The Campus Trilogy

by AnonYMous

  The music ended and I took Mimi back to her table. “Look,” she said. “Why don’t you and Victoria come over to us next week? Then you can see how the other half live.”

  The ball finished at one, and we drove back to the cottage. “You know,” I said, “I can’t imagine how Magnus does it. Every night he has to do waltzes, fox-trots, sambas, and who knows what else with total strangers.”

  “He’s due to send another email. I wonder how he is getting on.” Victoria was amused.

  As she undressed, I went downstairs and turned on the computer. There was a new message. It read:

  Must tell you the news: you’ll be gripped! I just heard from Penelope. She told me Pushkin annoyed Rufus and Rufus bit him. Pushkin had to go to the vet with an abscess but Penelope won’t hear a word against her thug of a cat. Anyway, you’ll want to hear the university news: Your job was advertised, but they interviewed only one candidate. Guess who?? Absolutely!! … Got it in one! They hired young Grundy, and gave him a contract for three years in the first instance. The money did not come through immediately; apparently the cheque was always in the post. We soon found out why. Apparently Lisa has run off with a Harley Street specialist. He’s thirty years older than she is, has four children, and his wife is breathing vengeance. You know all about him: he’s the one who gave Lisa that phoney certificate for the concession which so annoyed Penelope. That’s when they met. The rumour is she took off all her clothes in his office! So the engagement with Ronald is off, and as a result, Gold wrote a snooty note to Barraclough saying, in view of the circumstances, it would no longer be suitable to commemorate his dear mother with an endowed lectureship … Barraclough is now stuck with paying your salary for a year, making up your pension, losing out on the money for your work for the RAE, employing Ronald for three years and having no endowment to finance any of it. Isn’t that exquisite! It really feels that there is still some justice in the world….

  Got to go. The casino’s about to open, and I’ve got a date with an octogenarian from California. Wish me luck.

  Love, Magnus.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  It’s the Same as Everywhere Else

  The following Friday, Victoria and I set off for Railroad City, Virginia. The Perleys had asked us to come to their house for dessert once their two boys had gone to bed. As we crossed the boundaries of the town, we saw rows of dilapidated houses. There were groups of black youths wandering the streets. Burnt-out cars were parked in front of derelict buildings and various appliances including refrigerators and television sets were scattered on the scrubby lawns. “They can’t live here,” said Victoria.

  We passed by a grey granite hotel, the Railroad Inn, and we went over a maze of railway lines. Victoria struggled with the map of the town which Joel had given me. Gradually the neighbourhood became neater. We were soon driving through streets of suburban houses with well-kept gardens and freshly white-washed fences. We parked the Rolls in front of the Perleys’ house on Rosebud Road. Joel was standing outside waiting for us. On the porch was a swing and a basketball hoop was suspended against the side of the house.

  Joel shook hands with both of us. Mimi was in the kitchen organizing the refreshments. Joel led us into the family room. It was small and tidy with a pale green floral carpet. The walls were painted a similar colour and were lined with watercolour prints of flowers and birds. In the corner was a large flat-screen television set, a DVD player and a video. A glass cabinet in the corner was filled with dolls. Victoria and I sat on a blue leather sofa; on the wall opposite four flying pigs were arranged diagonally. Mimi came in carrying a tray with a large lemon meringue pie and mugs of coffee. Joel handed out generous slices as we discussed the ball.

  “Quite a crowd,” Joel commented. “But we really didn’t know anyone.”

  “It was very kind of Thomas Jefferson,” I said. “We owe him a great deal.”

  Joel shifted uncomfortably. “I know he’s your patron and all that. And the college needs his money. But he lives in another world. Except for the Billstones and some of the administrators, no one from the college is ever invited to his house. That was the first time we’ve ever been to the Sweetpea Country Club.”

  “It was our first time, too,” I said.

  “I’m sure it won’t be your last,” Joel sounded sour.

  “We’re already members.” Victoria spoke hesitantly. “Thomas Jefferson has organized complimentary membership.”

