The Campus Trilogy

by AnonYMous

  ‘He was outstandingly good at it,’ I pointed out. ‘His courses were always popular.’

  Sir William was preoccupied with other matters. ‘How much did he win? I’ve got the full quota of premium bonds, but I’ve never won more than five hundred in one month. How many does your friend have?’

  ‘Only about a hundred and he won a quarter of a million,’ Victoria said. ‘It was a Christmas present from his aunt. But Daddy, he really needed the money so he could retire. And after all, you’ve just won quite a lot playing blackjack.’

  ‘Bloody Hell,’ Sir William said. ‘A quarter of a million … I wonder how he did it. Did he read a book on how to win?’

  ‘There’s no such book, Daddy. It’s pure chance. Magnus was just lucky. Now, why don’t you eat another piece of this nice fruit cake?’

  ‘I think I will. And some of whatever is in that decanter.’

  Victoria poured her father more sherry as I continued the saga of St Sebastian’s. ‘We’re also due to have a new chaplain. An Anglican friar, no less! He will teach one course, and will also run the chapel. Apparently he’s very high church and is all set to introduce incense and candles.’

  ‘I wonder how that’ll go down with the new Vice-Chancellor. He presumably is still a Roman Catholic?’ asked Harry.

  ‘I shouldn’t think with his experience of the Roman Church that he’s anything at all,’ remarked Victoria tartly. ‘But a friar in religious orders … that sounds exciting. Poverty, Chastity, Obedience and all that.’

  ‘Well it’s all a bit mysterious …’ I said doubtfully. ‘The University offered him lodgings in the Old Building, but he said he would be living in town. It turns out he’s bought an enormous property on a brand-new, very expensive estate. The rumour is he’s moving in with his housekeeper. Perhaps friars are very rich nowadays.’

  ‘Are you sure he’s still a member of the order?’ asked Victoria. ‘Lots of monks and friars have left and now are just ordinary priests.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I saw his curriculum vitae. It makes it quite clear he’s still under discipline.’

  ‘Perhaps the house belongs to the housekeeper?’ suggested Harry.

  ‘Nonsense!’ boomed Sir William. ‘She wouldn’t be his housekeeper then. You mark my words. I know these High Church johnnies. I won’t have them in our church. Short sermons and proper hymns like “Onward Christian Soldiers” and “Fight the Good Fight” is what you need. These bells and smells fellows aren’t to be trusted with anything.’

  ‘How exciting!’ said Victoria. ‘I almost wish we were back!’

  After tea Harry took me for a walk around the grounds that he shared with the Thomas Jefferson Porpoise mansion. We crossed over a small bridge and came across Thomas Jefferson himself, a spare, silver-haired gentleman dressed in a dark blazer with a Porpoise crest. He was walking a morose-looking beagle. Harry introduced us and explained that I was a former colleague of his at St Sebastian’s and that I was attending a conference in Washington. Thomas Jefferson accompanied us back to Harry’s house, but refused to come in since he was due to fly to Nantucket that evening to spend the weekend with his stockbroker and his family.

  Victoria was chatting to her father in the kitchen when we arrived back. She was making very desultory preparations for dinner. I was worried about this. In spite of the excellent fruitcake, I was hungry. However, as soon as we sat down, there was another knock on the front door. A vast black woman dressed in an apron was admitted and was introduced to us as Lucille. She was Thomas Jefferson’s cook and she had been co-opted to feed us. Victoria followed her into the kitchen, as Harry passed around the sherry decanter again.

  It was not long before the four of us were sitting down at a round mahogany table in the charming dining room. The chair-seats matched the curtains and were of a soft rose chintz. The table had taken on the mellow, deep polish which comes only from decades of elbow grease and the matching mahogany sideboard was decorated with a brass rail and small velvet curtains. Dinner was delicious and was served by Lucille. There was southern chicken, fried bananas, crisp bacon, corn fritters and fresh peas accompanied by a chilled California wine.

