The Campus Trilogy

by AnonYMous

  Early on Thursday I took the train to London. I promised Victoria I would do some shopping for her at Fortnum and Mason: I was to choose a hamper as a thank you present for Vanessa and James and arrange for it to be delivered. In addition, she was anxious for me to buy presents for our hosts in Sweetpea. I found a bottle of vintage port for the Billstones, and a large jar of Welsh honey for Thomas Jefferson Porpoise. I also purchased a box of marron glacé as a little surprise gift for Victoria. I arrived at the Acropolis at one.

  Morris was waiting for me in the hall. “Bloody hell,” he said pointing at the porter. “He said I couldn’t come in without a tie, so he gave me one.” Morris was wearing corduroy trousers and a checked sports coat with a green flannel shirt. The striped red and gold Acropolis tie looked most peculiar with them.

  “Sorry, Morris. I should have warned you.”

  On the way into the dining room, I saw Charles with a group of Commonwealth bishops hovering around the lavatories. We waved at each other. As we sat at our table, Morris looked around the room. “Grandest place I’ve ever been,” he said. “Can’t imagine what I’m doing here. Bugger!” he observed, “Isn’t that the Vice-Chancellor of Wellington?” In the corner by the window, there was a group of elderly men in grey suits. I had never seen any of them before.

  “I don’t know him,” I said.

  “I do,” Morris said. “Had a fight with him two months ago about a professor who was accused of trying to seduce the department secretary. Damn stupid thing to do. Anyway, the whole thing died down.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “The guy got a very good deal: five years’ enhancement to his salary, plus sixty per cent part-time teaching for three years. More than he deserved! Nearly killed me!”

  We ordered the set meal, and Morris opened up his briefcase, took out a file and put his mobile phone on the table. “Morris,” I said. “I’m afraid we can’t look at anything dealing with my case in the dining room.”

  “Place is bugged?”

  “No, Morris. I’m afraid it’s against the rules. And, you’ll have to put away your phone.”

  Morris looked bewildered. “What kind of establishment is this?” he asked. “They make me wear this ridiculous tie, won’t let me discuss anything important, and ban my mobile.”

  “It’s a gentlemen’s club,” I smiled.

  “Right. Right. OK. But does that mean we can’t talk about your predicament?”

  “We can talk. But it can’t look like business.”

  After we had finished the three-course set lunch, Morris still looked hungry. I ordered the cheese board. He ate most of it.

  We went to the drawing room for coffee. Scattered around the room were elderly men reading newspapers. Several were asleep in large green leather armchairs. A fat ginger cat wandered around the room, hopped on to a sofa near a window, and went to sleep. I poured out coffee for both of us, and we settled in the corner near a library table covered with newspapers and magazines. Morris looked perplexed. “I don’t get it,” he said. “Who are these people? Why aren’t they at work?”

  “They’re mostly retired,” I said.

  “Place looks like a geriatric day-care centre,” Morris observed. “Is there a television set somewhere?”

  “No, just books.”

  I was reassured by my conversation with Morris. As it happened, I had kept very full records of my meetings with Ronald. By any standards I had been more than conscientious. He told me he would brief Penelope who would go to the meeting with Pilkington.

  On the way back to St Sebastian’s, I took out The Times. In the supplement there was a long article about settling abroad. One of the couples interviewed had moved to the United States. They had been living in London, and sold their house in Fulham. They went to Rome, Georgia, where they bought an old colonial house which they had restored. It was filled with English furniture as well as American silver. They were photographed standing in the garden with the house in the background. It all looked rather tempting.

  Pilkington had arranged the disciplinary meeting for a week from Monday. I phoned Penelope, told her about my conversation with Morris and arranged that she should accompany me. On the day, Penelope came to my office. She had taken photographs of Rufus with her mobile telephone, and showed them to me. He was much better, she said, and appeared to have recovered from his trouble with hairballs. Pilkington opened the door when we arrived; Sloth was seated at a small table waiting for us. He had assembled several papers on the table including Ronald’s letter. Pilkington sat at the head of the table. Penelope and I sat next to each other across from Sloth.

