The Campus Trilogy

by AnonYMous

  Suddenly the frown left his face and he smiled. ‘Come on Felix. I know you can do this for the university. Las Vegas needs us and we need Las Vegas and before very long there will be super-casinos all over the United Kingdom as well. It’s only sensible to get in on the ground floor. I know you have your reservations, and quite right too, but you must see this as an opportunity, a wonderful opportunity, to clean up the gambling industry. Think of it as a moral challenge!’

  ‘But …,’ I protested.

  ‘No buts! It is all arranged! Luigi Mancini is due here in March for the St Sebastian’s Feast. The plans will proceed as agreed.’ Flanagan stood up. ‘Now I must go. I’m supposed to address the Rotary Club weekly luncheon. I’ll have another word with the Planning Officer for you.’ I noticed that Flanagan was wearing a Rotary pin in his lapel. He walked me to the door, patted me on the shoulder and sent me on my way. I knew when I was defeated.

  Later that afternoon, I met my Kant class for the first session of term. Both Mary and Rosalind were in superlative form. They had clearly put the traumas of the previous months behind them. Afterwards, I went to the Senior Common Room for a cup of tea. The room was unusually full and I found myself sitting next to John Pilkington. He was entertaining the former Dean, Wanda Catnip. Pilkington frowned as I sat down. ‘I understand you’ve been in Las Vegas.’ he said. I wondered if this were common knowledge. Wanda looked surprised, and I explained that the university was exploring the possiblity of setting up a degree in Casino Management.

  ‘A thoroughly reprehensible idea,’ Pilkington commented.

  I pointed out that it was the Vice-Chancellor’s scheme, and that I had been deputed to organise it. Then, anxious to change the subject, I asked Wanda about her mother. ‘I met her in the St Sebastian’s bingo hall when I was doing some research for the new project.’

  Wanda became very tetchy. ‘I can’t understand it,’ she said. ‘All Mother seems to want to do is play bingo. She goes with that cleaner, Mrs Brush. She’s been a thorough nuisance about it.’

  ‘Is your mother interested in gambling?’ Pilkington asked.

  Wanda shook her head. ‘To begin with it was just a little outing for her, but she’s become more and more preoccupied with it. I can’t understand the attraction.’

  ‘She seemed very homesick for her old home in Leeds,’ I said.

  Wanda became pink in the face. ‘Mother is absurd. She keeps whittering on about wanting to move into an old people’s home with her friends …’

  ‘Wouldn’t that be a good thing if she’d like it?’ I asked.

  ‘Nonsense!’ Wanda was very brusque. ‘Daddy bought that house to be security for me. It’s ridiculous to sell it now and lose all that capital just to satisfy a whim. It isn’t as if the government will pay for her to have residential care. The house would have to be sold and Mother probably wouldn’t like the home anyway.’

  ‘It’s very good of you to look after your mother as you do, Wanda,’ said Pilkington sanctimoniously.

  ‘Well, as you know John,’ responded Wanda Catnip, ‘I was never one to shirk my duty …’

  A few days later, I was sitting in my office looking up information about the Mancini organisation on the internet. There was a knock on the door and it turned out to be Magnus back from his trip. I was delighted to see him. He was deeply tanned and was carrying a large package. ‘Hello,’ I said, ‘you look as though you had a lovely time.’

  Magnus slumped into one of the plastic chairs I used for seminars. ‘Exhausted!’ he sighed. ‘Danced out! Talked out! Dined out! I never want to see another octogenarian as long as I live!’

  ‘How is Pushkin?’ I knew that Magnus’s cat did not like being left with cat-sitters.

  ‘Cross!’ said Magnus. ‘He’s sulking and he has a touch of cystitus. I know that wretched girl didn’t buy him his favourite cat litter whatever she says …’

  ‘Anyway,’ he continued, giving me the package. ‘I brought you a present.’ Inside was an African mask of a fat green frog. It looked uncannily like Flanagan. ‘Got it in the Caribbean,’ he said. ‘Couldn’t resist.’

  ‘That’s very kind. But really Magnus, where can I hang it? Surely not in my office.’