  ‘I was thankful Lucille was coming,’ said Victoria. ‘Emma is such a fantastic cook, you are not an easy person to entertain.’

  Emma is my wife and she is a food and cookery journalist for the BBC. It is true that she is an excellent cook, but there was no doubt that Lucille was in the same class.

  ‘Now,’ insisted Harry, ‘We do want to hear about Wanda Catnip. What happened to her?

  The reason that there was a new Dean at St Sebastian’s was because Wanda Catnip had resigned. For many years Dr Catnip had been the backbone of the university administration, selflessly and humourlessly serving a succession of Vice-Chancellors, initially as Head of the History department and for the last seven years as Dean. She had not been popular. She was rigid in her views and unimaginative in her management style. Then, nearly two years ago she had her reward. She had been elevated to the heights of a Personal Chair and had became Professor Catnip. It was from that moment that things began to go wrong.

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I don’t think she ever really recovered from her disastrous inaugural lecture. She lost her crisp edge and on several occasions in meetings she showed signs of becoming tearful.’

  ‘But why did she resign?’ asked Victoria. ‘She loved being Dean. Harry and I used to call her Little Miss Bossyboots.’

  ‘It was just never the same again after that lecture. Then at the beginning of last year, she announced that no one appreciated her and that she was fed up with administration. It turns out that she’s nearly sixty anyway and Barraclough offered her a good deal if she would take early retirement. She’s doing some part-time teaching for the History department, and is said to be busy with a new book about eighteenth-century land tenure. Before I left I saw her in the supermarket accompanied by a grey-haired older woman using a stick who I assumed was her mother. So perhaps she’s no longer living alone.’

  Harry frowned. ‘It does sound dreary,’ he said.

  Victoria sniggered. ‘Can you imagine being Wanda’s mother. Poor wretched old lady! I bet she’s bullied mercilessly.’ She embarked on an uncomfortably accurate imitation of Professor Catnip’s mode of speech. ‘Come along mother! I haven’t got all day! Don’t waste my time! You’ve got to pull your socks up and improve your attitude …’

  We all laughed and at this point Lucille brought in the most exquisite pecan pie. Decorated with thick cream, it melted in the mouth. I did not dare to contemplate its caloric value.

  Over coffee, Sir William asserted himself again. He had been quiet through dinner, concentrating on the food, but now he wanted to demonstrate his blackjack skills. I felt nervous. I am not a natural card-player and I certainly could not afford to lose the kind of money which Sir William expected to win. However, there was no cause to worry. Victoria cleared the table and distributed ten dollars in dimes to each of us while Sir William shuffled a deck of cards. Victoria assured us that it was a fresh pack and there was no possibility of her father cheating. Nonetheless, thirty minutes later, Sir William had roundly defeated us all, and sat smiling over forty stacks of shining dimes which he assembled in a neat row in front of him.

  ‘No wonder they banned him from Cleopatra’s Palace,’ I said.

  ‘Well, Daddy hasn’t given up,’ Victoria said. ‘I promised we’d visit Atlantic City next weekend before he goes back home.’

  ‘They don’t know me there,’ the old baronet chuckled. ‘I bought some cowboy boots and a cowboy hat, so I’ll look less conspicuous.’

  It was time for me to go. Before I left, Sir William gave me his address and telephone number in Shropshire. ‘Call in any time,’ he said. ‘We can have another session at blackjack. You can get your revenge!’

