajar and I entered. Victoria was right, their lavatory was the colour of chewed bubblegum. I wondered what it said about Pilkington’s anal obsessions. On the way out, I saw Barraclough leaving. As in the past, he was making a brief appearance. I didn’t look forward to running into the Registrar, and hovered over the drinks table. Magnus had refilled his glass, and was looking for alternative hors d’oeuvres in the kitch
en. He came out with a plate loaded with plastic-looking vol-au-vents. Throughout the evening, I managed to avoid Wanda and the Sloths. They were also keeping their distance. By the time we were ready to leave, Magnus had drunk at least six glasses of wine and looked increasingly morose. On the way home, he warbled: “An old don’s life is not a happy one.”

  On Saturday, Victoria and I went Christmas shopping in London. We bought a large stilton for my father-in-law from Fortnum and Mason, ties for Victoria’s brothers from a shop in the Burlington Arcade, and scarves from Liberty for the sisters-in-law. There were also tokens for the five nephews and nieces. As we walked up South Audley Street, we passed a travel agency which was advertising skiing holidays in Aspen, Colorado. “Harry, why don’t we go?” Victoria said. “You deserve a treat.”

  Inside the shop we looked at several brochures, and eventually decided on a seven-night package holiday including meals. The hotel, the Aspen Siesta, was next to the ski lift and overlooked the town. We were to arrive at Heathrow on 27 December and fly to Denver and then on to Aspen. I hadn’t skied since I was at Cambridge, but Victoria assured me that I would remember everything. Victoria hadn’t been on the snow for many years either, but was undeterred.

  The day before Christmas, we loaded up the car with presents and set off for Wales. Our neighbours promised to look after the cats while we were gone, and we booked a kennel for them for our trip to the States. When we arrived at the castle, Sir William was decorating a gigantic Christmas tree in the drawing room with the help of his grandchildren. Victoria’s brother, Anthony, was seated at the piano practising Christmas hymns. Her sister-in-law, Joanna, was preparing tea. Victoria’s eldest brother, Billy, and Selina, his wife, were walking their undisciplined bearded collie.

  In the evening there was the usual Christmas party for all the children in the village school. By tradition the owner of the castle was the chairman of the governors. Billy had taken on this duty, but Sir William still insisted on giving the party. Over the years the number of children in the school had dwindled, but each child was still given a carefully chosen present off the tree. Because the children did not know me, it had become my duty to dress up as Father Christmas. I wore the old, slightly musty-smelling costume which had been in the family for generations. To my annoyance, I noticed it was tighter than last year.