The Campus Trilogy

by AnonYMous

  Behind the reception desk was a white-haired woman in a red velvet uniform with a picture of a Bishop’s mitre on the pocket.

  ‘Are you here for the first time?’ she asked.

  We both nodded sheepishly. ‘I’m afraid we don’t know what to do,’ I confessed.

  ‘You’ll need to be members,’ she announced taking a wad of papers from under the counter. ‘Fill in your names and addresses,’ she said. ‘And then we’ll send you out membership cards.’ I had not realised that we were going to have to join a club, but apparently there was nothing to fear. Membership was not selective. There was no nominating, seconding, voting or blackballing. Magnus grinned as he completed his application. ‘Perhaps we ought to make Harry a member too,’ he suggested. ‘Could we have another form please?’

  The woman looked at Magnus quizzically and handed over a third form. ‘Is your friend coming tonight?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ Magnus said. ‘But I’m sure he’ll want to play some time in the future.’

  I was mystified. I thought it highly improbable that Harry Gilbert, Distinguished Professor of Christian Ethics at Sweetpea College, Virginia, would ever voluntarily visit such an establishment. ‘It’s for his Who’s Who entry,’ said Magnus. ‘You list what clubs you belong to at the bottom and you must admit that “Bishop’s Bingo, St Sebastians” would look terrific besides the “Acropolis, London”.’

  I saw his point. ‘Now what do we have to do?’ I asked the cashier.

  She produced two books of tickets with numbers on them. ‘Now these are the local bingos,’ she said. Then she took out another long strip of paper out of the drawer. ‘This one is for the National. That’s the really big prize.’ She greeted an old lady with dyed golden hair who had just come up to the counter. ‘This is Betty,’ she said. ‘She won a share of the National last week – thirty five thousand pounds it was.’

  Betty grinned at us. She purchased a book of tickets and went off humming.

  ‘Bloody Hell,’ Magnus mumbled. ‘We’ve got to come here more often. There’s a fortune to be made.’

  ‘I should think the odds are heavily stacked against winning a big prize,’ I said. ‘And, after all, the tickets aren’t cheap.’ Between us we had parted with more than sixteen pounds to acquire all our pieces of paper.

  Then we went into the main hall which was plush with red velvet. The room was divided into small tables at which the players sat and there was a food counter in the corner. The manager wore an ill-fitting dinner jacket and had a gold earring in one ear. He seemed a jolly fellow. We were clearly early and he was preparing plates of rather tired looking salad for his staff.

  Magnus and I looked at the tickets with boxes and had no idea what to do. We discussed the various possibilities, but even though we had had thirteen years of higher education between us we could come to no firm conclusion. Mercifully one of the staff saw our bewilderment. She handed us two fibre tip pens, and explained the rules. Magnus got into a muddle over the difference between a Line and a House, but once this difficulty was sorted out, we both felt fairly confident.

  We decided we should sample the food. At the sandwich counter an elderly waitress with only two bottom teeth served us very cheap, very nasty, cheese and onions rolls and crisps. The accompanying weak tea was free. ‘It’s not quite like the casinos in the James Bond films,’ remarked Magnus. ‘There doesn’t seem much chance of a dry martini, stirred, but not shaken.’

  Then we had a surprise. At one of the tables in the corner, we saw two familiar figures. ‘That’s Mrs Brush, the Theology department cleaner,’ I said. ‘And isn’t that other lady old Mrs Catnip, Wanda’s mother? She was at the chapel service, remember.’

  Mrs Brush smiled and waved for us to join them. We picked up our food and made our way between the tables. ‘I’ve never seen you here before, Dr Glass,’ she said.

  ‘We’ve never been before,’ I explained. ‘This is our first time.’

  ‘Well, well! This is Mrs Elsa Catnip. Professor Catnip’s mother.’

  Elsa Catnip wore a purple woolly hat and a hand-knitted mauve cardigan. She smiled when I said that I thought she had spoken to my daughter Imogen after the chapel service. ‘Oh yes,’ she said, ‘a very nice young lady.’

