by AnonYMous
Magnus grinned, “No trouble! Actually, I’m being altruistic. Ask Harry. It’s a paradox.”
To my astonishment on Sunday, there was a lengthy article in The Observer about my new book. Titled ‘Greed is Good’, the piece outlined my views, and contained comments by a number of critics including the Archbishop of Cannonbury. There was a photograph of me taken from the university website.
Victoria’s father phoned in the afternoon to tell us he’d seen the piece. “Daddy doesn’t agree with you,” Victoria announced. “He thinks the problem nowadays is that everyone is too selfish and has no idea of proper responsibility. He’s dedicated his own life to fulfilling his duties as a landowner.”
Our next-door neighbours brought us a copy of the article along with a freshly-made sponge cake. In the evening I had a call from the local radio station. They wanted to interview me the next morning.
When I went into the university the next day, I was greeted by the Head Porter. “Saw your picture in the papers yesterday,” he said. “Jolly good. I agreed, but the wife wasn’t sure if you were right though.”
In my pigeonhole there was a brief note from Pilkington. He wanted me to know that in view of my negative attitudes, it was thought better if there were a different internal examiner for the PhD thesis I had discussed with him. He asked if I could return the thesis and the relevant forms. In addition, he told me that a new supervisor for Ronald Grundy had officially been appointed. Magnus had also scribbled a note on a postcard with a painting of a hissing cat: ‘Saw the article. Many congratulations. Bossyboots and Pilkington will be furious! Happy Days, Magnus.’ Finally there was an official envelope containing the tickets for the OBE ceremony at Buckingham Palace.
Victoria dug out her best garden-party suit for the occasion and found a delightful black hat with a veil at one of the St Sebastian’s charity shops. Even though it was very tight, I had an old morning coat I had bought years ago for weddings at the Oxfam shop which I thought would be suitable. We planned to go to London on the train, have lunch at the Acropolis, and then take a taxi to the Palace. I had sent a note to Barraclough telling him that I was to receive an award; he wrote back a curt note thanking me for letting him know. There was no whisper of congratulation. The event was to take place in two weeks’ time.
Magnus and I met in the Senior Common Room for lunch. Wanda was ahead of us in the queue. Several members of the department had gone up to welcome her back. She looked more relaxed, but rather thin. When she walked by us, I smiled. “Welcome back,” I said. Magnus grinned to himself. Wanda nodded and went over to join Pilkington and Wendy Morehouse. “Doesn’t look like a happy bunny to me,” Magnus said.
“I wonder if they’ve rescheduled her lecture.”
“No one will go,” Magnus said.
“Not unless the gorilla makes another appearance. Nid Pwrpas, Heb Primate!” I said to myself.
“What?”
“Just a private joke. You’re not planning to do it again, I hope?”
Magnus sighed. “Wasn’t it wonderful? Maybe it ought to be a stripogram next time.”
“Come on, Magnus.”
Magnus picked up a copy of Country Life. “I say, Harry, have a look at this pile. Can you see me as country squire?”
There was a two-page spread of a Regency country house in Oxfordshire. The price wasn’t mentioned. “You didn’t win that much,” I said.
“Not this time. But I’m still in there with a chance.”
The next few days were uneventful except for my appearance on Start the Week. I got up at six, and took an early train to London. We assembled at half past eight as planned, and were taken into the bowels of the BBC. Sitting around a small table, the three of us plus the presenter engaged in discussion; I don’t think anyone agreed with my views, but it was a pleasant occasion.
A fortnight later, the award ceremony took place. As planned, Victoria and I travelled up dressed in our uncomfortable clothes. We had lunch at the Acropolis and found a taxi to take us to Buckingham Palace. We showed the guards our pass, walked across a courtyard, and through an archway where we were checked. Victoria and I then separated. She went to the grand ballroom; I followed a group of those who were to receive awards into a separate long room. There we were roped off into groups, Knighthoods (I would have liked one of those!), DBEs, CBEs, OBEs and MBEs were strictly segregated. We heard music in the distance. I spoke to several others in my gilded compound.