  Harry drove me back to Washington in the red Rolls-Royce. I was tired after so much talk, but Harry was still interested in his old university. As we travel
led through the warm Virginia darkness, he asked me if I were having any difficulties at St Sebastian’s. I told him that everything seemed to be all right at the moment, but that philosophy was always in a perilous position. There were only three of us teaching the subject and my two colleagues were both in their late fifties, about seven years older than I. When they left, I might have serious problems. I did not want to retire early, but it was unlikely that the university would continue with philosophy. It was not easy to imagine any vice-chancellor, particularly such a man as Flanagan, being sympathetic to such a non-utilitarian, cerebral subject.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Outreach to the Ignorant

  My conference paper went rather well. There were more in the audience than I had anticipated and there was a very lively discussion afterwards. As soon as the session was over, I checked out of my room. Then I caught a bus to the airport, braved the departures queues, found my aeroplane and flew overnight back to Heathrow. I even managed to get some sleep. Altogether it had been a very successful and enjoyable visit to the United States.

  My wife Emma was waiting for me by the arrivals barrier. She looked reassuringly the same – of middle height, brown haired, hazel-eyed, dimpled and smiling when she saw me. But once we reached the car, it became clear that she was worried. As we drove back to St Sebastian’s, she told me that she had had two different, but equally disturbing, telephone calls from my philosophy colleagues. Both Malcolm Bridgestock and Jonathan Pike were very anxious to be in touch. Emma had told them that I was away at a conference and so they had both spoken to her.

  During the time I was in Washington they had both been summoned by the new Vice-Chancellor for an urgent appointment. Apparently over the summer, Flanagan had formulated a new strategic plan for the university. This had been endorsed by Council at its first meeting prior to the beginning of the academic year. Among many other changes, it had been unanimously agreed that philosophy would be phased out of the university curriculum. Students currently on campus would need to be taught for the three years their courses lasted, but recruitment to the subject would cease immediately. Since both Malcolm and Jonathan were in their late fifties, they were offered a full enhancement to their pensions as well as quarter-time contracts until the current students graduated from St Sebastian’s. It had been made clear to them both that if they resisted this, they would not be offered such a good deal in the future. They could well be transferred to another department and they would probably have to teach some new, uncongenial courses.

  ‘And so they’re both taking the deal and leaving me in the lurch?’ I asked, knowing exactly what the answer would be.

  ‘Yes … Malcolm sounded more guilty than Jonathan and beat about the bush more, but ultimately that’s what it comes down to.’

  ‘When are they supposed to retire?’

  ‘I had the impression that they’ll both be going immediately, but of course they’ll still work part-time for three years.’

  ‘So what am I supposed to do?’ I asked. ‘We’ve got a full quota of first-year students so our undergraduate numbers are as high as ever. If they are both only teaching quarter-time, there’s a huge amount of extra work which will have to be mopped up. We were understaffed with three full-timers. There’s no way just one person can do it.’

  ‘It looks like that’s what’s going to happen …’

  ‘But I can’t do all that teaching! They’ll have to help.’

  Emma shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Malcolm said he was planning to go on a lengthy vist to his daughter in Argentina next month and wouldn’t be back until after the New Year.’

  ‘And then what happens when all the philosophy students have graduated? What am I meant to do then?’

  Emma shook her head. ‘I shouldn’t think anyone has thought about it. You know what they’re like. No idea of forward planning …’

  ‘It seems so unfair,’ I fumed. ‘The three of us did so well in the Research Assessment Exercise. The government is giving the university more than sixty thousand pounds a year as a result of the excellence of Philosophy’s research.’

  The Research Assessment Exercise is the bane of every academic’s life. Last year Philosophy was one of the best-rated groups at St Sebastian’s. We had gained a very high result – higher even than the Theology department, which was our traditional rival.

  ‘I asked about that.’ Emma said. ‘I thought perhaps the university would lose the money if the department disappeared, but apparently not. They will argue that there is a department because you’re still there.’

  ‘But sixty thousand pounds is more than I earn, quite apart from the fees my students bring in. What it means is that all that money will be used to subsidise a less hard-working department, while I kill myself teaching too much and the students get a raw deal from only having one lecturer. It’s not right!’

  ‘It’s not the only thing at St Sebastian’s that’s not right,’ observed my wife.

  Then Emma told me about our house. I was delighted to hear that the builders had finally, at last, finished their work. For three months they had been building a Victorian-style conservatory on the back of our dining room. It turned out just as I had planned it and Emma knew I would be pleased.

