by AnonYMous
After the party we had dinner. It was noisy – everyone talked at once. Victoria struggled to tell the family about our forthcoming trip. After dinner, the grandchildren disappeared and Sir William insisted we play Scrabble. I had the lowest score and was teased about losing. Aided by a large bottle of claret, Sir William put all his letters down on a triple word score and was particularly triumphant.
On Christmas day I preached a sermon on humility in the village church. Sir William sat in his usual pew with Victoria, Billy, Selina and young Will, the oldest grandson. The rest of the family stayed at home, preparing the food. After a delicious lunch we opened our presents, and later Victoria and I took Buggins, her brother’s dog, for a walk across the hills. Snow had fallen in the morning, and had covered the ground. As we walked towards the village, past grey stone cottages, Victoria brought up the issue of retirement again.
“Harry,” she said. “It’s so lovely in the country. I do think we ought to consider buying a little house in the Cotswolds.” Victoria had been looking through old issues of Country Life since we arrived. “The university is awful. I can’t see how you’re possibly going to enjoy teaching if you have to worry all the time about this wretched oral warning.”
“It’ll only last a year,” I said. “And it doesn’t really matter.”
“But what if someone else complains? Then it could get worse.”
Victoria was right. But I was determined not to let Pilkington and Wanda Catnip drive me out. “Look,” I said. “I’m going to retire in a few years anyway. Why should I give up a job I like just because Barraclough wants me to leave?” In the distance we heard the honking of geese. Buggins shot off, chasing after a rabbit. Country life was delightful. I wondered if Victoria had a point.
After Boxing Day we left the castle for one night at home. Our plane was to leave Heathrow at eleven o’clock in the morning of the following day. We parked in the long-stay car park, and headed for Terminal 4. Crowds of passengers jostled us as we made our way through immigration. Eventually we went to an airport lounge. Victoria ordered a gin and tonic and settled into a comfortable armchair. I sat in front of one of the computers and checked to see if there were any emails. One was a Christmas greeting from Magnus who had gone to see his aunt who lived in East Anglia. It included a cartoon of Father Christmas who looked remarkably like Barraclough. Wanda Catnip had sent the entire academic staff a letter about university developments last term and concluded with a sentimental holiday greeting. There was also an email from Pilkington asking for marks from last term.
When our plane was announced, Victoria and I walked to the gate. A half hour later the plane took off, and I looked through the magazine to see what films were being shown. Our package holiday included economy-class tickets. Behind me was a little girl who giggled and kicked against the back of my seat. I turned around and glared at her parents. They glared back. “Do you want to change seats?” Victoria asked.
I shook my head. “If I can endure Catnip,” I said, “I can put up with this.”
The flight seemed interminable, but I was able to sleep after the meal despite being poked from behind at regular intervals. When we arrived in Denver, we changed planes and flew to Aspen in a small jet with several other skiers. One of the passengers, a tall distinguished-looking man, was accompanied by a well-dressed, brown-haired woman wearing a mink coat. He was carrying a leather bag stamped with a college crest. They were seated across the aisle, and immediately they started chatting with Victoria. It emerged that he was the President of a small Southern liberal arts college in Virginia. Sweetpea College was founded at the end of the eighteenth century by an Ebenezer Sweetpea, a plantation owner and philanthropist who had established the college for young Southern gentlemen. In the l970s, women had been accepted for the first time, and it was now fully coeducational.
Victoria told them that I was the Professor of Christian Ethics at St Sebastian’s. The husband, Oscar Billstone III, had been a Rhodes Scholar at Oxford. Subsequently, he had studied at Harvard for a PhD. His first job was at Princeton, where he became Dean. Six years ago, he was appointed President of Sweetpea. His wife, Nancy, was from an old New England family and had been educated at Mount Holyoke College. She had still been a student when she met Oscar. They had two children. The son was a stockbroker in Wall Street; their daughter worked at the Metropolitan Museum in New York, specializing in Flemish painting. They, too, were staying at the Aspen Siesta. By the time we landed, we had made plans to get together for dinner.