Eventually it was my turn to enter the ballroom. The Queen was standing on a dais on a higher level from where I stopped. The ballroom was crowded with visitors. She looked down and smiled. I bowed. The equerry next to her whispered something. Leaning forward, she asked about my latest book. “I understand you think being selfish is a virtue,” she said.
“Not exactly a virtue,” I stammered.
“But a good thing?”
“Well, sort of … Sometimes.”
The Queen pinned a medal on my jacket. With a tiny pushing hand gesture, she made it clear I was to move on. I walked to the other side of the room. Afterwards, I sat down in the back of the ballroom and watched the other recipients go through the same ceremony. When it was over, I joined Victoria.
“Well, well,” she said taking my photograph with the disposable camera she had bought at Boots for the occasion. “An Officer of the British Empire.”
I thought briefly of Lisa and why Charles had got me the award. “I’m exhausted,” I said. I put the medal into its black box. “Let’s go have tea at the club.” We walked down the Mall. Tourists stared at us as we strolled up the Duke of York steps. The porter at the Acropolis smiled as we walked in. We climbed the stairs, and I collapsed in an armchair. The Provost of St Sebastian’s Cathedral was sitting in the corner. He waved and came over. “Mind if I join you?” he said.
We ordered teacakes. Victoria told him where we had been. “Show him your medal,” she said.
I pulled the box out of my pocket and opened it. “Many congratulations,” said the Provost. “How was Her Majesty?”
“I don’t know how she does it,” I replied. “She asked me if selfishness was a virtue.” The Provost looked amused. “The equerry must have told her about my new book.”
“No doubt she has read it,” said Victoria slyly.
“Perhaps not,” said the Provost.
“Anyway, I wasn’t sure what to say.”
“It’s not in the Sermon on the Mount,” Victoria commented. “But it is in Harry’s book.”
“Not exactly the same thing,” I said.
“No indeed,” the Provost looked longingly towards our teacakes. “Those certainly look delicious!” he said.
A few days later Magnus and I were having lunch in the Senior Common Room. Penelope joined us, looking irate. She had brought her lunch in a large purple handbag. She took a cheese sandwich and a pack of cheese and onion crisps out of a plastic container and poured a cup of coffee out of a thermos.
“Harry,” she fumed, “you won’t believe what happened. That girl Lisa – the one that caused you so much trouble – is a little sneak. She handed in an essay about three weeks ago for my Women and Literature course that was copied from the web. I was suspicious and found it using the new plagiarism detection software. When I confronted her, she denied it flatly and said she’d written the essay entirely herself. Honestly, it was practically word for word off the web. So I went to Wanda and told her all about it. The next week I got a note saying that Lisa’s father was intending to sue the university for defamation of character, slander, libel, hurt feelings and I don’t know what else!”
“But if you found the essay …”
“I did,” Penelope interrupted. “But it wasn’t absolutely identical. She had made a few changes, all of which, I may add, made the essay worse rather than better. But nonetheless there was no doubt that the lazy little toad had just lifted it.”
“I wish we had had the benefit of the world wide web when we were students,” said Magnus. “I
t would have saved a lot of bother …”
“Anyway,” continued Penelope, “I went to see Wanda. She knew perfectly well what Lisa had done, but she said that Mr Gold was an important parent. There was the possibility of a donation or something. And since the essay wasn’t absolutely word for word, she would be grateful if I would ignore the matter. I would get no support from the administration if I proceeded.”
I had a queasy feeling at the thought that Wanda still expected an endowment from Mr Gold. “So what did you do?” I asked.
“What could I do? I had to drop the charge. And because it was a very good essay, I had to give it a first-class mark.”