  “Golly,” Mimi said. “We don’t know anyone who actually belongs. Faculty members couldn’t possibly afford it.”

  “I doubt if we’ll go much,” I said.

  Mimi went out to the kitchen to refill the coffee pot. “I suppose you’re planning to go to the Sweetpea Episcopalian Church?” Joel asked.

  “Actually I thought we’d support the college chapel,” I said. “Oscar’s invited me to preach next month. The Chaplain seems very nice.”

  “Oh well, if you like that sort of thing. Mimi and I don’t feel that the college chapel has very much to do with Christianity,” pronounced Joel. I felt uncomfortable. How could the college chapel not be Christian?

  Mimi re-emerged carrying a brochure. “This is where Joel and I go,” she said. “You’d be very welcome to join us.” There was a picture of a modern building with stained glass windows. In bold print, it announced: ‘Jesus Saves’. Apparently Railroad Baptist Church was the largest church in the area with a membership of a thousand families. Inside there was a photograph of the clean-cut minister, his wife and three children. “We’re Baptists,” she explained. “Joel’s a deacon in the church.”

  Upstairs we heard the sound of a basketball bouncing, and Joel excused himself to see what was going on. Mimi poured us more coffee. “This is absolutely scrumptious,” Victoria said. “I don’t think I’ve ever had such a good lemon meringue pie before. How do you make it?”

  Mimi went to the kitchen to get the recipe. She returned with a pen and paper and copied out the instructions. Joel emerged looking frustrated and angry. “I told them there’ll be no more of that if they want to go on holiday. No swimming in the ocean. None of Grandma’s cooking.” He settled into an armchair, picked up his pie, and sighed. “It’s not easy to get work done round here, as you can see.”

  For the next half hour Joel and I discussed details of the department while Victoria and Mimi chatted about the differences between American and British cooking. When we got on the subject of the students, Victoria turned to Joel. “There’s something I don’t understand,” she said. “I know it’s expensive to come to Sweetpea. How do the students afford it? Are most of them on scholarship?”

  “Officially,” Joel began, “we operate a blind admission policy. Poor students should get in as easily as rich ones. At least that’s what’s in the college prospectus. But it isn’t as simple as that. In the first place, ten per cent of the places in every class are reserved for the children of Sweetpea alumni. Nearly all their parents can afford to send them to Sweetpea on full fees, but a few must have scholarship help.”

  “And they don’t have to be as good as the rest of the students,” Mimi added.

  “The college depends on endowments, so we’ve got to keep the alumni happy. The kids of the big donors will always get in.” Joel cut himself another piece of pie and asked if we wanted any more. “The majority of scholarship money has to be reserved for ethnic minorities,” he continued. “We’re under political pressure to have about twenty per cent of our student body black and chicano. But every college in America wants these students if they’re any good. So we’ve got to finance them generously if we want them to come here. We’ve also got to have scholarships for football and basketball stars. Alumni come for the big games, like the annual Sweetpea–William and Mary match. The donation level goes up if the team has done well so paying for these sporting jocks is seen as a worthwhile investment, even though most of them can barely read or write. What it comes down to is if you happen to be a straightforward, studious, whit
e kid, there isn’t a great deal of scholarship money available.”

  “I see,” Victoria mused. “So basically most Sweetpea students are from rich homes.”

  Joel hesitated. ‘Well … there are others. Mimi’s brother’s girl is here for example. She had trouble at Charlottesville. They said she behaved inappropriately to her teachers.”

  “It was a pack of lies.” Mimi sounded indignant. “She’s a properly brought up Christian girl. They wanted to send her to some Jew psychiatrist. That would have mixed her up for sure …”

  “So Mimi said she’d look after her here.” Joel cut across his wife. “I managed to get a faculty reduction for her.”

  I felt I had to say something. “That was very good of you.”

  Joel paused for a moment and then he said. “I suppose you’ll find out the true situation soon enough. We do have some clever white kids from poor homes, but they largely survive on student loans and on working their own way through.”

