by AnonYMous
‘Well we’ll have to learn. Go on a course or something. Academics are meant to be intelligent after all. I’ve also got a couple of dance schools who want to go into partnership with us at the moment, so we’ll have to branch out into that whole area. Perhaps I can get those prima donnas in the Drama department away from all that Shakespeare stuff and teach what people really want to know. Anyway Felix, let’s get down to business …’
Flanagan spread out several architectural drawings on his desk and explained about the plans for the casino. Amongst the papers was a photograph of a silver trowel for the foundation ceremony. He clearly was intending to do the thing properly.
On the sofa I noticed a copy of the Sunday Inquirer. ‘You saw the article?’ I asked.
‘Yup … loved it! Just what that canting hypocrite deserved! The bloody Provost was on to me demanding the girls’ expulsion, but I pointed out that if he’d done his job properly at the hearing, it would never have come to this. Anyway I’ve had a word with the Archbishop. The Provost is not long for St Sebastian’s. They’ll find a way to kick him upstairs again!’
‘So the girls aren’t in trouble?’
‘In trouble!’ Flanagan laughed. ‘Quite the reverse! It’ll do the university a power of good. Applications will go up. Mark my words! Those little sheilas did looked stunning. Do you know how the newspaper got the story?’
I explained about Mary and Rosalind’s visit. The Vice-Chancellor was impressed. ‘Clifford Maxwell! Really! I didn’t know those two had it in them.’
‘They’re very good philosophers,’ I observed mildly.
Flanagan brushed this aside. ‘They have a real flair,’ he said. ‘What we need to do is to invite them to be tutors for the new degree in Celebrity Studies.’
‘Tutors?’
‘Student “involvement” is the new buzzword. It saves on staff costs. Send them an email. We don’t have to pay them. We call it work experience and they can put it on their curriculum vitae.’ The Vice-Chancellor took off his hat, straightened his tie, and walked me to the door. ‘Exciting times, mate,’ he said as he sent me on my way.
I had agreed to meet Magnus in the Senior Common Room at four. We arrived together, ordered tea and tea-cakes, and looked for a place to sit. Pilkington was by himself in the corner reading the Times Higher Educational Supplement. ‘Come on, Felix,’ Magnus said smiling. ‘Let’s see what he thinks about the Sunday Inquirer.’
Pilkington looked up as we joined him. He made a brief nod in our direction and turned back to his newspaper. Magnus was not to be deterred. ‘Heard the news about Father Chantry-Pigg?’ he asked.
Pilkington nodded. ‘A great pity,’ he said.
‘Absolutely,’ responded Magnus, winking at me. ‘Seducing students! It just won’t do.’
Pilkington winced as Magnus took a rumpled copy of the article out of his pocket. ‘You’ve seen the piece?’
Pilkington muttered that he had heard about it from his secretary. ‘Well, then,’ Magnus began, ‘you need to be fully informed. He’s a member of your department, after all. Let me go through it with you.’
Before Pilkington could object, Magnus began reading the page in a loud voice. Heads turned in our direction. When he finished, he grinned. ‘Quite a little escapade, don’t you think? Chantry-Pigg won’t be able to stay on after this.’
Pilkington nodded gloomily.
‘It’s sad for his fan club of nice young men. What will they do without the chaplain to dance attendance on?’ I said.
Magnus was very robust. ‘With the success of the commitment ceremonies, perhaps they can hire themselves out as bridesmaids,’ he suggested.
Pilkington was not amused, ‘Don’t be absurd, Magnus,’ he said in a very stuffy tone, ‘those ceremonies are a disgrace!’
‘Well,’ I pointed out, ‘St Sebastian’s is desperate for money and apparently there are very few nice places for weddings …’
‘And after all,’ said Magnus triumphantly, ‘we all know Buggers can’t be Choosers!’
CHAPTER NINE
The Very Worst Sort of Cad
Magnus was right. Crispin Chantry-Pigg was not seen again in St Sebastian’s. Within a few weeks, the rumour went round that one of his cousins had given him a cottage in Devil’s Bridge, Wales. He was to be employed as site supervisor of one of her caravan parks. It seemed a sad comedown after an existence in Winchester Close with the ex-wife of a famous film director.