“Sickening,” I said
“You haven’t heard the worst.” Penelope became positively shrill in her fury. “What’s happened now is that little bitch is asking for a concession on the basis of stress. She says that the incident caused her so much anxiety that she has been unable to concentrate on her work. She has a doctor’s note from some quack in Harley Street to say she can’t take the exam and must have a concession instead. Well, you know the rules as well as I do. If students can’t take the exam, they get the mark for the essay as their final course assessment. So that little cheat is going to get a first for my course. She’s done no work at all; she blatantly cheated and she’s going to get away with it because she can hide behind her odious rich daddy and his slimey doctor.”
“Was the essay really that good?”
“The bits she didn’t write were superlative. That’s why I knew immediately she hadn’t written it. It was full of quotations from Levinas, Derrida and Kristeva. One of the best pieces of work I’ve had in years.”
Magnus put down Private Eye. He looked amused. “You know,” he said, “when I was at Oxford, nobody had heard of concessions. Now everybody wants them. Last year there were more concessions than students taking the exams.”
Penelope looked dumbfounded. “But how could that be?”
“Some students wanted more than one concession. Their granny has a hernia; their guinea pig has just died; they’re recovering from an abortion; they’ve just fallen off their bicycle and, in any case, they have serious learning difficulties. That makes a total of five concessions … You see how it works,” Magnus smiled. “It’s a complete racket.”
Magnus got up and went over to the servery. He returned carrying another mug of coffee and three sugar doughnuts and handed one to each of us. “You know,” Magnus said, “I tried to get a concession last year just like the students. I claimed I was under such stress that I couldn’t concentrate on marking essays.”
“Did it work?” Penelope asked.
“They were completely unsympathetic. Threatened to take disciplinary action if I didn’t mark them. Made me quite cross. Why can’t I have a concession if the students can?”
“Stress for what?” Penelope asked.
“General stress. No specific reason. Never got promoted. Made to teach too many students. Too many classes. Too many essays. Not enough money. Lousy colleagues…”
“You don’t look particularly stressed, Magnus,” Penelope observed.
“‘Not now,” Magnus laughed, “I’m off on a world cruise.’
“During term?” Penelope asked.
“Starts this summer. I’ve got a year’s sabbatical. Sailing on the Queen Christina. And then I quit.”
Penelope was wide-eyed. “Gosh,” she said. “How did you ever get a whole year’s sabbatical?”
“I made Barraclough an offer he couldn’t refuse,” he said, standing up and doing a little soft-shoe shuffle. “Got to go. I’m off to the medical centre. Got to get more jabs for the journey.”
Later in the day, I had an interview with a reporter from the St Sebastian’s Gazette about the OBE. Victoria had sent the newspaper the photograph she took with her camera. They asked me about the day and what the Queen had said. On Thursday there was a short article and a photograph of me standing in Buckingham Palace wearing my medal. It was on the front page.
Several days later, I received an email from Oscar Billstone in Sweetpea. He had seen the article on the internet and had sent a copy to Thomas Jefferson Porpoise. They planned to reproduce the picture in the Sweetpea Alumni Magazine with a report of my lecture. He asked if I could write a short piece describing the ceremony and an explanation of the British honours system. He added as a postscript that he was discussing the details of the Thomas Jefferson Porpoise Distinguished Professorship with the Board of the College and would be in touch soon.
One afternoon a few days later I was marking essays in my room. There was a knock on the door. To my amazement it was the Vice-Chancellor. “I hope I’m not interrupting you,” he said. He was carrying a large file and sat in the armchair opposite my desk. “Lovely office,” he remarked. He glanced at the icon of St Sebastian. “You know, that would be a wonderful legacy for the university. Now, Harry, there is something serious I want to discuss with you. As you are aware, we have had external assessors evaluate the submissions for the Research Assessment Exercise. This was a trial run. This morning your Head of Department came to see me.”
