by AnonYMous
Sir William returned to his theme: ‘So you see Vice-Chancellor, I fully support this admirable initiative of yours and I have every confidence that the St Sebastian’s Golden Arrow Casino and the degree course directed by Dr Glass will be a triumph for the university. And so it should be …’
If only he had stopped there, all would have been well. But he had not finished. There was a long pause while he looked down at Luigi Mancini who was smoking a very large cigar and drumming his fingers on the table. ‘However I must warn you Vice-Chancellor,’ continued Sir William, ‘I believe you have made a very serious error. One hesitates to accuse a fellow-guest, but I’m afraid there can be no mistake about this. That individual who is sitting beside you, Signor Mantovani or whatever he is called, is not a person you should be associating with. I’ve met him once before and I have incontrovertable evidence that he is neither a gentleman nor a sportsman. Indeed, Ladies and Gentlemen, I can only describe him as the very worst sort of cad!’
There was a hush in the Great Hall. This was not the kind of speech the company had been expecting. The evening was certainly turning out to be interesting. After a moment Sir William continued his tirade. ‘It is only right that you all should know the basis of my accusation. I will tell you the full history of our acquaintance. Last summer I took a short holiday in Las Vegas with my daughter whom many of you may know, Victoria, the wife of Professor Harry Gilbert. We stayed at the Cleopatra’s Palace Hotel and I was anxious to try my hand at blackjack!
‘I had recently read a most interesting and excellent book, which I hope will be required reading in your new Casino Management Degree programme. It is called How to Win at Blackjack in Ten Easy Lessons and it is written by an American mathematician, Dr Ernest Ripper. Well I was anxious to try out his recommendations and strategies which involved observing very carefully which cards had been played. And I have to say, it was most effective. I spent an evening in the Cleopatra’s Palace Casino and, though I say it myself, I was doing very well. Indeed, I had high hopes that by the end of my holiday I would have made enough money to install central heating in my house and your Vice-Chancellor would never again have had to borrow a hot water bottle to keep himself warm at night.’ There was a ripple of laughter around the room. Everyone was fascinated by Sir William’s narrative.
‘After a couple of hours, I was just getting into my stride and was starting to win a great deal of money. I claim no credit for this. It was merely the result of the application of the principles as explained by the splendid Dr Ripper. But then I was rudely interrupted. The manager of the casino, instead of being pleased to see an elderly guest enjoy himself and win a well-earned thousand or two, decided to intervene.
‘My stack of chips was undoubtedly increasing and indeed reaching significant proportions when several very sinister-looking … well I can only describe them as thugs, surrounded me. It was most unpleasant. They were all wearing ill-tailored shiny suits and they all reeked of some very vulgar, cheap hair-oil. Without a by-your-leave, they had the audacity to frog-march me into some tart’s boudoir of a backroom where I was confronted by the very rascal, Vice-Chancellor, who is sitting on your right-hand side this evening.
‘He insisted I sit down and one of his appalling henchmen offered me a glass of whisky. I thought I was being poisoned. It was totally unlike any whisky I had ever drunk in my life before. It tasted even worse than the stuff we used to brew up in the officers’ mess just before we embarked on the D-Day landings in the last war.
‘Then this fellow had the impertinence to tell me that card counting was banned. He said it was against the rules. And then he expelled me from his casino, and told me that I would be debarred from any premises he owned for life.’ Sir William paused at this point in his story. The memory had made him quite angry and he wiped his flushed face with a large white handkerchief.
‘As you can imagine, Ladies and Gentlemen,’ he continued, ‘I was profoundly shocked. I always understood that our American allies, like ourselves, believed in free enterprise and personal initiative. I should have remembered my experience in the army. We always used to say amongst ourselves that the Yanks couldn’t be depended on. Rotten bad soldiers they were. Kept getting upset! Totally unreliable! In my view we’d have won the war much sooner without them!
‘Still I mustn’t get diverted from my subject. I was appalled at my treatment. Damned unsporting is all I can say! Just because that bandit there was going to have to pay out a pound or two in winnings, he stopped me from playing. I can only call that being a bad loser, a rotten bad loser!’ He turned the full force of his fury onto Luigi Mancini who sat as if he had been turned to stone. ‘Sir,’ he said. ‘Your conduct is a disgrace to your profession! It is not cricket and it simply will not do!’
Having made this pronouncement in a voice of thunder, he turned back to Flanagan. His manner softened. ‘So you see Vice-Chancellor, I have a duty to warn you against this criminal. For the sake of your own reputation as a gentleman and to save your university from dishonour and disgrace, it is vital that you break all ties with him immediately. I am sure you are innocent in this matter and you had no idea of the snake in the grass you were harbouring, but, before it is too late, I must beg you to sever the connection.’
At this point, Luigi stubbed out his cigar. He stood up and gestured to Sylvester and Wolfie to follow him. Without a backward glance the three of them marched down the length of the Great Hall and disappeared out of the far doors. They left a stunned silence behind them.