  I said that Imogen was disappointed that the conversation had ended so quickly, but that I understood Wanda had wanted to go home. Old Mrs Catnip suddenly looked tired. ‘Wanda’s very clever, you know, like her father was. She does get a bit impatient.’ Then she got up from her seat. ‘Before we start,’ she said, ‘I like to have a look at the blackjack table.’

  Gesturing to a corridor alongside the stage, she told us that it was next door and she slowly made her way through the little tables.

  When she was out of earshot, Mrs Brush told us about her new friend. ‘Poor dear,’ she began. ‘She does miss Leeds. But that Professor Catnip insisted she come live with her. She can’t really do for herself any more – she’s eighty-five you know.’ I realised this must be about right. If Wanda Catnip was nearly sixty, it was likely that her mother would be in her mid-eighties.

  Mrs Brush was relishing the chance for a gossip. ‘What Elsa really wanted was to sell her house in Leeds and move into a local old people’s home. She had several friends there already and was looking forward to a nice rest. But that daughter of hers wasn’t having it.’

  ‘Why would she be against her mother moving into a residential home?’ I asked. My mother would have been only too thankful if her parents-in-law had made a similar decision. Instead they had insisted on remaining in the flat in Battersea which brought all sorts of complications of nurses and care arrangements.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Mrs Brush shook her head. ‘Elsa won’t say, but I think it’s because Professor Catnip doesn’t want to lose that house. It’s worth a small fortune now and of course it would have to be sold to pay for the home. Well, you know how bossy Professor Catnip is. She likes her own way. She insisted that the house was closed up and that Elsa came to live with her. Between you and me, she treats her like dirt. Elsa has quite a good little pension – but now she gives it all to her daughter. The Professor gives her mother twenty pounds a week for a night out at the bingo, but that’s the only treat she has. It’s a shame!’

  Mrs Brush stopped for a moment and then she took another breath. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘when she was Dean at the university, I had to clean her room. She was a real tartar, always complaining about this or that. One time she even went to the Registrar to say that I skimped my work. Me! I’d never had a complaint before in twenty years! I’m really sorry for Elsa. I met her at bingo and when she let slip who she was, I’ve tried to be her friend.’

  ‘It sounds as if she needs one,’ said Magnus.

  Mrs Brush smiled and then looked at her watch. The bingo was about to start. She made as if she were about to go next door to fetch Mrs Catnip, but I volunteered. I was eager to see the casino part of the establishment.

  The room was much the same size as the bingo hall and was decorated in the same red velvet. The walls were lined with a series of multi-coloured slot machines. At the far end there was a large roulette wheel operated by a skimpily-dressed blond. Nearby were two blackjack tables. I expected to find Mrs Catnip by the slot machines, but she was standing behind a seedy-looking middle-aged man who was the only blackjack player. In front of him were three stacks of chips in different colours. Mrs Catnip was watching intently and shaking her head. I told her that bingo was due to start. She heaved a sigh and followed me back into the main hall. ‘You know, dear,’ she said as we passed through the corridor, ‘blackjack is far more interesting than bingo. It’s not just luck – there’s skill in it. That poor man didn’t have a clue. I often think I could do very well at it myself … I’ve always had a good memory …’ and she pottered back to her seat next to Mrs Brush.

  Once we understood the rules, neither Magnus nor I found bingo very challenging as a game. But I could understand its appeal. The hall was
warm and cosy and everyone was friendly and welcoming. A lonely old age pensioner might well find the atmosphere comforting and there was always the possibility of winning something. Having said that, I was astonished at how much some of the old dears were spending. Many were doing twelve lines of numbers at every game (neither Magnus nor I felt equal to more than six). They participated in every bingo of the evening. Many also smoked fairly continuously and drank several pints of beer. Still it was not for me to judge. I asked Mrs Brush how much an evening could cost a couple and she thought for some of them there would be no change from fifty pounds. Initially I was shocked by this, but as Magnus pointed out, Emma and I would certainly spend that amount if we went to the theatre in London.