  “How could they possibly do that?” Victoria asked. “The fees are enormous and there aren’t many casual jobs in Sweetpea. The town is too small.”

  Joel hesitated. “What happens here is no different from everywhere else. The clever kids, once they’ve established their intellectual credentials in class, write the papers for the spoiled rich brats and the sporting jocks. And they charge plenty for doing it.”

  “You mean they cheat?” Victoria was horrified.

  Joel was surprised. “It must go on in England.”

  I thought of Lisa. “Well, occasionally they copy stuff off the internet, but the latest software can usually detect that. Anyway, you can tell if some intellectually challenged student suddenly produces a first-class essay. Something’s wrong somewhere. Don’t these kids get caught and thrown out of the college?”

  Joel sighed. “It isn’t like that. The fact is the system is in everyone’s interest. You can’t throw out the rich kids. We need their parents’ donations. We don’t want to throw out the poor kids. They’re what make teaching worthwhile, and if the only way they can stay is to write the papers of some black, illiterate football star, well, so be it!”

  I could see from Victoria’s expression that she was shocked. She made a discreet gesture to me to indicate we should be thinking of leaving. As we got up she said, “It makes me uncomfortable. Wherever we go, the people doing the manual work like cleaning or waiting at table, always seem to be black.”

  “What do you expect?” asked Mimi, “Most of them aren’t capable of anything else.”

  “Well of course,” I began carefully, “I know black people sometimes have to face a great deal of social deprivation and prejudice …”

  “It’s a very complicated situation,” Joel interrupted. “Mimi grew up in South Carolina. Her family were among the earliest settlers in the state. They’ve never really accepted integration. She sometimes forgets that we’ve all got to be politically correct on the modern college campus.”

  Victoria began to thank them effusively for a delightful evening. We both knew it was time to go.

  Joel and Mimi stood on the porch as we walked to the car. I was horrified to see that the Rolls winged victory statuette was missing. “Hey, Joel,” I called out, “somebody stole my winged victory.”

  He walked over to look. “I’m sorry,” he said. “We’re too near the ghetto. This neighbourhood is plagued by a small group of boys. They’re not really bad kids, but their parents make no attempt to control them. The police know all about them, but there’s not much they can do unless they catch them red-handed. I’m really sorry!”

  I tried not to look upset. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m sure I’ll be able to get another one easily.”

  Joel and Mimi waved from the porch as we set out for Sweetpea. En route we saw three hooded youths on the corner near the railway. They were passing round a silver object which looked very much like my winged victory. “Do you think I should stop and get it back?” I asked.

  “Don’t be an idiot,” Victoria said. “I’ll be a widow if you do.”

  The youths looked up at us as we passed and grinned.

  The next day Victoria was due to have her portrait painted by Julian Bosie. At eleven o’clock a white Cadillac drew up outside our front door. Julian climbed out of the back. He was followed by Thomas Jefferson Porpoise. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said, “I couldn’t resist seeing Julian and Victoria together.”

  Victoria had already changed into her white dress and was draped with the Dormouse diamonds. The driver brought in all the necessary equipment. The easel was set up in the sitting room and Victoria was posed on a small Regency sofa alongside a crystal vase of roses from the garden. I retreated upstairs to my study, but through the morning I could hear bursts of laughter drifting up the stairs.

  Suddenly the door-bell rang. I went downstairs to answer it and found Mimi Perley on the doorstep. She was looking untidy; her hair was blown by the wind and her blouse was coming out of the waistband of her skirt. “I’m sorry to disturb you,” she said. “I just ran out of school in the lunch recess. Joel and I wanted to ask you if you’d like to come with us to the big alumni game.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” I said, “You’d better talk to Victoria.” I led her into the sitting room. Victoria was still reclining on the sofa and she and Thomas Jefferson were clearly telling each other jokes. Julian was busy at the easel. Mimi went bright red and tried to retreat, “I’m sorry … I didn’t know you had company,” she said.

