by AnonYMous
Magnus leaned over. ‘You won’t believe this, but they’ve called the house “Cuckoos’ Roost”,’ he whispered.
‘No! Why?’
‘Well,’ Magnus smiled, ‘His wife comes from the Black Forest and collects cuckoo clocks. I’ve heard the place is littered with them. You’re cuckooed at from every side!’
Then, as Flanagan boomed about his qualifications for his new job and left us all in no doubt as to his exceptional ability and expertise, Magnus took out a classic car magazine and ostentatiously leafed through the advertisements. ‘I’ve decided to buy an old Jag,’ he murmured as he pointed out a silver grey Mark II. ‘Can’t let Harry be the only one with a nice car! What do you think?’ he asked pushing the picture towards me. Pilkington glared at him and gestured that he should put the magazine away. Magnus took no notice whatsoever.
‘Now,’ continued the Vice-Chancellor. He was plainly enjoying himself. His voice became even louder and his Australian accent grew more and more pronounced. ‘I am sure you have all heard that at my previous university, I started up a great scheme of partnerships with a whole array of institutions of higher learning throughout the globe.’ He passed around copies of the postgraduate prospectus of Fandonegal University. On the front was an image of a very ordinary academic-looking building; superimposed on top of it was a group of students from various ethnic backgrounds all grinning at the camera.
‘I am proud to say that, by the time I left, there were over twenty thousand long-distance students who had all obtained their degrees from us. They had received all the benefits of a first-rate education, but at places convenient to themselves, and the university gained sufficient funds to restore its financial credibility and stability.’
Magnus looked at the brochure and groaned. ‘I suppose he’s planning to bring them all here,’ he said.
The Vice-Chancellor continued without missing a beat. ‘The inspiration for the founders of St Sebastian’s was to reach out to the world. And this must be our mission today. Throughout the nineteenth century missionaries from the college went, with no regard for their personal safety, to enlighten the heathen in every country on every continent. Today, through the wonders of technology, we have no need to sacrifice our health and even our lives going out to the highways and byways to spread the word. We can achieve our targets in other ways. Our students come to us through correspondence, through partnerships with local colleges and through the internet.’
Magnus closed his eyes. ‘I don’t believe what I’m hearing. Where did they find this appalling man? I thought Barraclough was bad enough, but this chap’s a positive menace.’
‘When St Sebastian’s was first established, its priority was outreach.’ Flanagan made an expansive gesture to emphasise his point. ‘Outreach to the poor, outreach to the unchurched and, most importantly, outreach to the ignorant. This is the tradition I want to draw on. We live in a global community, what is in fact a single village. I intend to channel the benefits that flow from St Sebastian’s to all nations. We must think globally. St Sebastian’s is going to educate the world. We will be forming partnerships with colleges and institutes on every continent and we will be inviting them to share in the special St Sebastian’s brand of enlightenment and education. We will not listen to the kill-joys, to the stick-in-the-muds or to the reactionaries who are always mouthing on about “tradition” and “standards”, but have no insight, no imagination and no vision of the future. They belong to the past. We must be true to ourselves and embrace the new world-order. Our new vision must inspire each and every member of the university. It is the responsibility of all of us to embrace this mission and participate in these new initiatives. I promise you the benefits for us all will be incalcuable.’
Magnus buried his face in his hands. ‘I don’t think I can endure this for much longer,’ he moaned.
Pilkington, on the other hand, was thrilled. He sat glowing with rapt enthusiasm. When Flanagan at last came to the end of his encomium, he shook his hand and thanked him extravagantly for coming to address us. He said that the speech was a real inspiration and he was sure that we all felt privileged to be part of this wonderful new initiative. He was certain that, under the Vice-Chancellor’s leadership, the new venture would be a huge success and he knew that all his colleagues would be equally committed. He suggested there be a round of applause to show our good will and appreciation of Professor Flanagan’s vision for the university. Everyone except Magnus clapped obediently and the Vice-Chancellor took his leave.
I was not sure whether to laugh or to cry.
CHAPTER THREE
Blasts of Incense
After our new Vice-Chancellor had left the meeting, little remained to be said. Pilkington concluded proceedings and I prepared to go to his office for our conference. But before we could gather our things, Pilkington was grabbed by Father Chantry-Pigg, who embarked on an elaborate exposition about the role of the department in future chapel activities. Pilkington gestured that I should go and wait outside his office.
Located on the first floor of the Arts Block, Pilkington’s domain looked over the car park. When I arrived, Wendy Morehouse, the department secretary, was photocopying in the hall. The door was open and she told me to go inside. Painted light blue, the walls were covered with tourist posters of Jerusalem and the Dead Sea. In the corner was a large metal filing cabinet with a series of drawers. There were a great many books, which were colour-coded and neatly arranged on the bookshelves in alphabetical order. On the desk was a computer, a printer and a stack of folders including one with my name on it. I was tempted to sneak a look at it, but I heard footsteps in the hall.
It was Wendy clutching a mobile telephone. ‘John’s going to be late,’ she said. ‘The new chaplain has several problems. Would you mind waiting outside?’