  For all our efforts, neither Magnus nor I won anything, but old Mrs Catnip did win a line in one of the games and pocketed forty pounds. She, for one, had made a profit from the evening. She was pleased with her win, but was a little anxious I would tell Wanda. I promised faithfully that I would do no such thing. In fact I was not sure that I would confess to any of my colleagues how I had spent my evening.

  The next couple of weeks were uneventful. Mrs Brush was particularly chatty whenever we met in the corridor. Bingo had formed a bond. My remaining philosophy classes were going very well and I was reluctantly setting up the new programme in Casino Management. The first necessity was obtaining planning permission to demolish the old squash courts and build a training casino. I had several sessions with the council planning officer, who was already on drinking terms with Flanagan. I did not need to point out that the new venture would provide jobs for local people and inject more cash into the economy – he informed me of these points himself. I felt fairly confident that there would be no objections to our plans.

  I was also in correspondence with the Vice-Chancellor’s childhood friend, Sylvester Mancini. He was very keen on the proposed partnership between the Mancini training school in Las Vegas and the new degree programme in Casino Management at St Sebastian’s. I found it hard to pin him down as to the precise existing syllabus of the training school, but I was overwhelmed to receive a very lavish invitation. Emma and I were asked to stay in the family’s fanciest hotel over the New Year. It appeared that this was an especially festive time in Las Vegas. It was to be an all expenses paid trip – first-class flights, limousines to the airport and I was assured we would be the Mancinis’ most honoured guests. Sylvester was sure we would enjoy ourselves.

  I had reservations about all this. I thought it was improper because there might be a conflict of interest somehow. However, the Vice-Chancellor gave me no choice. He and Helga had had a similar invitation for the late spring and they were certainly going. Magnus expressed his unadulterated envy.

  ‘You’ll have a splendid time! It’ll be even grander than my Christmas voyage on the Queen Christina and, believe me, that’s glitzy enough! Of course, it’s even better for you. You don’t have to dance with hoardes of ancient American ladies, Emma’ll protect you. But there again, you’ll miss out on all the presents!’ We were sitting in the Senior Common Room when we were having this conversation. Magnus sighed nostalgically and took from his pocket an elegant gold cigarette case which had been a tribute from one of his many admirers. He kept a good supply of mints in it and he offered me one.

  ‘Still,’ he continued, ‘you’ll have to do some gambling. How are you getting on with Sir William’s infallible system of blackjack?’

  It was true that for several days after our excursion to the bingo hall, I had struggled with Sir William’s book on card counting. Entitled How to Win at Blackjack in Ten Easy Lessons, it was written by one Ernest Ripper, PhD. Although I was fairly conversant with the various thories of chance, Dr Ripper’s system defeated me. After I read the first chapter, I realised that it was a practical course so I bought several decks of cards to try to work out the combinations. It made no difference. The technique seemed to depend on having a photographic memory. You needed to know exactly which cards had been played and which remained. As someone who believed in working things out by logic, I was hopeless at it.

  Magnus was no better. He kept the book for a week and ended up pronouncing that the technique was even more difficult than learning ancient Cuneiform. How, we wondered, did Sir William do it? One afternoon, Magnus came for tea and biscuits in my office. I took out the pack of cards and we played several hands. If anything Magnus was worse than I was. I persevered for another two days, but in the end I was frustrated by the whole exercise.

  One morning I waylaid Mrs Brush in the corridor.

  ‘Are you still seeing Mrs Catnip at bingo?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said our cleaning lady, ‘and a dreadful state she’s in too. She misses her Leeds friends more and more, and that Professor Catnip gives her no peace at home. Nag, nag, nag, she is! She doesn’t say much, but I can read between the lines. It’s wrong, that’s what it is!’

  ‘Well,’ I tried to soothe Mrs Brush’s indignation, ‘I have a little present for her. I understand she’s interested in cards and I thought she might like this book on blackjack.’

  Mrs Brush looked doubtful, ‘Oh I don’t think she could ever afford to play blackjack … still, you’re right. I know she’s interested. She always wants to go and look at the tables. It’s very kind of you Dr Glass. I’ll make sure she gets it; I’ll be seeing her tonight.’