Then Flanagan came to his senses. He sprang to his feet and gave chase. ‘Wait!’ he cried. ‘Just wait a moment!’ But it was too late. The three men had hurried down the steps of the Old Building and had climbed silently into the white stretch-limousine which was waiting outside. As the Vice-Chancellor arrived on the pavement, the great car was already speeding round the corner and in a couple of seconds it had disappeared from view. Flanagan was left in the chilly street gazing after it.
The dinner broke up soon afterwards. Sir William seemed blithely unconcerned that he had wrecked the evening. Indeed, he appeared to feel that he had done the university a good turn. Flanagan was plainly furious. He barely said goodnight to his guest and he hustled Helga none too gently into his Mercedes-Benz.
For the next few days rumours circulated around the university. Firstly, we heard that Helga was in hospital. The story was that she had tripped on the stairs and had fallen, hitting her head against the bannister. What was certain was she had bad concussion and possibly even a fractured skull.
Meanwhile all the plans to build a casino were put on hold. The Vice-Chancellor had tried to contact Luigi at the White Hart Hotel after the Feast, but there was no one there. The Mancinis had ordered the limousine to drive directly to London where the whole party had stayed at the Connaught. The very next day they caught a flight to Las Vegas from Heathrow. Sylvester, however, had telephoned to say that the Mancini organisation was no longer interested in establishing any sort of partnership with St Sebastian’s.
I received a note from the Vice-Chancellor’s secretary. He did not blame me for the debacle – mercifully he did not know that I had already heard of Sir William’s adventure in Las Vegas. He merely expressed regret that things had gone so badly. He was angry with Sir William. He felt he had been ungrateful and tactless. In the light of the lack of sponsorship, he could see no way that the proposed degree in Casino Management could now be established. This meant that I would have to revert to my original responsibilities and he would be informing Dr John Pilkington, my Head of Department, of this fact.
It also emerged that Joy Pickles had left St Sebastian’s. Wolfie Goldberg had telephoned her from London and she had joined him the next day and had flown with the Mancinis to Las Vegas. We heard that Sylvester had arranged for her to be given a job as the new administrator of the King Midas Casino College. I felt a certain satisfaction at this. With Joy’s level of efficiency, it was highly unlikely that the school would ever r
ecruit any more ‘students’. The Registrar however was disconsolate and was taking time off work.
When I next saw Magnus in the Senior Common Room, he was reading a copy of the St Sebastian’s Gazette. On the front page was a picture of Luigi Mancini and the headline: ‘Scandal Dogs Uni Casino’.
‘So,’ he said, ‘we’re not going in for gambling after all.’
‘It seems not,’ I said.
‘Pity … still Sir William’s speech was, by all accounts, quite a tour de force ….’
‘That’s one way of putting it,’ I agreed.
‘And I hear the Vice-Chancellor has taken it out on poor Helga?’
‘That isn’t the official story,’ I said cautiously. ‘But I fear it’s all too probable.’
‘But he’ll have other plans.’ Magnus was not wasting pity on Flanagan. ‘And what about you, Felix?’ he asked, ‘Are you going to have to go back to teaching all the undergraduates?’
‘Yes… Pilkington has informed me that next term I revert to my original schedule. He added a typically moralistic note that it was a pity I ever left it.’
Magnus dunked a shortbread biscuit in his coffee. ‘How many contact hours a week are you supposed to do?’
‘Seventeen.’ I took a deep breath. ‘It’s only for one term now, but I feel bad about it. It means that the students are short-changed. I just can’t give them the attention they deserve.’
Magnus had no illusions. ‘Well we all know that in the modern university, the students come a very poor second to the imperative of making money,’ he said.
CHAPTER TEN
The St Sebastian’s Ghetto
The following week, I received an email from Pilkington outlining in further detail my duties for the rest of the year: I would be required to teach all my old philosophy courses, assess all the essays and dissertations, and serve as the first marker for all the exam scripts. This meant that the summer term would be incredibly busy. However, my load would diminish the next year because there would be no first-year students. He also informed me that there would be a departmental meeting on the Wednesday of the last week of the spring term.
I had not been very conscientious about attending the Theology department meetings – partly because I had been busy with my Casino Management activities, but mainly because nothing was ever discussed that concerned me. This time it was clear that Pilkington was cracking the whip. I telephoned Magnus to suggest we went together, but it turned out that he had deliberately arranged a dental appointment to conflict with the meeting. I therefore foresaw a very boring afternoon.
On the Wednesday I arrived just as proceedings were about to begin. Pilkington started by going through the minutes of the last meeting. From them I learnt that the department had agreed to establish a new Centre for the Study of Religious History.
I was surprised. I had heard Pilkington express scorn for what he called the ‘old-fashioned fixations with world religions’ and this new centre seemed like a very daring venture for the St Sebastian’s theologians. I had a brief fantasy of courses on Indian Religions, New Age Activities, Primitive Magic and Eastern Esoterica. I was soon disabused.