  “Before we begin,” Pilkington said, “I want to say something off the record. This is the fourth meeting we have had to discuss your behaviour, Harry. I hope it will be the last. Yesterday, I had a long conversation with the Vice-Chancellor, and we are anxious to ensure that there will be no further complaints.” Sloth shifted uncomfortably and nodded his head. “So,” Pilkington continued, “I hope you will recognize the gravity of this meeting …”

  “I’m sorry,” Penelope interrupted. “There can be no off-the-record comments. We are here simply to investigate this postgraduate’s allegations about Harry as his supervisor. Nothing more.”

  Pilkington was undeterred. “I think you fail to recognize the seriousness of Harry’s position,” he said. “And I must tell you, in addition to these formal complaints, other students and members of staff have been complaining about Harry.”

  I was furious and was about to demand concrete details, but Penelope cut across me: “We are not here to discuss anonymous grievances, John, Can we get down to the matter at hand?”

  Sloth was making notes as Penelope spoke. She was wearing black trousers and a violet turtle neck sweater. As usual she was covered in cat hair. Her mascara on her right eye had smudged, and her lipstick was uneven. I wondered if Pilkington and Sloth noticed. Pulling a folder from a large Tesco bag, she embarked on my defence.

  “Now,” she began, “there are strict guidelines laid down by the university for the supervision of research students. As you will see, Harry has carried them out rigorously.” One by one she ticked them off. Pilkington shifted uncomfortably; Sloth stopped writing. Penelope handed over Ronald’s thesis with my corrections as well as a list of all the meetings I had since Ronald began. Eventually she concluded by emphasizing that there was no foundation for any complaint, and that if a warning were given the union would advise me to appeal and would ensure the case attracted the maximum of publicity.

  Pilkington turned a dull shade of red. He asked if I had anything to add; I shook my head. Triumphantly Penelope stood up. “Right,” she said. “So we are agreed that there is no substance whatever in the complaint?”

  Pilkington looked at the file glumly. He turned over the pages and peered at all the documents. After three or four minutes, he closed it and sighed. He shrugged his shoulders at Sloth and shook his head.

  “So, are we agreed that this was a specious complaint and the matter be dropped?”

  Pilkington nodded reluctantly. “All right,” he said. “But, Harry, I must say …”

  Penelope was having none of it. “There is nothing to say. Harry was falsely accused by a malicious student who wanted his job. We all know what really happened.” Sloth squirmed in his seat. “I hope you ensure Ronald Grundy apologises.” Penelope continued, “Come along, Harry!” I got up and followed her out the door.

  “Tremendous!” I said as we walked across the lawn.

  “Piece of cake! It was a good thing you had kept such thorough records. Not everyone’s so careful. That’s what they were hoping. They won’t trouble you any more. But you must indicate that given the circumstances, it would be inadvisable for you to continue as Ronald’s supervisor.”

  Penelope strode off, and I made my way to Magnus’s room. When he answered the door, I was shocked. He had a blue bruise around his eye. “What happened?” I asked.

  “Damn women
,” he said. He removed a pile of papers from a chair, and gestured that I sit down. He paced as he recounted his latest encounter. “I got in this morning and saw I had a flat tyre. Well, I saw that pretty car mechanic who lives with that colleague of ours. I was standing there looking hopeless, holding the jack. I didn’t know what to do. Anyway, she asked if I wanted some help. I was jolly relieved. The girl’s a genius – had the tyre off and put the new tyre on in about two minutes. I didn’t think I could give her a tip, so I said: “Look, can I take you out dancing?” If she could fix a flat like that, I figured she might be a whiz at the tango. I know Victoria is doing her best, but I need some more practice before my cruise. I thought I would take her to the dinner dance that is advertised in the White Hart Hotel.”