Next to the photocopier were four chairs lined up against the wall. I sat down and took the Times newspaper out of my briefcase. None of the obituaries looked very interesting so I embarked on the crossword on the penultimate page. The seconds passed. The crossword proved to be easier than sometimes and I finished it in less than twenty minutes. Then I got up to stretch my legs and thought I might as well have a cup of coffee from the vending machine. It was as disgusting as usual.
A further ten minutes elapsed before Pilkington arrived. He was out of breath. His tweed sports jacket and polyester green tie were creased, and his tall figure moved clumsily. He apologised for being late. ‘Our new chaplain is very talkative,’ he said as I followed him into his office.
‘He seems very enthusiastic,’ I remarked.
Pilkington frowned. ‘Yes … of course it’s splendid that we have a proper chaplain. Apparently he’s a protegé of the Archbishop of Cannonbury, which is how the funding became available. But I didn’t quite understand about his orientation before I met him.’
I was not very familiar with the different schools of thought within the Church of England, so I was not sure what Pilkington meant. However, since I had just joined the Theology department, I thought I had better learn. I hazarded a guess. ‘You mean he’s rather high?’ I suggested.
‘Nothing wrong with the Anglo-Catholic wing of the Church,’ said Pilkington briskly, ‘but it can sometimes, regrettably, attract some undesirable elements.’
Undesirable elements? Now I was out of my depth.
‘I’m not, of course, making any suggestion about Father Chantry-Pigg. But these kind of people can encourage some very silly behaviour among the students. Little mutual admiration groups of young men who are not sure of their sexuality. That kind of thing.’
Light dawned. ‘Oh you mean gays. I don’t think there’s anything to be worried about there. After all, it does no harm for the young to explore the different sides of their natures.’
Pilkington looked very tight-lipped. He clearly did not agree. ‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘it’s much more acceptable nowadays. I believe even our new Dean lives with her female partner.’
It was a mistake
to mention the Dean. I had forgotten in the excitement of the moment that Pilkington himself had been a candidate in the deanship election and had lost to Patricia Parham. He reddened slightly, sniffed and gestured for me to sit opposite his desk in a metal armchair with a beige rayon seat. He picked up my file and opened it. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘you’ve come to join us. Your colleagues, too, but I don’t think we’re likely to see much of them, as you know.’
The telephone rang and Pilkington answered it. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘He’s with me now. I’ll be sure to tell him.’
‘That’s the Registrar’s secretary,’ he said as he put the receiver down. ‘She wants you to go to the Registry after our meeting to fill in some forms since you’re changing departments.’ He settled himself into his seat. ‘Now, Felix,’ he began, ‘are there any questions you want to ask?’
‘Well, frankly I don’t understand why you want the three of us in your department. We’re not theologians after all.’
John stared out of the window. ‘I know you’re not and this may be a problem. We must see how it all works out. To tell you the truth, several of us are rather troubled about your background in particular.’
‘My background?’ Now I really was flummoxed. What could my background have to do with joining the Theology department? I thought back to my parents: my father was a doctor, a dermatologist and my mother dedicated herself to running the house, looking after her family and volunteering for a range of good works. I could not see anything very objectionable in any of that. Perhaps our neat 1930s villa in Hampstead Garden Suburb was the problem? Or could it be my new colleagues were unhappy with the fact that I had won a partial scholarship and had been educated as a day-boy at Westminster School? Perhaps the theologians found something objectionable in private education. I knew Harry Gilbert had gone to Shrewsbury and Magnus to Winchester, so I was not the only one whose parents had paid for schooling. Anyway it was scarcely my fault. I had been thirteen years old when the decision had been made. Maybe they were upset that I had gone to Cambridge. I knew that Pilkington was a graduate of Newcastle University and people could be very odd about that sort of thing …
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand. What’s wrong with my background?’ I asked.
Pilkington looked embarrassed. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘as you know, we are a Christian department. Most of us are in some sense committed to the original vision of St Sebastian’s as an evangelical missionary college. Of course, its role is different now – we’re a modern university as the Vice-Chancellor explained at our meeting. We have a new vocation: to bring educational opportunities everywhere around the globe. Yet there is still the feeling in the department that our first duty is to encourage students in their faith. “Fides Quaerens Intellectum”, faith seeking understanding, you see … That’s the purpose of theology, at any rate at St Sebastian’s.’
My heart stopped and I stared at him. I had been warned about this, but in my entire career I had never really had to face it before. My family were completely non-religious. The only time in my life I had ever entered a synagogue was to go to the bar mitzvahs of various of my school friends. I had married a non-Jewish woman and my family had loved Emma from the first. Yet it was true that both my parents as children had fled with their families from Germany. They had been lucky. Both sets of grandparents were originally from Berlin and they knew what was going on. With the rise of the Nazi party, they had realised there would be real trouble for anyone with Jewish ancestry. They had settled in England as soon as things became difficult in 1933. In London they had established a new life, cultured, civilised, influenced by their German heritage certainly, but determinedly secular and patriotically English.
