by AnonYMous
‘What exactly did he say?’
‘He stated that tape recordings were notoriously unreliable. They could be falsified. He insisted that it probably wasn’t even Chantry-Pigg’s voice on the tape.’
The Vice-Chancellor snorted. Patricia was pink in the face. ‘When I tried to demand that we heard it, he accused me of being prurient.’
‘He said that it was a priori impossible that the dear Archbishop could have recommended someone who would behave like that …’
‘And he called those nice young women evil-minded little Jezebels …’
‘And he told them that he was going to recommend that they be sent down from the university,’ I concluded.
Flanagan stood up. He walked over to the window and looked out in the direction of the cathedral. I could see he was trembling. ‘I blame myself.’ It was as if he were talking to himself. ‘I should have known what would happen. Why didn’t I see it?’ He turned around and spoke directly to us. ‘It was just like that with the Brothers of Gentleness. You could never win against them. Whatever the evidence, the authorities refused to believe it. Even today the Church always protects itself.’
As he spoke the colour suffused his face. He was flushed with anger. ‘I’m sorry, both of you,’ he said. ‘But there’s nothing we can do. The Provost is the Visitor of the University and the decision of the panel is final.’
‘I just don’t believe it.’ Patricia was determined not to let the matter go. ‘Surely there can be an appeal?’
Flanagan shook his head. ‘Not if the Visitor is involved.’
‘But what about Mary and Rosalind? Surely you’re not going to send them down? It would a travesty of justice.’
The Vice-Chancellor seemed to relax. He took a deep breath. ‘No,’ he said. ‘They were never on trial so they cannot be found guilty. If they have not been found guilty, I cannot expel them and that’s the end of the matter. You can tell them from me that they are safe. Also warn them to keep out of the Reverend Friar’s way. In my experience people like him are extrememly vengeful, but the whole thing will die down in a few days.’
‘It’s appalling!’ Patricia was still incenced.
‘Yes it is. If I had my way I’d get rid of that wretched man today, if not yesterday. But I can’t, dammit. We must just hope that there are enough other complaints that I can write to the Archbishop some time in the future. Anyway, about those nice little girls, I’ll give Pilkington a ring, as head of their department. He must be told that no action can be taken against them whatever the Provost says.’ Flanagan sat down at his desk and shoved the roulette wheel to one side – it fell off into his wastebasket and cracked in two. ‘Damn,’ he said picking up the pieces. ‘Damn, damn …’
‘Perhaps you can glue it back together,’ I volunteered.
The Vice-Chancellor picked up the telephone and gestured for us to go. Outside Mary and Rosalind were waiting. Patricia and I took them down to the Junior Common Room, bought them some coffee and explained that they were in no danger. Mary began to cry. Rosalind put her arm round her and made a vow. ‘I’ll get even with that Chantry-Pigg,’ she said, ‘if it’s the last thing I ever do!’ Patricia and I left them there.
Several days later I was working at home; Emma was in the kitchen trying out a new receipe for whisky-baked alaska. The post arrived and she came into my study. ‘Look at this,’ she said.
It was an invitation from Pilkington to an end-of-term Christmas party. On the front was a nativity scene with glitter. Inside was a pious Christmas greeting and a hand-written note about the date and time of the party. ‘Really, Felix,’ Emma said passing over the card, ‘your colleagues have no taste.’
‘Well, I’m not going,’ I announced.
‘I think you must.’
‘But why? After Pilkington’s comments about my Jewish background, I really don’t see why I should.’
‘These are your new colleagues, Felix,’ said Emma gently. ‘You’ve got to try to be friendly.’
‘It’ll be ghastly. I’m telling you.’
‘Well, at least Magnus will be going. You can talk to him.’
I picked up the telephone to offer Magnus a lift to the Pilkingtons. He sounded amused. ‘Sorry Felix,’ he said. ‘You and Emma are on your own. I’m just going out to deliver Pushkin to his catsitter.’ Pushkin was Magnus’s cat. He was famous throughout the university for only eating the most expensive cat food and refusing to use all but the most rarified cat litter.