Barraclough frowned. “We discussed your case, and I’m afraid both John and I think there are problems with your submission. You see, this new book of yours has caused quite a stir. I saw the article in The Observer and I understand you’ve been on Start the Week. While this is all very nice publicity for the university, and I’m sure it helps your royalties, it is obvious your book is for a general audience. It’s not the kind of thing the RAE favours. What they like is much more scholarly. Top marks are awarded for serious original research in learned journals. The more obscure, the better. So, you see, this makes the situation very difficult.”
I was shocked. “Look, Vice-Chancellor,” I said, “I was in the last Research Assessment Exercise. And we got the highest marks. I can’t understand. That’s not the only book that I’ve written. There is my textbook on ethics. It broke new ground, was very well-reviewed and is used widely in universities and theological colleges.”
Barraclough looked at his papers. “Yes, I know about the book. But, Harry, it’s a textbook. Not a scholarly monograph. You know the RAE takes a dim view of introductory books unless they are in some sense original.”
“This one is. There are also several articles in scholarly journals. And three chapters in books. You can’t ignore everything.”
Barraclough shifted in his chair. “I’m sorry, Harry. I’m not an expert. I’m taking advice from John.”
“But what about the outside assessor?”
“John has based his decision on the assessor’s view as well.”
“What did he say?”
“As you know, this information is confidential. No one is to see it other than myself, the Registrar, the Dean and the Head of Department. So I am not at liberty to say.”
“This is ridiculous. It’s clearly a conspiracy against me.”
“Don’t be absurd, Harry. I just wanted to let you know before there is an official report. But if you do object, you can appeal against the decision. There is an appeal panel consisting of Wanda, the Registrar, and the Provost of the Cathedral in his role as Visitor.”
“Look,” I said, “I’m a senior professor. I have the right to be included in the RAE. I can’t understand what you’re thinking of.”
“No one has the right to be in the submission. But you do have the right to appeal.” Barraclough stood up and looked again at the icon. “That really is a most splendid painting. It would look just right in the chapel.”
When Barraclough left, I went to see Magnus. When he opened the door, he was wearing a dinner jacket. “What are you doing?” I asked.
“Trying on my new outfit for the cruise. Just got it at Oxfam. What do you think?”
Magnus’s room was cluttered as usual. There were piles of paper on the floor and books stacked on every chair. He turned around so I could see the fit. “It’s very short,” I said. There was a three inch gap b
etween his socks and his trousers.
“If I wear long black socks, no one will notice.”
“And the sleeves are too long.” They came over his knuckles.
“I don’t think anyone will care.”
“Otherwise it’s not a bad fit. But it does look a bit loose in the waist.” Magnus was holding his trousers up with his left hand.
“That can be remedied if I wear braces,” he said.
“Frankly, I think you’d be better off buying a new one.”
“It’s only for the evening. I thought it was rather fetching. Look,” he said, “it’s got buttons on the fly. And you can button up the sleeves. Must have been tailor-made for someone.”
“Perhaps for your friend the gorilla,” I said.
Magnus pushed books off a chair and sat down. His trousers exposed his ankles and about five inches of his legs. “So, what’s new?” he asked.
“I just saw Barraclough. He told me I’m going to be left out of the RAE.”
Magnus looked stunned. “Gosh, they do want you to go! Did he say anything about summer school?”
“He didn’t mention it. Why?”
“Well, now that I’m going, someone’s got to do it.”
“But I’m a professor.”
“That won’t make any difference if you’re not in the RAE. Without the RAE money, you won’t be earning your salary just by term-time teaching. You know how fixated they are on it. So they’ll make you make it up elsewhere.” Magnus looked at his ankles. “Do you really think the trousers are too short? Maybe Victoria could lengthen them for me.”
I was desperate to reverse the Vice-Chancellor’s decision. It was humiliating not to be included in the department’s research submission as a professor, and I saw all too clearly what it would mean in terms of other duties. Therefore I contacted Morris O’Murphy. He was on his way to Sheffield for a complicated case dealing with bullying and harassment and told me to discuss the matter with Penelope. When I phoned her she was in the middle of a supervision with a graduate student. She advised me to look at the regulations concerning launching an appeal.