  We had lived in the same house for more than twenty years. It was double-fronted and was part of an early Victorian terrace in the centre of St Sebastian’s. When I was appointed to the lectureship in philosophy at the university, Emma and I had just married. As a wedding present, my parents had given us the down-payment, and through the years we had gradually paid off the mortgage. When our daughter’s fondness for loud pop music had become too much for us to endure, we had extended into the roof, so now Imogen had two rooms and her own bathroom upstairs. Now, of course, she was nineteen. She was away at Cambridge for most of the year, at Beaufort College. It broke my heart when she left, but she was doing exceptionally well reading Social and Political Science and enjoying a lively social life at the university. When she had moved upstairs, Emma had taken over her old nursery for a study and that was where she wrote her articles and planned her food programmes for the BBC.

  Meanwhile, I had always preferred to work in the centre of the house with everything going on around me. To Emma’s fury, I had increasingly spurned the spare bedroom and had taken my books down to the dining room. For several years now, she had complained about clearing up my papers before she could serve her imaginative meals – hence the need for the new conservatory. It was going to have our dining room furniture and Emma was already planning the exotic vines and creepers which she intended to grow. Meanwhile the dining room was to become my little kingdom. The large Victorian pedestal desk and the handsome wellington chest which I had inherited from my grandfather would at last come down from upstairs, and Emma was sketching out designs for a more comfortable room for our visitors.

  We were both interested in house furnishings. I collected old Caucasian carpets, while Emma was fond of Regency furniture and was a compulsive haunter of antique auctions. She was also a passionate gardener. She spent every weekend planting and weeding our square town garden and the flowers and shrubs always bloomed for her.

  When we arrived home, I found several letters addressed to me on the hall table. One in particular looked ominous. It had a St Sebastian’s crest on the envelope and was stamped Private and Confidential. It proved to be a summons from John Pilkington, the Head of the Department of Theology. It read as follows:

  Dear Felix,

  As you may have been aware, our new Vice-Chancellor has been busy over the summer with a strategic plan for the university. At its first meeting, it was unanimously approved by the Council. I have been asked to inform you that from now on philosophy will be phased out as a degree subject although the university will fulfil its commitment to the department’s current students and so, in effect, the subject will continue for another three years.

  Last week the Vice-Chancellor had meetings with your two philosophy colleagues both o
f whom have agreed to take early retirement in light of this development. Malcolm Bridgestock has indicated that he will be away from the university in the Michaelmas term which will mean that you and Jonathan Pike will have to cover all the philosophy courses. Next academic year, I understand both Malcolm and Jonathan plan to be away in the Lent term.

  Given this situation, the Vice-Chancellor and I have discussed the way forward for both you and your two colleagues. We believe it would be in the best interests of the university to amalgamate the Theology and Philosophy departments. What this will mean in practice is that the three of you will become members of the Theology department. However, since Jonathan and Malcolm will be formally retired, they will not be expected to attend department meetings. As you know, there is enormous pressure on space. As a result, they will be sharing an office in the Arts Block. However, there will be no reason for you to move since your room is already located on the same floor as the Theology department.

  No doubt you will want to discuss the implications of these changes, and I have therefore scheduled a time to see you in my office on Thursday, directly after the first Theology department meeting which is taking place in Arts Block Seminar Room 3 at 9.30 a.m. Could I ask you please to let my secretary know if this time is not convenient?

  Best wishes,

  John Pilkington,

  Head of the Department of Theology

  ‘So,’ I said, ‘the three of us are going to join Theology.’

  ‘With that stuffed shirt John Pilkington?’ Emma had a low opinion of many of the employees of St Sebastian’s. She felt, with some justification, that her friends in the BBC were far more amusing.

  ‘But apparently I am the only one who is expected to attend departmental meetings. Jonathan and Malcolm have been let off the hook.’