‘You mean you don’t like the fact that I’m Jewish,’ I said.
John Pilkington squirmed. He wrung his hands. ‘You mustn’t take this the wrong way. I have the very greatest respect for the Jewish people. I much admire their ideals of family life. I grew up in Manchester very near to the Jewish area. When I was at university I even shared a flat with someone whose parents were holocaust survivors.’
‘In other words,’ I interrupted, ‘some of your best friends are Jewish.’
‘You people are always so sensitive. I knew it would be difficult to talk to you about this. What I am trying to say is that we do see ourselves as a Christian department. We’re particularly strong in Biblical Studies.’ (I happened to know that the New Testament was John Pilkington’s speciality.) ‘And we are building our reputation on this. We want to get away from the misguided twentieth-century fashion for phenomenology and world religions. And I must tell you that many of us were alarmed by your latest book. Your criticisms of Kant’s religious assumptions were very disturbing ….’
‘You may not have liked it,’ I was still upset, ‘but it went down very well with the Research Assessment Exercise ….’
Pilkington reddened again. This was clearly another sensitive subject for the theologians.
‘I think we were unfairly treated by the RAE …’
‘Well be that as it may,’ I said, ‘I’m even more confused than before as to why you agreed to have the philosophers join you. Can we go back to my original question?’
Pilkington continued to look awkward. ‘Well there was a considerable financial incentive …’
I laughed. ‘Ah … I see. You were told that if you would take on the three of us, you would get all the Philosophy research money. After all we did better as a department than Theology. Then there are the fees from all the current students. I suppose your department gets all those as well?’
Pilkington tried to look dignified. ‘Well those are a diminishing return; the fees will disappear with the last of the students. But the research money lasts at least five years and, with the three of you, that’s more than three hundred thousand pounds.’
‘And of course, as both Jonathan and Malcolm have taken early retirement, I’m the only one who will cost you serious money.’
‘Yes’ Pilkington was nothing if not honest, ‘I wouldn’t have agreed if we had had to have all three of you.’
‘So what it comes down to,’ I said, ‘is you were prepared to cope with one Jewish agnostic, provided he was accompanied by a sizeable dowry?’
Pilkington chose to ignore the bitterness of my tone. ‘Well, to tell you the truth, I was reluctant at first, but we’re short of funding because we didn’t do as well as we deserved in the RAE and the money will come in very useful, but we will do our bit and try to accommodate you within the department. Anyway someone has got to teach all those philosophy students.’
‘But, as you say, the philosophy undergraduates will come to an end in three years time. What are you going to do with me then?’
Pilkington frowned. ‘That will be a problem. The kind of students we are anxious to attract are generally not interested in philosophical issues. They want to study the Bible, Church history or systematic theology, things like that. But you’ll be over fifty-five by then so you’ll be eligible to take your pension. I’m sure we’ll be able to come to some arrangement when the time comes …’
I was speechless. I could not believe what I was hearing. Pilkington quite openly intended to take my money and dispose of me as swiftly as possible. He did not even seem to think he had said anything offensive. He opened my file and pulled out a piece of paper. ‘This will be your teaching schedule for the year,’ he said in an official tone. ‘As you can see, your load will have to be increased since your colleagues won’t be working as much as they did in the past.’
I looked it over. My number of classes had nearly doubled from last year. ‘Look, John,’ I said. ‘I don’t really mind being in your department. But I can’t possibly do all this teaching. That’s at least seventeen contact hours a week. I’ve also got a lot of doctoral students. Is there no one among the theologians who could give me a hand in, say, the beginners’ Philosophy of Religion course?’
‘I’m afraid everyone is busy,’ he said coldly
.
‘I can’t believe that anyone else is teaching even half this kind of a timetable. How many contact hours a week do you have, for example?’
‘That’s not your affair.’ Pilkington closed my file deliberately. ‘The work has got to be done and you happen to be the person allocated to do it. Now, unless there is anything else you want to raise, I’m afraid I’ve a great deal of work to do …’ The interview had come to an end. There was no point in further argument. As I walked out of the door, Wendy was waiting outside carrying a mug of coffee with ‘Boss’ written on it and a plate of gingernut biscuits. ‘Have a nice day,’ she chirped as I made my way down the stairs.
I felt that I needed some lunch, but first I had to go to see the Registrar’s secretary. On my way out of the Arts Block, I saw several of my new colleagues standing by the entrance. I knew none of them well and they were absorbed in conversation with each other. They ignored me as I passed.
I crossed the street and climbed up the steps of the Old Building. Passing the chapel, I went up the stairs to the Registry which was located next to the Vice-Chancellor’s Office on the top floor. As I turned the corner, I saw the Registrar, Dr Robert Sloth, standing very close to Joy Pickles by the notice board. She was wearing a tight pink sweater and his grey suit looked decidedly rumpled. They were giggling and kissing each other. When they saw me they stepped apart, looking embarrassed. ‘I’ve come to fill in the forms you wanted, Robert,’ I said. ‘Something to do with changing departments.’