The Campus Trilogy

by AnonYMous

  ‘To you?’

  ‘Not to me. But it demeans other faiths. Do Pilkington and the others really believe there is only one religion?’

  ‘Oh I should think so. He’s a fearful bigot underneath. But you’re not going to change him. And it’s not as if anyone is ever going to take any notice of their stupid centre.’ Magnus had few illusions about his colleagues. He had worked with them for a very long time.

  ‘They’re always having these idiotic initiatives,’ he continued. ‘And they always fizzle out after a couple of years. It’s just an attempt to attract money from learned foundations and to persuade the powers-that-be that St Sebastian’s has a thriving research culture, whatever that is… It also keeps them busy writing letters and having committee meetings rather than actually getting down to doing any work. When all’s said and done, Pilkington has only ever written one book and that was a modification of his PhD thesis. I know he’s been commissioned to contribute the volume on the pastoral epistles to one of those dreary sixth form Bible Commentary series. He’s been at it for at least five years. He’s had three terms’ study leave dedicated to the project and there’s still no sign of the finished product …’

  I laughed. ‘Oh well …,’ I said. ‘Could you manage a cup of tea if I made it?’

  Magnus leant back in his chair and, while the kettle boiled, I read him my new version of ‘The Church’s One Foundation.’

  ‘We used to sing that at Winchester,’ reminisced Magnus. ‘Rather a jolly tune, I remember. Your version’s better. Why don’t you send it to Pilkington? It might cheer him up!’

  ‘Maybe I will,’ I said recklessly. ‘Perhaps he’d think better of the whole business.’

  After we had drunk our tea, Magnus announced that it was time for sherry. He got out a new bottle and poured me a generous drink. By the time we had come to the end of our second glass, the conversation had become more and more hilarious as Magnus suggested a variety of new lines and verses for my ‘hymn’. The upshot was we emailed all the members of the Theology department and sent them a copy of my composition. I told myself there was still a chance they might reconsider their centre’s title.

  The next morning there was a letter from Pilkington marked Private and Confidential waiting for me in my pigeonhole. I had a sense of foreboding. What was he going to tell me this time? The note read as follows:

  Dear Felix,

  As you are aware, a new lectureship in Church History has recently been established and we are in the process of making an appointment. There are several excellent candidates whom we will be seeing soon. There is, however, a problem about accommodation. There are no spare rooms in the Arts Block. This means that the new lecturer would have to have his office elsewhere. It is important that the person appointed is able to be integrated into the department smoothly. For this reason I have decided to allocate your room to the new appointee. As the only full-time philosopher in the department, it is not vital for you to be located with the theologians and it is clear from your attitude that you are making no attempt to adjust yourself to the department’s ethos.

  I have therefore contacted the Estates Manager about spare rooms. It appears that Harry Gilbert’s former office in the Old Building is currently being used for storage. This will be allocated to you and I have arranged for the maintenance department to transport all your items there as soon as possible. In any event, your current room must be empty by the start of the summer term.

  Please confirm that you have received this letter. I should only add that I, and many of your other colleagues, found your recent communication about the Centre for the Study of Religious History highly offensive and hope for your own sake that it will not be repeated.

  Yours ever,

  John

  (Dr John Pilkington, Head of the Department of Theology)

  I was very upset by this missive. I had had the same room ever since my arrival at St Sebastian’s. Why should I move out now? Irate, I telephoned Patricia and explained the situation. ‘You’re the Dean,’ I said. ‘Can’t you intervene?’

  There was a pause. ‘I’m sorry, Felix,’ she said. ‘It really is John’s responsiblity as Head of Department to decide on rooms. I don’t think I can interfere. He’s already complained to me about your poem. I thought it was funny, but he was furious. It was stupid of you. You should have known that he has absolutely no sense of humour.’

  Later in the day I went to see Magnus. He opened the door wearing a bandage around his head. ‘Are you OK?’ I asked.