  “Magnus,” I said. “What were you thinking of? She’s a militant lesbian.”

  “Well that shouldn’t stop her dancing. Anyway, she lashed out completely without provocation and hit me in the eye. Then she called me a male chauvinist pig. I couldn’t believe it! And now I’ve just found this note in my pigeonhole.” He handed me a folded piece of paper.

  Dear Dr Hamilton,

  I am writing to you because I have just been informed that you propositioned my partner after she fixed your flat tyre. I cannot understand why you behave so inappropriately. We both regard this as an insult and insist on an apology.

  Yours sincerely,

  Patricia Parham

  (Reader in Twentieth Century History)

  “Handbags at dawn!” I remarked.

  “Look at my eye,” Magnus sighed. “It will take months to go away. How am I going to explain this to the ladies on my cruise?”

  Two days later I received a short letter from Pilkington, telling me that the complaint from Ronald had been dropped. He had sent him a detailed account of my interview, and it had been agreed that a new supervisor would be appointed in my place. This, he thought, would be the best resolution to the problem. With a sense of elation, I phoned Magnus and told him the result. He sounded morose. The bruise, he said, was now a deep purple. He had gone to the pharmacist who told him there was nothing that could be done – he would simply have to wait for it to go away.

  Later in the day I received an email from Barraclough requesting that all research-active staff provide a brief description of the work they intended to submit for the Research Assessment Exercise. These reports, he explained, would be sent to external assessors who would make a preliminary judgement. He was anxious to have this information by the end of the week.

  Magnus refused to go to the Senior Common Room because of his black eye, so we agreed to meet at a small teashop in St Sebastian’s. He was sitting at a table in the front wearing his new Harris tweed jacket and a pink bow tie. A black eyepatch covered his right eye and hid most of the bruise. “What do you think?” he asked.

  “Good grief!”

  “Rather fetching, I thought. Like a pirate!”

  “Ridiculous! Everyone will think you lost an eye.”

  “Nearly did! Still can’t believe it! All because I wanted to take her out dancing!”

  “I think you rather misjudged the situation.”

  Magnus pulled out a batch of papers from his pocket. “Just got my ticket,” he said. “They gave me an upgrade. I’m set to sail on the l4th of June.” He handed me a brochure with a picture of an elderly couple drinking champagne. The woman was dressed in a blue velvet ball dress. Her husband was wearing a dinner jacket and black tie. “That’s what my cabin will be like,” he said.

  “Do they also supply a companion?”

  “I’m afraid that’s up to me. Do you think the eyepatch might help?”

  The next day I received a surprising letter from Rabbi Wally Wachman. Several weeks ago, he explained, he had met with Lisa Gold and her fiancé, Ronald Grundy. It appeared that Ronald was anxious to convert to Judaism as soon as possible. Because he lived in St Sebastian’s, it was difficult for him to attend conversion classes, and he hoped to study on his own. He listed me as a referee, and the rabbi wanted to know something about him.

  Given recent developments, I was anxious to avoid further difficulties. I wrote back, indicating that perhaps it might be more suitable to ask someone who knew him better than I did. I emphasized that although I had been his supervisor, I was in no sense a personal friend.

  Two days later I had a telephone call from Rabbi Wachman. He apologized for bothering me, but he thought it might be possible to have a brief conversation about Ronald. I hesitated. But, after some prompting, I told him about Ronald’s recent complaint about me as a supervisor.

  “That has all the marks of a Freddie Gold campaign!” Wally said consolingly.

  I was sure, I said, that he would no longer wish for me to act as a referee. Rabbi Wachman then explained that it was not the normal practice to rush someone through conversion, but that enormous pressure had been applied by Freddy, who wanted his daughter to have a sumptuous wedding over the summer. I then told him about Gold’s scheme to pay for a lectureship in ethics for his future son-in-law. Rabbi Wachman sighed. “That family is a nightmare. Quite frankly, I don’t think Gold will come through in the end. That’s what keeps happening to the synagogue. Promises are made, but seldom kept.”