  ‘I thought you might wear it for departmental meetings. Give our colleagues a scare!’ he said. Then he handed over the new copy of Private Eye. ‘Now, I’ve got something important to show you. Turn to page twenty-three.’

  There was a small heading which read ‘High Principals.’ Underneath was written:

  There’s a new scandal at St Sebastian’s University. The notorious friar Brother Chantry-Pigg has recently been found in its venerable precincts. Still in his brown habit, he has taken over the college chapel. He was exiled from his friary in Oxford supposedly to escape the attentions of the ex-wife of the famous French film director, Jacques Bousset, whose En Bon Point was an international hit. However, rather than remaining loyal to his vows of solitary monasticism, he is now, unbeknownst to the brothers, actually living with Mme. Bousset in a million-pound executive home. As his ‘housekeeper’ she cooks him extravagant meals and attends full-time to his comfort. It is clear that the fragrant Danielle Bousset has changed her taste in men. En Bon Point was a celebration of rotundity. The Holy Lusty-Pigg is skeletally thin.

  Magnus smiled slyly. ‘Good isn’t it?’

  ‘Really Magnus! You go too far!’

  ‘Ah, but you haven’t heard the full story. When I was on my cruise, I had plenty of time to do research about our friend. Harry’s pal the Bishop of Bosworth seemed to know all about the errant brother: apparently he’s notorious in clerical circles. There have been a string of minor scandals involving rich women. Danielle is one of a long line. She first moved to England to avoid publicity from the French newpapers, who were giving her no peace. After her divorce she took a job in a hospital in Oxford where she worked as a radiographer. It was there she met Chantry-Pigg when he thought he had broken a toe tripping over a croquet hoop.’

  ‘Harry told you all this?’ I asked.

  ‘Most of it …’

  ‘What in the world did she see in him?’

  ‘No accounting for tastes,’ Magnus grinned. ‘Maybe the attractions of fat men wore off. I understand she’s very religious and the Roman Catholic Church let her down badly. Maybe the dear old Church of England can do better.’

  ‘Yes, I read about that on the internet. They didn’t hesitate to give Jacques Bousset an annulment to his marriage. Was he fat by the way?’

  ‘Gross I understand. En Bon Point was his fantasy: lithe young girls chasing after enormously fat men.’

  ‘After he won his Oscar, they apparently did.’

  ‘Life imitates art! But the point is, Chantry-Pigg and Danielle became close. He was never in his friary. So the ecclesiastical authorities hoped to avoid the occasion of scandal by sending him to us.’

  ‘Really! It’s too much! We’re not a dumping ground for delinquent clergymen …’

  ‘I agree. But unknown to his order, Danielle bought a house in St Sebastian’s on the proceeds of her divorce. She now seems to spend her time cooking for our chaplain.’

  ‘And nobody knew anything about it?’

  ‘They do now!’ Magnus smiled like a snake. ‘Everyone reads Private Eye and even the Church of England will have to do something about the situation. I’ve known the assistant-editor for years and he was delighted with the story!’

  Clutching his magazine, Magnus went off to his office; we planned to meet for lunch at one.

  When I arrived in the Senior Common Room, he was sitting at a table with Patricia Parham. They were both bent over the article, giggling. I ordered a cheese and onion roll and a bag of crisps and joined them. ‘Have you seen this?’ Patricia asked.

  ‘Magnus showed me.’

  ‘It was the talk of the Senate meeting this morning,’ she said. ‘Apparently, Chantry-Pigg has already sent in a doctor’s note saying he is suffering from stress and will be off for s
everal weeks …’

  ‘Did the Vice-Chancellor say anything?’ I asked.

  ‘Not formally, but the rumour is he’s delighted. He thinks the article’ll help with recruitment and put St Sebastian’s on the map. He’s also threatening to approach Mrs Bousset for a donation and enlist her to give a series of lectures for a new degree course he’s dreamed up in Celebrity Studies!’

  ‘Typical! That man never disappoints!’ declared Magnus. ‘By the way, how’s the casino going, Felix?’