  ‘I was extremely damaged by that damn dentist.’ He spoke with dignity. ‘The pain was excruciating and it is only now beginning to wear off. I thought it best to take precautions. I didn’t want to sit in a draught.’

  Magnus swept several books off an armchair and gestured for me to sit down. ‘You won’t believe this,’ I began. ‘I got a letter from Pilkington this morning, and he tells me I have to change rooms.’

  ‘Change rooms?’

  ‘I’m being expelled from the Arts Block. It’s all supposed to be because the department’s getting this new lecturer in Church History. I asked Patricia about it. But she said she couldn’t do anything since it was up to the Head of Department. Really, she says, it’s because Pilkington is so furious about my hymn. Anyway I’ve got to move.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Pilkington said I could have Harry’s old room.’

  Magnus was enthusiastic. ‘But that’s over here! How excellent! Harry loved his room. Of course, it was full of his antiques and oriental carpets. But the Arts Block is awful. I always refused to go. The architecture’s much better here.’

  ‘But, Magnus, they’re throwing me out. Everybody will know the real reason. It’s all because I don’t fit in.’

  ‘Would you want to fit in with that lot? Think of it as a promotion. Onwards and upwards….!’

  ‘Honestly, Magnus. You just don’t see it. This is just what happened to my grandparents during the last war. As Jews they were ostrasised. They were forced to move from their beautiful big house in central Berlin and were crammed into a ghastly apartment with two other families in a slummy suburb. That’s why they fled to London in 1933. Pilkington’s just like the Nazis. He wants his department to be Judenfrei. That’s what it comes down to …’

  Magnus readjusted his bandage. ‘I say, old chap,’ he said, ‘I think you’re going a bit over the top. The Old Building isn’t a ghetto – after all the Vice-Chancellor and the Industrious Sloth have their offices over here. And so do I for that matter.’

  ‘It’s insulting.’ I was determined to sulk.

  ‘I think you’ll like the idea when you get used to it,’ consoled Magnus. He searched around for his sherry bottle. It was concealed by a pile of papers behind his phallic statue. He poured out two generous glasses. ‘L’hayim!’ he said, using the traditional Yiddish toast. ‘Here’s to life in the St Sebastian’s Ghetto!’

  The day after term ended and the students disappeared, I began packing up the books in my office. I had to put them all in cardboard boxes ready for the move to the Old Building. Compared with many academics, I never thought I had a large library, but there is a major difference between books sitting neatly on a shelf and books scattered in piles all over the floor. The whole task was a nightmare and took me nearly two days.

  In the meantime, all the tables and chairs that were being stored in Harry Gilbert’s old room had to be removed. The administrator was not happy about this because she had nowhere else to put them. For several days the corridor outside my new room was almost impassable and looked like a furniture depository. The bits and pieces were only taken away by the Head Porter and his team after the Catering Manager had intervened. He had three huge commitment ceremonies in the Great Hall, one after another, and he insisted that the Health and Safety people would not tolerate his waiting staff tripping over furniture while they tried to serve gourmet banquets.

  The new room was spacious with splendid Gothic wind
ows. Sadly it needed painting. Harry had hung a great many pictures on the walls and there were old nail marks and chipped patches of plaster everywhere.

  Imogen had just come home from Cambridge for the spring vacation. Emma and I loved having her with us and I hoped she might help me redecorate. However, she was still busy with her dissertation. Her Director of Studies had been very pleased with the first draft and we had high hopes that our daughter was heading for a First. Imogen still felt that it needed fine tuning and she was making frequent visits to the Women’s Refuge to consult with Jan and Liz, the paid workers, and to do further interviews with the residents.