‘I’m off on my cruise in a couple of days’ time,’ he continued, ‘And I have to make sure Pushkin is settled in before I set off. Then it’s lobster all the way for me while you’ll be getting tinned pineapple and plastic vol-au-vents from Maureen Pilkington!’
Emma was horrified to hear about the food. ‘It can’t really be like that,’ she said, but she cheered up at the thought of Magnus as a gentleman-host on the Queen Christina.
‘It’s hard to imagine,’ she said.
‘I understand from Harry and Victoria that he’s a fantastic dancer. He’s pursued by all the old ladies who want a partner. So he won’t be at the party and I won’t have anyone to talk to. As a matter of principle, none of the theologians want to have anything to do with me now that I’ve taken over the casino project and anyway they’re furious that they have to do some of my teaching.’
‘You can always talk to me.’ Emma was comforting. ‘Anyway I’m curious to meet your new colleagues and their wives. So, you’ll just have to put up with it.’
‘Please, Emma …’
‘No, Felix,’ Emma was unusually firm. ‘We’re going. After all, you’ll have to work with these people in the future.’
I could see there was no escape, so I wrote a note to Pilkington to let him know we were delighted to accept his kind invitation …
In the meantime I heard from my publisher that advanced copies of my new book were due. At the beginning of December, six shiny volumes arrived in a large parcel in the post. They looked very nice. The cover was blue with Kant’s Critiques Revisited in large gold letters. I had been told that only a hardback would appear in the first instance, but no one had mentioned the price. I was astounded to see that the book cost sixty pounds. Who, I wondered, would ever pay that amount? When I phoned my editor to ask about this, he tried to be reassuring. As a scholarly monograph, it was aimed initially for a library sale. If it did well, then they would consider a paperback edition.
I thought Flanagan might like to see my work even though it had nothing to do with casino management and I put a copy in the internal post for him. I also sent one to Pilkington as Head of my department. The Vice-Chancellor’s secretary sent me a brief note saying that Flanagan appreciated my kind thought and that he hoped he’d have a chance to read the book during the Christmas holiday. There was no response from Pilkington. In class I mentioned that my latest work had just appeared and that I had given a copy to the library. The students looked pleased, but I doubted if anyone would peruse it.
I knew it was not the kind of volume to appear in an ordinary neighbourhood bookshop. It was not even the kind of work to provoke a reaction in the upmarket Sunday papers. I had been told by the Journal of Philosophical Studies that although they intended to cover it, they were at present two years behind with their reviews. There was such complete silence that I felt as if I had spent three years of my life on a project only to have the manuscript dropped in the deepest and remotest area of the Pacific Ocean. It was not an encouraging thought.
Then, just before Pilkington’s party, I received an email from Magnus with a photograph. He had gone to Southampton to begin his cruise and he was already sailing the ocean waves In the picture, he was seated in the first-class dining room surrounded by a group of elderly women in glittery costumes. Magnus himself was wearing a dinner jacket with a red bow tie and was slightly out of focus. Accompanying the photograph was a message:
Here I am at the gala first night dinner. These are some of the ladies I told you
about. The average age must be over eighty. We’re just beginning our cruise, so they are still quite sprightly. On my left is the widow of one of the former directors of Shell. Have a look at her ruby necklace – biggest I’ve ever seen. Unfortunately one of my fellow hosts fell off a ladder before we set sail. He was trying to fix his Sky television dish, so we’re one man short and I’ve got several extra duties. Anyway we’ve just finished dinner – eight courses, and I’m stuffed! They now want to go off to the casino, and then dancing. I’ll need the entire day tomorrow to rest up from the ordeal.
Now, Felix, I’ve had a thought. You know that Harry has a great friend who’s the Bishop of Bosworth. I emailed Harry and asked him to ask Charles (the Bishop) about Chantry-Pigg. Harry says the friar has had quite a checkered career. There was lots of gossip about him and various ladies when he was living with his order. The Church of England rumour is that he was sent to St Sebastian’s to get him away from the latest conquest.