Meanwhile, arrangements were being finalised for the Mancini visit to the university. Invitations to the St Sebastian’s Feast had been sent out, and programmes for the laying of the foundation stone were being printed. The Vice-Chancellor was in contact with Sir William regarding his speech. He was to be driven down just before the dinner by young Will Dormouse, his eldest grandson. It was felt that he was too old to stand around in the cold for the building site ritual.
Also the first commitment ceremony had taken place. Over a hundred guests flooded the university. I was on my way to class when I saw two young men in white suits passionately kissing each other. Then guests threw confetti over the happy couple as they ran to a yellow Saab convertible which was decorated with multi-coloured helium balloons. I thought it all looked delightful.
One afternoon I ran into Mrs Brush. She was mopping the floor outside John Pilkington’s office. ‘Can I have a quick word?’ she asked. ‘It’s about Elsa Catnip. I’m worried about her.’
‘Is she all right?’
‘Well … to tell you the truth, she’s had a bit of a problem with her gambling.’
‘She’s lost money?’ I was concerned. I did not think Wanda Catnip would be indulgent about paying her mother’s debts of honour.
‘No … it’s just the opposite. She keeps winning. And those in charge are beginning to look suspicious. She’s not sure whether to go back.’
‘Look, Mrs Brush,’ I said. ‘That isn’t a crisis. All she has to do is lose once in a while. That’s what I suggested when I first spoke to her.’
‘But Elsa hates losing …’
‘Well, there’s no alternative. She must bite the bullet occasionally if she doesn’t want to be thrown out of the place.’
‘Don’t you think they’ll catch on?’
I shook my head. ‘I’m sure they won’t,’ I said.
Later that day I had a telephone call from Mrs Catnip herself. She was very apologetic about ringing, but she said she needed to see me. We arranged that she should come after Mrs Brush had finished her work. At five there was a knock on my door and the two ladies arrived. Mrs Catnip was wearing a dark blue coat and a red woolly hat. I made them both a cup of coffee and they sat down opposite my desk.
‘It’s so kind of you to see me, Dr Glass,’ Mrs Catnip began. ‘I know how busy you are, but I’m at my wits’ end.’
She took a deep breath and started on the story. ‘I know Mavis told you that I had a bit of trouble with the casino last week. The dealer got rather angry when I won ten games in a row. And he summoned the manager. Well, I told them I was just learning how to play and got lucky. But they suggested I go back to bingo.’
‘But they’ll continue to let you play for the time being?’
‘I think so, dear. And I know I’ve got to lose a bit sometimes, but it’s harder than you’d think … But the real problem is that I wanted to go back to Leeds. You see, there are at least six casinos in the city and I could go round them all so they wouldn’t remember me …’
‘Well why don’t you?’
Mrs Catnip looked awkward. ‘Well you see, dear, I’m eighty-six and I can’t really manage on my own. I can’t carry the shopping any more and the coal is too heavy to bring in. That kind of thing. I wanted to move into the Sunset Residential Home. It’s just down the road and I’ve got lots of friends there …’
‘Well, what’s the problem with that?’ Sadly, from my earlier conversation with Wanda, I knew the answer all too well.
‘I’d have to sell the house and Wanda
becomes so angry if I even suggest the idea. I hoped maybe if I won enough at the blackjack, I might be able to pay for the Home myself. But I can see that no manager is ever going to let me win that kind of money …’ Poor Mrs Catnip looked as if she were going to cry. ‘I suppose I’ve just got to stay with Wanda in St Sebastian’s, but I miss my friends so much.’ She dabbed her eyes.
‘Look,’ I said, ‘I think the situation is easier than you think. Could you manage in your own house if you had a little extra help?’
Mrs Catnip brightened. ‘Oh yes dear, I could easily. But help is very expensive. It would be at least a hundred pounds a week. There just isn’t enough from my husband’s pension …’
I took out a notepad and wrote down some figures. ‘First of all,’ I began, ‘you’d be able to get a Care Allowance. People your age are entitled to it. That’s at least forty pounds a week on top of your existing income.’