  “Mimi wants us to go with her and Joel to the Sweetpea–William and Mary match. That’ll be all right, won’t it Victoria?”

  Victoria looked embarrassed. “Actually we’re going with Thomas Jefferson and the Billstones. We’ve just arranged it. I’m sorry Mimi. We’d have loved to have joined your party.”

  “That’s OK,” mumbled Mimi, “Sorry to have disturbed you.”

  “And thank you for last night,” continued Victoria, “We had a delightful …” But by that time Mimi had disappeared into the hall. I followed her to the front door.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Perhaps another time.”

  Mimi exploded. “I know he’s rich, and you’re very liberal and all that, but I can’t believe you allow your wife to be alone with those two degenerates …” and she flounced down the garden path. Behind us there was more laughter from the sitting room.

  The final great event before teaching started was the annual alumni Sweetpea–William and Mary match. The football team had been on campus for a month to train and the college was abuzz with excitement. We went with Thomas Jefferson, Julian, Oscar and Nancy. The match attracted hundreds of loyal alumni from throughout the country who made reservations at local hotels or stayed in their old college rooms. After the game there was to be a formal dinner at the Faculty Club.

  In the afternoon, we drove to the college and parked in front of the President’s house. The six of us then walked to the stadium. We sat in the official President’s Box with several of the trustees including Manford and Sherrie Wachman. Everyone was wearing a college scarf or tie. A number held Sweetpea banners. A few even waved Confederate flags. When the team came on, the crowd stood and yelled. Throughout the game Oscar explained what was happening. It was an exciting match and to everyone’s delight, Sweetpea was victorious.

  When the match was over, we all made our way to the Faculty Club. Oscar introduced Victoria and me to various alumni. At dinner we sat next to the President of the Alumni Association and his wife. “Great day!” he said in his Southern accent.

  “I’ve never been to a football game,” I said.

  “You know,” he remarked. “we pay our coach half a million dollars a year. But he does come up with the goods.”

  “A half a million?” I was astounded.

  “He’s worth every penny. It’s important for morale that the college wins at football. When we win, the donations go up. Today’s match will bring in at least another million. So you see, he makes hi
s money.”

  “Football’s that important?”

  “Keeps the college going. Pays your salary. Can’t survive without it, Professor!” I felt I was in a very strange world. I wondered if Sweetpea put an equal emphasis on intellectual activities.

  The following week we were invited to join Manford and Sherrie Wachman at the Tam O’Shanter country club for lunch. Rabbi Wally was visiting from London, and they thought we would like to see each other again. We parked the Rolls in the car park; I looked forlornly at the bonnet and wondered how much it would cost to replace the missing winged victory. I cheered up when I saw our hosts waiting for us in the lobby. Wally was wearing a purple polo shirt and a skull cap; Sherrie was in a white tennis outfit and Manford was dressed for golf. Sherrie led us to a table overlooking the tennis court as Manford followed behind greeting friends at every table.

  Eventually Manford sat down and the kilted waiter took our order. “How was your trip?” I asked Wally, who was sitting next to Victoria. He had ordered a plain green salad.

  “Tiring. Now,” he paused, “I have some news for you. You’ll remember the Golds, I’m sure … I’m afraid there have been some further difficulties about the daughter.”

  Victoria and I looked at each other. “I think we may know,” I said. “A friend of mine just sent an email …”

  “It’s been a real crisis. Lisa has run off with one of the most prominent members of my synagogue. His wife is prostrate. It appears they’ve gone to the Caribbean together. I can’t imagine what will happen to his patients, let alone his children. It’s very upsetting and difficult.”

  “Wally doesn’t know which side to be on,” Sherrie was teasing her brother-in-law. “Both Doctor Chevre and Mr Gold have been presidents of the synagogue at one time or another. Mrs Chevre is the daughter of one of the founders of the congregation. But the Golds are richer. Isn’t that right, Wally? So it’s a bit of a problem who to support.”