Pilkington reminded us that this initiative was being proposed by the Church historians in the department. It would focus on the development of Christianity from ancient times to the present. All those engaged in this area of teaching and research would be expected to contribute. Already other leading Church historians from universities in Britain and abroad were being contacted to lend their names as research fellows to give the whole enterprise prestige and credibility. The whole department had voiced its strong support for this new development and it was hoped that it would attract funding from a wide variety of ecclesiastical bodies.
However there was a hitch. Pilkington told us that he had had a protest from an unexpected quarter. The Professor of Sociology at St Sebastian’s, Ahmed al-Haidari, had somehow got wind of the project. He had invited Pilkington to lunch and had told him that, as a practising Muslim, he found the initiative offensive. It implied that Christianity was the only true religion.
At that point, for the first time since I had known him, Pilkington attempted a joke. He smiled bleakly and said, ‘It’s nice to find that even a sociologist can sometimes get the right idea.’ Everyone but me chortled and it was clear that we were going to move onto the next item of the agenda with no further discussion. Professor al-Haidari’s intervention was going to be ignored.
I was not happy about this and I put up my hand. Pilkington made as if he did not see me, but one of the Old Testament lecturers pointed out that I was wanting to say something. Pilkington sighed. ‘Yes Felix …,’ he said.
‘John,’ I began, ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand this. It seems to me that Ahmed is right. Why is this centre to be called a Centre for the Study of Religious History if it focuses exclusively on Christianity? That’s a category mistake. Why not call it a Centre for the Study of Christian History? Surely that would be more accurate?’
Pilkington was not going to argue the matter. He was dismissive. ‘All of those who have been involved in the establishment of this centre have agreed on the name. We have spent a great deal of time on this and have talked it over thoroughly,’ he said. ‘We believe that the title will be an asset in helping us attract outside funding for research projects so I don’t think we should waste any time discussing it any further.’
I did not drop the subject. ‘But,’ I objected, ‘it makes no sense to call it a Centre for the Study of Religious History if the only thing to be studied is the Christian tradition. What about Judaism and Islam and the other world religions?’
‘We’re not a Religious Studies department,’ snapped Pilkington. ‘As you know, it is a matter of pride that here at St Sebastian’s we have not been infected with the whole Sixties pluralist virus. As a matter of policy we don’t teach non-Christian world-views. So it’s obvious that when we refer to religion, we mean Christianity.’
‘It’s not obvious to me,’ I said. ‘And it’s misleading.’
My colleagues were becoming impatient. Pilkington shrugged his shoulders. ‘I think as usual you’re in a minority of one, Felix,’ he declared and he passed on to the next item. This happened to be arrangements for the installation of a coffee machine next to Wendy Morehouse’s office.
I was incensed by Pilkington’s attitude. After returning to my room, instead of concentrating on marking the waiting piles of essays, I spent a couple of hours writing a parody of a well-known Christian hymn. The original verse went:
‘The Church’s One Foundation
Is Jesus Christ Our Lord.
She is His New Creation
By Water and the Word.
From Heaven He came and Sought Her
To be His Holy Bride.
With His Own Blood He Bought Her
And for Her Life He Died.’
It was a hymn we used to sing frequently in Westminster Abbey when I was at school. I hadn’t thought of it for years, but I remembered liking the tune. My version went as follows:
‘Religion’s One Foundation
Is Christianity.
The Faiths of Other Nations
Don’t make the Category.
From All Their Works Defend Us
Preserve Us from their Texts.
We Know these Faith Pretenders
Are Naught but Heathen Sects.’
Though Liberals Argue plainly
For Hindu, Muslim, Jew
And Keep Repeating vainly
That They’re Religions too.
Our Faith will never Falter,
Truth’s Trumpet still will Sound.
It’s on the Christian Altar
That true Religion’s Found.’
I felt better after composing this ditty and went over to the Old Building to see Magnus. He had only just returned from the dentist. His face was swollen and he looked like a hamster. He was also feeling exceedingly sorry for himself. ‘Bloody dentist,’
he complained. ‘I’d almost rather spend the afternoon with Pilkington. First she gives me a school-ma’amish lecture about not using dental floss properly. Then she fishes about inside my mouth and finds three enormous holes. She pokes a couple of agonising injections into me and then she gets to work with her damned drill. It was over an hour of complete misery. And when we at last came to the end, then she charged me four hundred pounds for the privilege of torturing me! Honestly, by that time I was expecting a supportive letter from Amnesty International!’
I sat down on his sofa and I told him what had happened at the departmental meeting. As I went through the story, I felt myself becoming angry all over again. How dared Pilkington suggest that the only religious history was Christian history? It was outrageous!
‘I told them they should call it the Centre for Christian History,’ I grumbled, ‘but Pilkington wouldn’t listen. He was absolutely determined. And his lack of respect for Professor al-Haidari’s views is a disgrace. Ahmed is a distinguished scholar and a very nice man. He even took Pilkington out to lunch …’
‘I wonder where they went,’ mused Magnus. ‘I believe he’s rather rich. I could do with a good lunch myself after my ordeal!’
There were times when Magnus was infuriating. I tried to drag him back to the point. ‘It’s misleading to call it a Centre for Religious History if all the other religions are excluded. And it’s insulting.’