The Aspen Siesta is an old hotel located outside of Aspen. Surrounded by trees, it overlooks snow-covered peaks. The sun was setting when we arrived. We unpacked and quickly fell asleep, exhausted from our journey. Later we met the Billstones in the dining-room. Over dinner, Oscar told us about his experiences at Oxford while his wife looked on admiringly. They asked where Victoria and I had met, and about her background. When they learned she was the daughter of a baronet, they looked at each other. “Thomas would be fascinated,” Nancy said. “He’s one of the trustees of the college. He adores the English aristocracy.”
“We’re not really aristocratic …” began Victoria, but Nancy was in full flow.
“Thomas is from an old American family. His mother was a prominent member of the Daughters of the American Revolution in Virginia. His great-great-great-grandfather, Thomas Jefferson Porpoise I, owned the plantation on which the college is located. He sold the land very cheaply to Ebenezer Sweetpea. Thomas is actually Thomas Jefferson Porpoise VI. His family have been major benefactors to the college for over two hundred years. Our collection of Paul Revere silver was a recent bequest. Thomas went to Harvard and specialized in art history, but he has always been loyal to Sweetpea. I wonder if he’s heard of Victoria’s family.”
“I doubt it,” Victoria said.” My father isn’t a peer; he’s just a baronet. He’s in Debretts, but we’re not an old family. Mr Porpoise sounds grander than us.”
“That’s not what the old Buzzard would think,” I said.
“Please, Harry, I don’t think Oscar and Nancy want to hear about my father.”
“But we do,” Nancy said. She clearly meant it.
“Well, he lives in a draughty castle on the Welsh border. It’s desperately cold in winter, and whenever we visit we have to carry a hot-water bottle everywhere. Daddy refuses to put in central heating. He thinks it’s self-indulgent.”
“And expensive,” I added.
Oscar took out a small notebook. “I’ll write a note to Thomas. What’s the family name?”
“Dormouse,” Victoria said. “The crest is a dormouse couchant. And the motto is Melius dormire quam pugnare.” Nancy looked mystified. “‘It is better to sleep than to fight,”’ I said.
Everyone giggled. Oscar diligently wrote down what I said. “Thomas will be enchanted – you must meet him when you come to Sweetpea.”
The next morning, Victoria and I set off for the slopes after breakfast. We hired boots, skis and poles, bought our lift pass, and rode the chairlift to the top of the mountain. I was having a difficult time with the moguls. I fell several times while Victoria skied ahead. As we came round to the other side of the mountain, Victoria plunged into a large gulley and took a spectacular fall. I skied over and saw she was in severe pain. “Harry,” she cried, “I think I may have broken my ankle.”
I reached down to help her. She couldn’t stand up. “It really hurts,” she said. “I hate to be a bore, but I think you’d better get the ski patrol.” I skied down to the bottom as quickly as I could and found one of the ski instructors. Eventually the ski patrol brought Victoria down in a sled. One of the paramedics examined her ankle; it was swollen, but he was sure it wasn’t anything more than a sprain. Victoria hobbled off to the lodge. “Don’t worry about me,” she said. “I’ll have some hot chocolate, and then I’m going shopping.” I could see this was going to be an expensive holiday.
The rest of the day, I skied by myself. Late in the afternoon I returned to
the Aspen Siesta. Victoria was sitting by a fire in the lobby of the hotel talking to Nancy. She was also drinking a large cocktail, nibbling olives and wearing a turquoise necklace I had never seen before. “Look what I bought!” she said. “There was this charming Indian shop in the centre of town. Isn’t it lovely?”
“How’s the ankle?” I asked.
“Swollen.”
“Are you OK?”
“Fine,” she said. “Come and have a drink.”