  ‘Don’t ask! The Vice-Chancellor is working on the Planning Officer to develop the squash courts site, and the Mancinis are coming in March for the St Sebastian’s Feast. Emma and I have just got back from Las Vegas. It was quite a trip!’

  On my way back to my office, I passed the chapel vestry. There was a neat sign on the door which read, ‘Father Chantry-Pigg is unwell’.

  There was a message waiting for me on my answerphone from the Vice-Chancellor’s secretary: Flanagan wanted to show me something, and he asked if I could come to see him straightaway. What I wondered had happened?

  I found the Vice-Chancellor standing in front of the largest, most baroque gold frame I had ever seen. It was propped across his sofa and it took up half his room. ‘Look,’ he said, handing me a letter, ‘this is the surrounding for the St Sebastian portrait. It arrived this morning along with this note …’

  The missive was typewritten on extraordinarily thick cream paper. At the top was an engraved crest of a large fish standing in an upright position on a scroll. Inside the scroll was a motto – ‘Heb Porpoise, Nid Pwrpas.’ The letter itself read as follows:

  Dear Professor Flanagan,

  After we last spoke, I commissioned this frame from one of my people in Virginia. I hope you like it. Both Julian and I feel it will suit the new St Sebastian portrait very well. Julian has been working hard and the picture is now in its final stages. As you may know, he is one of the most talented American portrait painters working today. There are examples of his work on display in the Virginia House of Representatives, the Virginia Senate House, the Porpoise Museum Sweetpea, Sweetpea College and several other public buildings in the state.

  In my view the new portrait is one of his finest pictures to date. It is representative of his style and I hope you and your university will be as pleased with it as I am. As I mentioned to you over the telephone, I wish to donate both the portrait and the frame to your university as a charitable gift. This will have some tax implications and I will be sending you the requisite forms to complete in due course.

  We plan to be in London for the second week of February and would very much like to see the portrait hung. Would it be possible to have a little unveiling ceremony? We will be sending you the finished article next week so it should be with you by the end of the month. It will be an easy matter for any picture dealer to stretch the canvas and put it in the frame.

  In London we will be staying at the Dorchester. Before that you should continue to contact me in Sweetpea. Both Julian and I very much look forward to meeting you,

  With best wishes,

  Thomas Jefferson Porpoise

  (Thomas Jefferson Porpoise VI)

  ‘You’re going to want me to organise the unveiling ceremony,’ I said.

  ‘I was hoping you’d suggest it.’ Flanagan was all charm. I reminded myself firmly that he was a bully and a wife-beater. ‘You’d better liase with Mr Porpoise to see which day is most convenient for him,’ he continued. ‘Then we’ll have a little party. Cake and sparkling wine should be enough, but we must keep the old bloke happy.’

  ‘What are you going to do with the frame in the meantime?’ I asked. It really was gigantic.

  ‘The porters will come and hang it in the Great Hall. I’m expecting them any minute … and we’ll exile all my boring predecessors to the Senior Common Room.’

  As we were speaking, the Head Porter and his spotty young assistant came into the room. Even they were rather daunted by the size of the frame. ‘Well I hope we can get it though the doors …’ the Head Porter remarked. ‘And how are we supposed to hang it on the walls? That’s what I want to know. It’ll bring down all the oak panelling.’

  The Vice-Chancellor was very soothing. ‘I’m sure you’ll manage, Mr Thomas,’ he said. ‘I always know I can count on you.’

  ‘It’s my best I do, Sir, as you know. Look out there, young Kevin. Don’t hit the corner. Art, this is!’ And the two of them staggered off in the direction of the Great Hall.

  ‘Tell them where to put it, would you mate,’ said Flanagan to me and left us to it. I followed the pair down the corridor and we spent an exhausting afternoon hoisting and fixing St Sebastian’s new acquisition to the Victorian woodwork of the Great Hall.

  The next couple of weeks were uneventful. Crispin Chantry-Pigg failed to reappear and Mrs Sloth reverted to her old standard of incompetence in the library. On the one occasion I spoke to her, it was obvious that she had been crying. I was returning some books and I thought I might as well broach the subject. I asked her as Trustee of the Chapel if she had any idea when Father Chantry-Pigg was returning to work.