Anyway Charles is going to poke the drains to see what else he can dig up. I’ve also got lots of free time during the day, so I’m going to do some research on the internet about Madame Bousset. I’ll let you know what I come up with. Perhaps there might be a little story here for Private Eye! Got to go now. I managed to sneak away to the computer room to send you this email. But one of the ladies has just found me and insists that I take her to play roulette. A gentleman-host’s life is not a happy one! Lots of love to Emma
Magnus.
On the afternoon of Pilkington’s party I went to pick Imogen up from the station. She had permission to leave two days before the end of term to do some research at the Women’s Refuge. I was delighted to see her. She was carrying two suitcases, both filled with books; they were so heavy I had difficulty lifting them into the boot.
On her duffle coat my daughter had pinned a badge I had never seen before. It read: WOMEN ON TOP. ‘Have you got a spare one of those?’ I asked.
Imogen looked puzzled. ‘Do you really want to wear one?’
‘It’s not for me,’ I said. ‘It’s for Magnus on his cruise. I think he’s going to need it.’
After Emma and Imogen had greeted each other rapturously, we all sat down and had a cup of tea. Then six o’clock was approaching and it was time to brace ourselves for the Pilkington’s annual Christmas party. Neither Emma nor I were certain how everyone would be dressed. I thought it was better to err on the side of conservatism so I climbed into my dark blue corduroy suit and I put on my old college tie. Emma eschewed the garments she would have chosen for a BBC office party and was very sedate in a black silk skirt and a soft cashmere sweater. I hoped we would look like model members of the Theology department.
I drove slowly and reluctantly to the Pilkington residence. It was on a small modern estate on the outskirts of St Sebastian’s. By the time we arrived there was already a long line of cars parked in front of the bungalow. One of the department’s graduate students opened the door to us and showed us into the open-plan living room. I was curious to see the house and it was very much as I had imagined. The carpet throughout the ground floor was of a beige abstract design and the curtains were of the same neutral shade. The furniture was late 1970s modern and must have been new when John and his wife Maureen had married.
There was no doubt that they were married. There was a large picture of two youthful-looking Pilkingtons dressed as a bride and groom on the side-board. The kindest thing that could be said of the composition was that the flowers were pretty. Flanking this were several other photographs of our host. In each he was receiving some kind of academic degree from a benign dignitary. There were also pictures of two children, a boy and a girl, at various stages of childhood or adolescence. I looked round the room to see if the originals were present at the party, but, wisely perhaps, they had absented themselves.
In one corner of the room was a mahogany cabinet with a collection of dolls from various parts of the world. There were several book-cases mainly full of organ music and the upholstered armchairs and sofa were of a dark sludge green. Magnus had told me to check on the downstairs lavatory. Apparently Harry Gilbert had always been fascinated that it was knicker-elastic pink and Magnus wanted to be able to report to him that nothing had changed. I thought I had better complete this task early so I made my way through the crowd. I was not disappointed. It was both an extraordinary colour and quite radiantly clean. I almost felt I should recommend it for some television commercial.
All my theological colleagues seemed to be there. I greeted them as I passed. They all smiled wanly, but no one was about to include me in their conversation. Maureen Pilkington, in a neat two-piece mauve costume, was handing out canapes from a large tray; they seemed to be pieces of cheddar and pineapple on orange sticks. In the corner Pilkington was responsible for the dispersal of alcohol. He handed me a glass of anonymous red. I took it into a corner and sipped it. It was irremediably disgusting so, after holding on to it for a few minutes and looking brightly at the assembled company, I left it on top of the book-case and started circulating.
First I went into the kitchen. This was fitted out in beige laminate and on every surface large platters of canapes were waiting to be distributed. I played a game with myself to decide which was the most horrible-looking. There were chipolata sausages on sticks, moist and pink on one side and burnt on the other. There was a large bowl of a mysterious white dip with limp pieces of celery and carrot to dunk into it. On another plate were small vol-au-vents which looked as if they were made of plastic; they were filled with a pink sauce and a very occasional shrimp. Then the pièce de résistance were tinned asparagus spears wrapped in very thin, sweating pieces of ham. I longed to discuss this display with Emma.