Mrs Catnip looked doubtful, ‘Are you sure dear? I don’t want to take charity.’
‘It’s not charity. You’re entitled to it like your old age pension. I got one for my own mother. It’s for anyone who needs help so that they can stay in their own home if at all possible.’
Mrs Catnip was not slow on the uptake. ‘So I’d only need to win an extra sixty pounds more every week.’
‘Would that be possible?’ I asked.
‘I could do that easily … if I went to a different casino every time then it would be less than forty pounds a month overall from each of them. They wouldn’t mind that …’
‘Well there you are then! But remember, you’ve got to lose sometimes. Otherwise they’ll get suspicious like they did here …’
The two ladies gathered up their coats and handbags and I walked them to the entrance. Mrs Catnip looked much happier. As they left, I gave them both invitations to the St Sebastian’s Feast. Mrs Brush said that she couldn’t be there because she had to make tea for her husband, but Mrs Catnip was interested. ‘Do come,’ I said. ‘I’ll introduce you to Sir William Dormouse. He’s a great blackjack player just like you.’
As time drew near for the Mancini visit, the university became increasingly busy with arrangements. Luigi Mancini, Sylvester, and Wolfie Goldberg were flying into Heathrow and had hired a chauffeur and car to meet them. They would come up to St Sebastian’s for the university festivities a day early, and were booked in to the best rooms in the White Hart Hotel. The invitations to the Feast had been sent out. Flanagan had asked Emma for advice about food and she had offered to host a dinner party the night before in our house. She was currently working on a programme about French provinical cuisine and thought this might be a good opportunity to try out several new receipes.
On the day of the Mancinis’ arrival, the university flag was raised over the Clock Tower. A small party had assembled before the Old Building including the Vice-Chancellor, the Registrar and myself. Just before four o’clock a vast white stretch limousine pulled up in front of the university. It completely blocked the street.
The chauffeur opened the doors and slowly Sylvester, Luigi and Wolfie emerged from the depths. The Vice-Chancellor, wearing his academic gown and hood, stepped foward. He hugged his old friend, and shook hands with the other guests. Luigi was very affable. He slapped me on the back and drawled, ‘How’re ya doing Felix?’ Sylvester and Wolfie seemed equally glad to see me.
I remarked that St Sebastian’s was a long way from Las Vegas. ‘Sure is!’ said Luigi, looking about him at the grey street. ‘You oughta get more street lighting round here!’
The Vice-Chancellor ushered the party into his office where sherry and canapes were served by waiters dressed in white uniforms emblazoned with the university crest. There was a hushed silence as Flanagan expressed his gratitude to the Mancini organisation for their generosity towards the university and made an expansive gesture towards various architects’ plans which were displayed on the walls. Luigi nodded and looked pleased when he was told about the dedication ceremony that had been arranged for the following day. Then it was time for the limousine to take our guests to their hotel.
Dinner was scheduled for eight. In addition to Luigi, Sylvester, Wolfie, the Vice-Chancellor and Helga, Emma had invited Registrar Sloth and Joy Pickles to make up numbers. I felt a little awkward about asking Joy. She had never acknowledged the flowers that I had sent her, but in the event she seemed quite happy. She came wearing a very low-cut yellow dress which looked as if it were too small for her. Emma looked disapproving, but, compared with Divine de la Rue on a similar occasion, her costume was almost in good taste. Sloth appeared very grey and middle-aged beside her.
I was relieved that Helga sported neither dark glasses nor any form of body cast. As usual she was quiet and looked constantly to Flanagan for approval, but she slowly relaxed in Emma’s company and seemed to be enjoying herself.
The Mancinis were the last to arrive. It was with enormous difficulty that the driver squeezed into our street and parked the white limousine in front of our house. I foresaw that I would have trouble with the neighbours later, but, as soon as they were dropped off, the car inched its way out again.
When Emma opened the front door to the Las Vegans, Luigi kissed her hand, thanked her for her gracious hospitality and presented her with an enormous bunch of red roses. We did not have a vase big enough to contain them. Once everyone was seated, I handed around drinks and home-made cheese straws. Conversation was easy. Sylvester and Flanagan entertained the company with a flow of childhood reminiscences. It was all very jolly although I knew that the jovial stories concealed a great deal of hardship and misery.