For the rest of the holiday Victoria sat in the lounge of the Aspen Siesta reading a stack of novels she had bought in town. She was perfectly happy. Several evenings we joined the Billstones for dinner at local restaurants. They refused to allow us to pay. All costs, Oscar announced, were part of his entertainment allowance as President of Sweetpea. They seemed intrigued about my account of the personalities at St Sebastian’s, but I was careful not to say anything about my recent difficulties.
Victoria and I were due to go to New York for one night before returning to London, and we planned to meet our new friends there. They were going back to Virginia before we left Aspen, and then Oscar had to fly immediately to a meeting in New York; Nancy was planning to join him. “This time,” I insisted, “you must be our guests.” We were staying at the Harvard Club, which had reciprocal relations with the Acropolis and we agreed to meet there at seven.
The Harvard Club is just off Fifth Avenue. When we arrived, we went to our room and unpacked. Then we joined the Billstones for a drink in the bar, before going in for dinner. Once our first course arrived, Oscar told us that he had called Thomas Jefferson Porpoise on his return. He was keen to meet us, and Oscar had been instructed to invite us to the college. “Every year,” he said, “we ask a distinguished academic to give the Porpoise Memorial Lecture. I know it’s last minute, but we have a vacancy for this spring. This year’s lecturer was supposed to be Professor Norman Rattlesnake from Yale. But he’s just won the Nobel Prize and he’s got to go to Sweden to collect it. Would it be insulting to be a substitute?”
“I’d be honoured,” I said. “Could Victoria come?”
“Of course – that goes without saying.”
The next morning, Victoria and I strolled down Fifth Avenue. Our plane was to leave in the evening. Near the Harvard Club we came across an antique shop selling Russian art. In the window was a seventeenth-century icon of St Sebastian shot with arrows. We went inside, and a small gentleman dressed in a black suit greeted us. In a strong eastern European accent, he told us that this particular icon was Cretan. The shape of the rocks in the background, he said, indicated its origin. Victoria loved it. While I looked at the rest of the shop, Victoria discussed the price. “Harry, it will look spectacular in your office,” she said.
“But we can’t afford it,” I objected.
“Yes we can. It’ll cheer you up. When we get back to St Sebastian’s, we’ll have a little party to show it off.” I could see I was going to be sending an enormous cheque to Christian Aid that month.
When our plane arrived back in London, we went straight to St Sebastian’s. We were relieved to find that the cats were well. The next week I hung the icon between the Gothic windows in my office and sent out invitations to a drinks party. I explained that I had just purchased an icon of St Sebastian, and the purpose of the party was for people to see it. It was to be a little gathering for the first day of term; I hoped Barraclough, Catnip, the Pilkingtons and the Sloths would come, along with Magnus and other colleagues. On the day, Magnus arrived early. “Good grief,” he said, “how much did that cost?”
“It was a present from Victoria,” I said.
“Chap got shot with arrows,” he observed. “How very suitable! He’s just like you… a martyr of the university.”
“Worse for him,” I said.
I handed Magnus a glass of champagne as Victoria put out nuts and olives. Slowly the room began to fill up. Barraclough arrived with Catnip and the Sloths. Pilkington had earlier sent his apologies. Barraclough immediately strode over to the icon. “Most impressive,” he said. “I hope you’re planning to bequeath it to the university.”
“I’m not dead yet,” I said.
“Well … ‘Be Prepared,’ as the boy scouts say.”
“Actually,” interrupted Victoria coldly, “it was paid for with money from the Dormouse Trust. Harry has the obligation to return it to my brother Billy when the time comes.” She busied herself with her guests. “The vulgarity of that man is unbelievable!” she said to me in a not very quiet voice as she passed.
I opened bottles of champagne as Victoria flitted about. A little crowd stood around the icon. Among the admiring comments, we overheard Jenny Sloth mutter to Wanda Catnip: “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen. Who do the Gilberts think they are?” Victoria was delighted. “See, I told you it would be a great success!” she said.
On the opposite side of the room hung an old engraving of the club. I saw Sloth gazing at it and went over to talk to him. “That’s the Acropolis in London,” I said.