  Before we finished the conversation, the rabbi asked about our holiday plans. I told him I had been invited to give a lecture at Sweetpea College in Virginia. He was amused. It turned out that his brother, Manford Wachman, was the major luxury car distributor in Sweetpea. He specialized in Rolls-Royces. He had started with one tiny outlet, but there now were branches of Manford’s Motors all over the southern states of the USA.

  “He really is a living example of the great American dream, unlike his poor rabbinical elder brother! He married a charming American girl and they settled there to be near her family. I’m sure he’ll give you a good deal on a hire car during your stay,” he told me. “Just give him a ring and mention my name.”

  “I’ll do it this afternoon,” I said.

  Later that day, I had an email from Wally’s brother. It would be his pleasure, he said, to lend us a car at a discount. He also asked if Victoria and I might be free one day to come to lunch during our stay.

  When I told Victoria about the rabbi’s brother, she was apprehensive. “Really Harry,” she said, “you can’t go around Sweetpea in a Rolls-Royce, even if it’s only for a few days. They’ll think you’re incredibly vulgar.”

  “It’s only for three days,” I countered, “I’ve always wanted a really posh car and I’ve never driven a Rolls.”

  “Still, what will the Billstones think? You’re there as a guest, not a celebrity.”

  “Actually,” I said. “I think I will be regarded as something of a celebrity. And, I understand from the dealer that the president of the college has a black Bentley. So what’s wrong with a Rolls?”

  “If you can’t see, there’s no way I could explain. But, trust me, it’s not the done thing.”

  “It probably is in Virginia. Remember, it is the land of the brave and the free.”

  When I told Magnus about the Rolls-Royce, he was elated. “Maybe I should get one myself,” he mused. “But if it’s new, it will cost a fortune. And if it’s old, I won’t know how to fix it. I’m certainly not going to ask Parham’s friend again.” He shifted his eyepatch. “Then of course, I wouldn’t be able to drive it with this thing on. Absolutely wrecks one’s sense of perspective. I’d have to wait until the bruise heals. And that could take months.”

  “You’ll also be on the high seas,” I reminded him.

  “You’re right. It will have to wait. Pity! A convertible Rolls-Royce with this eyepatch would slay everyone.”

  The last week of term I was busy marking a pile of essays, when I received an email from the administration saying that Wanda Catnip would be returning at the beginning of next term. We were all wished a good holiday, and the urgency of completing the report about our RAE submissions was emphasized. There was also a sim
ilar missive from Pilkington. He encouraged everyone to complete their submission report, and he included a note from Sloth about university finances. It read:

  Salary and Income

  The Senior Management Committee, consisting of the Vice-Chancellor, Registrar, Dean and Heads of the Departments has recently discussed the policy of generating income for the university. It was agreed that each Head of Department will be responsible for calculating the income brought in by each member of staff. It is the aim of the university that for all those capable of generating income, the following rule should apply: All members of staff should be responsible for generating an income equal to their salary. In doing this calculation, Heads of Departments are reminded that all income is top-sliced at forty per cent to pay the university administrative costs. This calculation will serve as a vital element in the management of the university.

  Pilkington indicated that these complicated sums would be done over the vacation and would be reported back to each member of the department. It was his aim, he said, to use this information in all future appraisals. He concluded by stressing the importance of RAE income for each research-active member of staff. Currently, he stated, all those whose work had been submitted received twenty thousand pounds every year which formed part of their total yearly contribution. Anyone left out of the future RAE would need to compensate for this loss of revenue by doing extra teaching.

  I had a phone call from Magnus later in the day. “What do you think of Pilkington’s stupid note?” he asked.

  “I don’t think I understand this business about income,” I replied.

  “They think the university is a factory and we’re the workers. The Senior Management Committee should be taken out and shot. If I weren’t leaving, I’d have to teach double the number of students all year.”