  One evening she told us what she had learnt about Mrs Flanagan. Apparently, Helga had been taken into hospital the night of the St Sebastian’s Feast. She was suffering from extensive bruising, a head wound and serious concussion. When she regained consciousness, she had been interviewed by the police. They pressed her, but she had persisted in her story. She said she had had too much to drink and had fallen down the stairs hitting her head. The police told Jan that they did not believe this for a moment. The position of the blood stains in the house told a very different story, but there was no chance of bringing a successful prosecution if Helga refused to cooperate.

  Jan and Liz visited her frequently in the hospital. They never ran into Flanagan. Either he was not going to see Helga at all or he came early in the morning or very late at night. In any event she never spoke of him. She was very quiet and was having to undergo a huge number of neurological tests. However, Imogen thought that she would be discharged within the next couple of weeks. The women from the Refuge were doing their very best to persuade her to come and stay with them, but, as yet, Helga had refused to commit herself.

  Once the university reopened after Easter, I went in to collect my post. Amongst the usual pile of letters and magazines was an ominous envelope marked Private and Confidential. I went to my office which was now crowded with boxes and opened it. It was from Pilkington. It read:

  Dear Felix,

  Over the vacation period I have been drafting the department’s plans for the next five years. Before term begins, I want to let you know about the position of philosophy. As you are aware, the university is committed to fulfilling its contractual obligation to the existing undergraduates. This means that we will continue to run philosophy courses for the next two years.

  Your old colleagues, Malcolm Bridgestock and Jonathan Pike, have already taken early retirement. Their part-time contracts will come to an end once the current students have graduated. Since the subject will no longer be taught, there will be no further role for you at St Sebastian’s. As I am sure you appreciate, your own contract specifies that you can be made redundant if the subject area for which you were appointed is no longer being taught. Since this will occur two years hence, I am recommending to the Redundancy Committee that it commences the necessary steps now so that your post be declared officially redundant when the time comes. There is no problem about the philosophy research money from the Research Assessment Exercise. It will continue to be paid to the Theology department.

  ‘I realise that this may be distressing news, but I did warn you at the beginning of the academic year that this would be the likely outcome of the Vice-Chancellor’s strategic plan. You are of course at liberty to appeal to the Redundancy Committee if you choose to do so. However, I would strongly recommend instead that you speak to the Registrar about early retirement, which will be possible once you reach the age of fifty-five. There is no doubt that you are likely to achieve a more advantageous arrangement from the administration if you accept the inevitable graciously.

  I hope you have settled into your new room and find it comfortable,

  With best wishes,

  John

  (Dr John Pilkington, Head of the Department of Theology)

  This letter should not have been a surprise. I knew that I was vulnerable and the whole fiasco of the degree in Casino Management had not strengthened my case. Nonetheless seeing it in writing was a shock. I did not want to retire. As a philosopher, I felt that I was at the height of my powers. And anyway the whole thing was so unfair. I had given St Sebastian’s the best years of my life. The Philosophy department was well-respected in the outside world and we had done exceptionally well in the last Research Assessment Exercise.

  Then there was the personal element. How on earth could Emma and I survive without my job? Admittedly Emma earned a very good salary with the BBC, but positions in the media are notoriously insecure. If for some reason her programmes ceased to be popular, her employers would have no hesitation in looking for new talent. At least Imogen would have finished at Cambridge before I had to leave St Sebastian’s, but what would we do if she wanted to embark on some expensive postgraduate training? My pension would not begin to cover the cost of law or medical school.

  I searched for my telephone amongst the boxes of books. It took me fifteen minutes to find it as it was buried at the bottom of a carton of philosophical encyclopaedias. When I plugged it in, I was relieved that it was still working.

  I called Magnus at home. When he answered, he told me he was having a bath. In the background I could hear running water. ‘Do you think I could get electrocuted using this thing?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m sure it’s perfectly safe,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry to ring you now, but I’m in terrible trouble. I’ve just received an official letter from Pilkington. He tells me that since there will be no philosophy in two years’ time, he is applying to the Committee to have my post declared redundant. He recommends that instead of fighting the decision, I accept it and take early retirement.’