  The next day, Mrs Brush delivered a note to me. Elsa Catnip must have bought the stationery in the bingo hall. It read:

  Dear Dr Glass,

  Thank you very much for thinking of me and giving me the book on cards. I have always enjoyed games and I will study it carefully. Perhaps it will make my fortune! I am very grateful for your kind thought,

  Yours sincerely, Elsa Catnip.

  The card had a pretty flower design, the writing was old-fashioned copperplate and the spelling was impeccable. There was no doubt that Elsa Catnip was a woman of style. Of course Magnus had been right about Joy Pickles. There had been no acknowledgment of my flowers, though the shop assured me that they had been delivered. I had not been forgiven and Joy Pickles had no manners.

  During this period I also continued to try to establish contact with my new theology colleagues. As I had feared, however, the scene I had witnessed between the Vice-Chancellor and John Pilkington had not improved our relationship. My departmental chairman now made it clear that not only was I an unbelieving Jew, I was also to be numbered among the loose-livers and gamblers. Whenever I came to sit near him with my lunchtime sandwich, he would look at me as if I were a leper. Then he would make an excuse and leave. My other theological colleagues observed his disapproval and were soon following his example.

  I also did not improve my standing in the department when I refused to double-mark some Korean essays. Apparently part of the syllabus of the Reverend Kwan Christian College of Seoul was philosophy of religion. Consequently I was told that one of my responsibilities was to moderate the students’ essays in this subject. One day a heap of eighty dissertations in Korean appeared in my pigeonhole. Accompanying them was the usual university mark sheet neatly filled in by the Kwan College teachers with some very creditable marks. It was my role to check a sample of the essays to make sure I agreed with the assessments.

  Unfortunately a knowledge of Korean is not among my accomplishments. I telephoned Pilkington to ask him what I was supposed to do. He said I must do as everyone else did. I was mystified. He told me that until the department managed to find a Korean translator, we had no choice but to confirm the original marks. It was just a matter of putting a tick beside each entry on the mark sheet and signing my name at the bottom. I asked when he expected to appoint an interpreter. There was a long pause. It appeared that the department had many other pressing things on which to spend its money and a Korean interpreter was by no means the first priority at present.

  I was appalled. I did not say anything on the telephone. Instead I put all the essays in a very large envelope and sent them back t
o the departmental secretary, Wendy Morehouse. I included a note pointing out that, due to my linguistic deficiency, I was not qualifed to check the asseessments. Formally I heard no more of the matter, but Magnus told me that he had overheard Pilkington describe it to Wendy as ‘typically unhelpful behaviour.’

  I was not the only person to be rejected by the Theology department. Our new dean, Patricia Parham, was also not popular. Initially I thought this was because she had defeated Pilkington in the Deanship election, but Magnus indicated to me that there was also strong disapproval of Patricia’s personal lifestyle. Same-sex relationships were condemned in the Old Testament in the Book of Leviticus and the St Sebastian’s theologians believed that nothing had changed in the three thousand years since the Bible was written.

  Patricia did not seem to mind their attitude. Indeed she was rather amused. One lunchtime she joked to me that the disapproval of Pilkington was the one thing that she and Father Chantry-Pigg shared in common. It was certainly hard to think of any other quality. Our new chaplain remained pompous, humorless and self-important while Patricia was funny, straightforward and pleasant to everyone. The friar was still to be seen round the building with his entourage of obsequious young men. He had even brought a group of them into the Senior Common Room for a meeting. Pilkington had told him very sharply on that occasion that students were not permitted there. Chantry-Pigg had not repeated the experiment.

  One day Patricia told me that her partner Judith had started spending one evening a week volunteering at the Women’s Refuge. She had heard from the woman in charge that my daughter Imogen was intending to write her undergraduate thesis on battered women and would be working in the Refuge herself over Christmas. I confirmed that this was the case and we agreed that there was no excuse whatsoever for domestic violence. Magnus was rather sceptical when I told him about this conversation. After all, he maintained, he had been battered by Judith, but I said that I thought that that was rather different.