“I know,” Sloth replied. “The Committee wanted me to join, but I thought it wasn’t worth the money.” I smiled to myself as I went around refilling glasses.
Amongst the guests was Ronald Grundy, my research student. He was standing next to Wanda, helping himself to olives. I went over to say hello. “Harry,” Wanda said, “I’ve been meaning to ask you about your first-year class on Christian ethics. You know that Ronald has a student bursary, and he has to do some teaching. I wondered if he might take one or two seminars with your students. Perhaps near the end of term.”
“That’s fine with me,” I said. Ronald looked pleased. “Come see me and we can discuss it.”
“Cool!” he exclaimed.
“Thanks, Harry,” Wanda said. “As Dean, it’s my responsibility to make sure that teaching arrangements are made for postgraduates who have bursaries. Could you let me have a note about this?”
As I walked away, I saw that Wanda smiled conspiratorially at Ronald. What, I wondered, was that all about?
Ronald was due to have a supervision the next week and had sent me a chapter of his thesis. He was doing well and I had taken a lot of trouble with him. As well as his Arts and Humanities Research Council grant, I had persuaded the department to give him a small bursary. The thesis was coming along nicely and he expected to submit it by the end of the summer. When he came to see me, I asked him about his future plans.
“I hope to hand in the thesis soon,” he said. “My money will run out by the end of the summer, and I’ll need to look for a job.”
“Have you thought where you’d like to live?” I asked.
“I like it here, but it all depends what’s available.”
“Well,” I said, “I don’t think there’s currently an opening. It all depends whether the department is able to advertise for a new lectureship. And then I’m not sure it will be in your field. What we need is another Church historian.”
“I know,” he said. “I’ll probably have to look elsewhere. But St Sebastian’s would be my first choice.”
The next few weeks were uneventful, except for difficulties with my new laptop. At the beginning of term, the University Information Technology Unit had set up a new machine in my office. For some reason, it crashed the first day I used it. Nothing I could do would help. I tried to turn it off and on again, but with no success. Magnus came to look at it, but we couldn’t get it to turn on. I contacted the IT Unit and told them what happened. The Head, Simon Evans, explained I’d have to wait for someone to come around since they were extremely busy at the beginning of term. I complained that I wasn’t able to receive emails or do any work. This produced little sympathy. I phoned several times in the following days to ask for assistance, but I was continually told I’d have to wait.
I hesitated writing a letter: I didn’t want to cause any more problems. But I was worried about not being able to respond to emails. It was exactly the sort of thing which would get me into
trouble. Eventually I wrote a letter by hand to Simon, explaining the urgency of the matter. Two weeks passed with no response. I then asked Magnus if he could send an email for me. Again, there was no reply. In desperation, I sent a fax from the office fax machine. I stressed the urgency of the situation. I was bewildered, I said, not to receive any response from the Unit. All the new technology, I stressed, was designed to facilitate communication rather than hinder it.
The next week I had a letter from Pilkington, marked Private and Confidential. He asked to see me in his office, and told me I could bring a representative. I phoned Penelope immediately. She wasn’t in, so I left a message on her answerphone. I told her to phone me rather than send an email since my computer wasn’t working. Later in the day, she contacted me. She had just been playing squash and was exhausted. “Look,” I said. “I don’t know what this is about. But I’ve just had another threatening summons from my Head of Department. He didn’t say why, but he told me to bring a representative.” Penelope said she was free on the date Pilkington suggested. She insisted I ask him what it was about.
When I phoned him, he was out. I left a message that he could reach me at home. That evening, he rang. “Harry,” he said sternly, “I’m afraid we’ve had another complaint. This time it’s via the Registrar. He tells me you’ve been harassing the IT department about your computer.”
I had a sinking feeling. “Look,” I said. “I didn’t harass them. I’ve been telling them that my new laptop doesn’t work. They keep putting me off. I can’t receive emails or do any work. What am I supposed to do?”