On the refrigerator was a poster from the St Sebastian’s Methodist Church announcing a Whist Drive. I wondered if Mrs Brush and old Mrs Catnip would be attending. Then over the kitchen table was a notice board filled with miscellaneous post cards. There was an outside light so I could see the view. Immediately in front of the window was a clothes line, a barbecue and a small lawn. Over the fence at the end of the grass was another house, precisely like the one I was standing in. I could see someone working in the kitchen opposite.
I knew I had to make an effort. I returned to the living room where Emma was circulating among the wives. She never had trouble at parties. In contrast the husbands stood in small groups clustered against the wall. No one was anxious to talk to me, and I stood for a few moments in front of the French windows by myself. Then I caught sight of Chantry-Pigg. He had just entered the room and before he could be monopolised by Mrs Sloth who was walking purposefully towards him, I intercepted him. He was forced to stop as I blocked his path. He looked disconcerted to see me. His crucifix swung from his belt and his brown habit radiated a slightly spicy smell. ‘Lovely party, isn’t it?’ I said.
‘It is indeed,’ he intoned and made as if he would move on, but I was determined. ‘Have you brought Madame Bousset with you? I was eager to continue a conversation I had with her after your inauguration service.’
The friar looked even more uncomfortable. ‘How did you know her name?’ he asked.
‘She told me when I spoke to her.’ I looked at him out of the corner of my eye. I was going to make him guess how much I knew. ‘I expect she misses France,’ I said, ‘England is miserable at this time of year’
‘It is indeed!’
‘And where does she come from originally?’ I persisted.
‘I know very little of the former life of my housekeeper,’ declared Chantry-Pigg. ‘She is, of course, at home, attending to her duties …’
‘Good heavens,’ I said, ‘is she still working at a quarter to seven in the evening?’ I thought of the enormous divorce settlement Danielle Bousset’s lawyer had achieved for her. ‘She really is a treasure!’
‘She is indeed.’ And Chantry-Pigg stepped round me into the welcoming conversational ambit of Mrs Sloth.
I was a little puzzled why Jenny Slo
th was at the party. She had no claim to be a theologian; as far as her work was concerned, she was barely a librarian. Presumably the Pilkingtons felt sorry for her in her deserted state and had invited her as an exercise in Christian charity. Or maybe she was a close friend of Maureen Pilkington ….
Anyway it was clear that no one was going to talk to me. Surprisingly, Pilkington had abandoned all his reservations about Chantry-Pigg. He greeted him effusively and made sure he was provided with wine and food. There was a great deal of animated conversation and it seemed as if the two had become best friends. I was shocked. I knew that the Vice-Chancellor had told Pilkington about the sexual harassment case. Presumably my Head of Department was so relieved that the friar was not corrupting the young men of the university, he was prepared to overlook his behaviour towards the young women.
I had had enough. Even though we had been there only half an hour, I really did not want to stay any longer and I started looking for Emma. But before I could gather her up, there was a commotion at the front door. There was a blast of fresh air; everyone turned to see what was going on and we heard an Australian bellow of greeting. The Vice-Chancellor had arrived.
Flanagan was wearing an enormous camel-hair coat and was exuding excitement and bonhomie. Behind him trailed Helga. She had abandoned her dark glasses, was heavily made up around her eyes and looked miserable. She was walking with a very slight limp that I had not noticed before. The graduate student who had opened the door relieved them of their coats and Maureen Pilkington came forward and guided them into the room. The Vice-Chancellor took a glass of wine off Pilkington’s tray and headed in my direction. ‘Felix mate,’ he said, shaking my hand, ‘I thought I’d see you here. Let’s sit on this sofa.’ I realised that he had been drinking before he came to the party, but there was no escape. I could feel the entire company looking at us and I wondered what they thought about the scene.