  There was a splash. After a long pause I heard Magnus’s voice. He had just lost the soap. ‘Sorry, old chap,’ he said, ‘I’m having a bit of difficulty here. You say Pilkington wants to make you redundant? Well, I’m not surprised. The theologians are not exactly the sharpest knives in the drawer and you can’t expect them to enjoy having someone like you around. You undermine their comfortable presuppositions. I don’t suppose any of them liked your splendid hymn very much either. I shouldn’t have encouraged you to circulate it …’

  ‘But what am I going to do?’ I said desperately.

  ‘Well you’ll be in your mid-fifties once the last of the philosophy students leave. Won’t you have had enough of St Sebastian’s by then? After all, Emma must be doing quite well and you’ll get an index-linked pension. You should have enough to live on. And after all, Imogen is old enough to start earning her own living. She can support her old parents. I always thought I should have had a daughter to look after me in my old age.’

  Magnus was not an expert at offering consoling pastoral advice. I made one last bid for sympathy.

  ‘But Magnus,’ I protested. ‘I don’t want to leave.’

  ‘Oh dear, you do remind me of Harry. That’s just what he used to say.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘He kept maintaining that he liked research; he liked his students; he liked to be useful; he liked contributing to the sum of human knowledge. I did my best to dissuade him and put him in touch with reality, but he could never see it. Anyway, in the end he got a better job. Maybe you will too …’

  ‘Magnus,’ I tried to divert him from his flight of fantasy. ‘What am I supposed to do?’

  There was a pause. ‘I don’t know,’ Magnus said. ‘I never know what to do. The best thing is to wait and see. Maybe you’ll win on the premium bonds like me! Ah,’ he declared brightly. ‘Here’s the soap … slippery little bugger!’

  For the rest of the vacation I was depressed. I slept badly. Emma insisted that we went to bed at the usual time, but I always found myself awake at three o’clock in the morning. I kept calculating and recalculating how much money we would have once I retired. The situation was not desperate. We had paid off our mortgage and I had made extra contributions to my pension over the years. We would still be reasonably comfortable as long as Emma could keep her job. But I could not ove
rcome the feeling of unfairness. It nagged at me and I found myself fantasising about taking revenge on Pilkington and his smug disciples.

  Just before term began I volunteered to drive Imogen back to Cambridge. I had tried not to trouble her with all my difficulties, but I found myself compulsively discussing the situation round and round with anyone who would listen. Imogen was always gentle and sympathetic with me but I feared that I had ruined her vacation. In any event she was still preoccupied with her dissertation which was due to be submitted in the middle of May.

  After leaving her in her college, I drove back to St Sebastian’s, but I was not concentrating on the road. I was nearly home when I landed at a busy intersection. Without looking properly, I pulled out directly in front of a black Peugeot. There was a screech of brakes, a moment in which time seemed to be suspended and then I heard an enormous crash. I had suffered a direct hit broadside.

  The other driver was all right. He jumped out of his car to speak to me. I knew it was all my fault and I said so. Then I realised that I was in excruciating pain and I could not move. I was trapped inside the car and it was a full fifteen minutes before an ambulance, the police and a fire engine arrived at the scene. The firemen pried open the door. The paramedics could not have been kinder, gentler or more reassuring. I was carried out on a stretcher and placed in the ambulance. The siren was activated and within a very few minutes we had arrived at St Sebastian’s Hospital.

  I do not remember very much of the details. I was taken immediately into the accident and emergency room where I was X-rayed. The doctors were concerned that I might have damaged my spine, but all was well. Only my pelvis was fractured. It was broken in two places. Later I was wheeled on a trolley to one of the wards where my hip was placed in traction. Emma had been contacted straightaway. She arrived in the emergency room and stayed with me, holding my hand, while the doctors did their investigations. Then she went upstairs with me and helped the nurses settle me in the ward.