We then went in to dinner. The new conservatory looked beautiful with Emma’s flowers and table decorations. For the first course, she had made a wonderful dish with fresh scallops and garlic. This was accompanied by an excellent chilled white Burgundy.
Wolfie was seated next to Joy Pickles. She listened sympathetically as he told her that his aged mother had just, as he put it, passed on, after being moved into a nursing home. The local rabbi, Max Rhinestone, had conducted the funeral and over two hundred people had been present. To my surprise, Joy seemed to understand the intricacies of Jewish funeral customs. Her own father had died recently and had been buried according to the Orthodox rite in Golders Green.
‘I didn’t know you were Jewish, Joy,’ I said. I wondered if her family knew about her relationship with Sloth.
Joy looked self-conscious. ‘Well we’re not religious,’ she fiddled with her knife, ‘but we do support Israel and my family have always belonged to an Orthodox synagogue.’
The main course was a rich pheasant casserole. There were roast potatoes and a variety of vegetables with a thick dark claret to go with it. This was followed by a selection of French cheeses, all at the perfect state of ripeness. Pudding was a delectable French tarte tatin served with crème fraîche. The English guests enjoyed every mouthful, but I noticed that Sylvester and Luigi pushed their food around without eating much. It was clear that what they liked was steak. Emma had observed this too and when the apple tart was served, she offered them as an alternative large servings of Häagen-Dazs chocolate ice cream fresh from the freezer. They loved it.
Throughout dinner Flanagan dominated the conversation with his descriptions of the future Golden Arrow Casino Training College. ‘We were going to start off using the Great Hall, but due to the Mancinis’ generosity,’ he smiled at Luigi, ‘the Hall can now be used solely for weddings and commitment ceremonies.’
Luigi was puzzled. ‘Weddings I know about,’ he said, ‘but I don’t know about commitment ceremonies?’
When the Vice-Chancellor explained that in the United Kingdom it was possible for gay couples to commit themselves legally to one another, Luigi was troubled. ‘You mean they get hitched up? You gotta priest who does this?’
‘They don’t actually get married,’ Flanagan soothed his visitor. ‘They dedicate themselves to each other and it means that they become each other’s next of kin.�
� He took a Mixed Blessings brochure out of his pocket and passed it to Luigi who put on a pair of gold spectacles. He scanned it, shook his head, and passed it over to Sylvester.
‘You know,’ Luigi leaned back in his chair, ‘it’s not exactly how we do things. There was this kid, Tony Brocca. He grew up with me in the Bronx. A skinny guy. Anyway, after doing a little bit of this and a little bit of that in New York, he moved to the Florida Keys and started up a deep sea fishing business. He went into partnership with some Mexican. He tried to keep it a secret that the two of them were sorta more than business colleagues, but it got around. His family was sore as hell. The last thing I heard was that his brothers went down to see him and he ended up hanging from the rafters in an old smoke-house.’ Looking at the Vice-Chancellor he grinned: ‘For me you understand, I’m as liberal as the next guy, but if you want to do that sorta thing in the U.S. of A., you sure don’t tell anyone about it.’
I wondered if I should have invited John and Maureen Pilkington to the party rather than Sloth and Joy Pickles. Pilkington and Luigi would have seen eye to eye in the matter of gay rights.
The following day a buffet lunch had been organised in the Great Hall for the Mancinis and a few other honoured guests from the university. Magnus was in high dudgeon because he was not included. The Vice-Chancellor insisted that all academic staff wear their gowns. At twelve-thirty the Mancinis’ white limousine arrived and Luigi, Sylvester and Wolfie were first led into the Vice-Chancellor’s office for drinks.
Flanagan had placed a Victorian gong in the corner of his room. When the cuckoo clock behind his desk struck one, Registrar Sloth hit the gong three times and announced that luncheon was served. We all gathered up our things and filed into the Great Hall. There a very splendid buffet of both cold and hot food had been arranged in front of the St Sebastian portrait. We helped ourselves and sat at several small tables. I found myself next to Helga who smiled at me timidly. Then Luigi took the chair on my other side.