  ‘I don’t know and I don’t care,’ was Mrs Sloth’s pastoral response.

  ‘I think Private Eye may have given the wrong impression,’ I said, trying to pour oil on troubled waters. ‘It may be that Madame Bousset really is only Father Chantry-Pigg’s housekeeper. We don’t know for certain …’

  ‘Oh that woman! She’s so rich! No one can compete against her!’ She dumped a pile of books onto the counter and disappeared into her private little sanctum.

  As promised, the famous picture arrived at the end of the month. I did not see it. I arranged for a picture-framer to come in to fit it into the frame and he and the porters were closeted in the Great Hall for a whole morning stretching the canvas and putting it up. Meanwhile a blue velvet curtain had been hung in front of it so it could be revealed in all its splendour at the unveiling ceremony.

  All the pictures of previous Vice-Chancellors had been transferred to the Senior Common Room, much to the dismay of the academic staff. As Magnus remarked, it was a sure-fire recipe for indigestion. The Great Hall had been emptied of chairs. It was swept and polished under the supervision of Mrs Brush and then the door was locked. There was no entry to anyone. The whole university was agog to see the new work of art.

  Thomas Jefferson Porpoise was scheduled to arrive at four o’clock on the afternoon of the 10th of February. The Vice-Chancellor and I were waiting at the front entrance in the biting cold to receive him and, sure enough, a silver-grey Rolls-Royce drew up in front of us as the cathedral clock struck the hour. Thomas Jefferson was exactly as I remembered from Sweetpea. He was probably in his mid-seventies, with white hair and a slim figure. Julian Bosie was also slender, but his hair was gold. He had dressed for the occasion in an artist’s smock and a Parisian beret. He would have fitted in nicely among Crispin Chantry-Pigg’s troop of incense-swinging acolytes.

  Flanagan was effusive to the pair. He enquired about the success of their trip and, on hearing that they were intending to visit Sir William Dormouse in Shropshire, he embarked on an enthusiastic account of our visit. I wondered if Thomas Jefferson Porpoise had thought to purchase a few hot water bottles. Given the capaciousness of his car, I thought it probable that he was bringing his own generator to combat the cold of the castle.

  We led our visitors into the Great Hall where a large number of academics were already assembled. The Vice-Chancellor introduced the pair to Registrar Sloth and to Dean Parham. I was amused to notice that Patricia had made no effort whatever with her appearance. Then it was time for the opening ceremony.

  I melted into the background and found myself standing beside Magnus, Patricia and her partner, Judith. I noticed several of my theological colleagues, including John Pilkington, dotted about the audience. Then Flanagan, who was standing between Thomas Jefferson and Julian, struck a glass with a spoon and began his speech:

  ‘
Ladies and Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘today marks the beginning of a new era in the history of our university. During the Victorian period our founding-fathers created an institution whose mission was to spread the good news of the Gospel to far-flung parts of the earth. We, the inheritors of this great tradition, have a similar goal: to enlighten the world with wisdom and knowledge. It is in this spirit that we are launching several new degree programmes. One of our most exciting ventures is our new degree in Casino Management in partnership with the King Midas Casino College of Las Vegas. As you all know, the government is intending to establish super-casinos throughout this country in imitation of the network already established by our American cousins.’ Flanagan bowed in the direction of Thomas Jefferson, who smiled back. It was clear that the two had already achieved a profitable understanding.

  ‘We here at St Sebastian’s,’ continued Flanagan, ‘will make our contribution to this endeavour by providing training of the very highest quality to those who find their life’s vocation in this most specialised industry.’ I thought momentarily of Shortie, Wolfie Goldberg, Leftie, Divine de la Rue and the African tribesmen.

  Flanagan was enjoying himself. ‘We have a very exciting plan for redeveloping the old squash courts into a state-of-the-art casino and you will be delighted to know that I heard only this morning that the university architect has just been granted full planning permission for his designs. In the meantime this historic Great Hall will be playing its part. Not only will it act as a forerunner for our future casino, but it has now been recognised as a licensed venue for marriage and commitment ceremonies.’ I looked over at Pilkington and saw him wince. So much for his petition …