The Campus Trilogy

by AnonYMous

  That time was over. Soon the Philosophy department would no longer exist. Like Chemistry it would disappear. Instead there would be Celebrity Studies, Highland Dance, Professional Golf and who-knows-what-else. The university had found committment ceremonies and foreign partnerships far more worthwhile than earnest enquiry and serious scholarship.

  It seemed that financial profitablity had become the only criterion of success. Alf Flanagan himself had only been appointed to St Sebastian’s because he perfectly understood the signs of the times. He was a wife-beater. He drank too much. He made no claims for outstanding erudition. None of that mattered because he did know how to make money. Ultimately that was the only thing that counted …

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Diversification’s the Name of the Game

  Even though I was not going in to work, Emma thought it was important that we try to follow our usual routine. This meant that I continued to accompany her once a week to the supermarket for our major food shop. Every Monday evening we drove to the St Sebastian’s Waitrose and parked the car. Emma took charge of a trolley. I hobbled behind on my crutches and tried to dodge undisciplined children and their inattentive parents. Several weeks after my accident on one of our expeditions I bumped into Mrs Brush. She was excavating the frozen food section and I stopped for a chat.

  ‘How are you?’ I said, as Emma headed off to the dairy department.

  ‘Why hello, Dr Glass,’ she acknowledged me. ‘I did hear about your accident. Are you better now?’

  I explained that the doctors were pleased with my progress, but that I would be on sick leave through the whole summer term. ‘Are you still going to bingo?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Mrs Brush nodded, ‘I still go every week, but it’s not so much fun now Elsa’s left …’

  I was interested. ‘Did she really return to Leeds after all?’ I asked

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Brush. ‘In the end she was determined and she told that daughter of hers she was going. Not that Professor Catnip minded. As long as the house wasn’t sold, she didn’t care tuppence what happened to her mother …’

  ‘When did she go?’ I tried to pull Mrs Brush back to the facts.

  ‘Oh nearly two months ago. Soon after that dinner. She had a lovely time with that posh old fellow. A real gentleman he was, she said. It gave her back her confidence. I had a postcard from her just the other day.’

  ‘Really?’ I was eager to know more.

  ‘Yes. She got that Care Allowance you told her about. They pay her every fortnight and someone comes in every day to keep an eye on her.’

  ‘And what about the blackjack?’

  Mrs Brush laughed. ‘She told me that last week she won more than two hundred pounds. She’s got a mini-cab which takes her to a different casino every week and she does try to lose sometimes. I don’t know how she does it. I never seem to win at bingo …’

  As we spoke Mrs Brush hooked out four large packets of oven chips. I was surprised that she needed so many. ‘I’m doing some shopping for Dr Sloth,’ she explained. ‘I used to clean for Dr and Mrs Sloth when they lived together and I took on both houses when he joined that little trollop Joy Pickles.’

  ‘I heard that Dr Sloth was in a bit of a bad way.’ On his last visit, Magnus had been full of the fact that the University Registrar was looking very unkempt and down-at-heel.

  ‘He is!’ Mrs Brush became expansive. ‘You wouldn’t believe it. Yesterday I found he’d put his best grey suit in the washing machine. It was completely ruined. I didn’t know what to do. He mopes about all day. Sometimes he doesn’t even go into work. Often I find him asleep in his armchair and he’s never even gone to bed … I don’t know how they’re managing at the university without him … and the state of the house now you wouldn’t believe! Dirty dishes everywhere … I thought that Joy was bad, but it’s even worse now she’s gone …’

  ‘Really?’ I was fascinated by this glimpse of middle-class angst.

  ‘Poor man … I knew that girl was no good. And she’s gone off with someone else I hear …’

  ‘Yes. An American accountant from Las Vegas.’ I thought Mrs Brush might as well know the truth.

  The Theology department cleaner was not one to let such a detail escape her. ‘Las Vegas! … Well I never! … Like in the films!’

  ‘Maybe Dr Sloth ought to go back to his wife,’ I suggested.

  ‘That’s what I keep telling him. But between you and me, I think he’s too embarrassed to ask.’

  ‘Perhaps someone ought to have a word with her. It sounds as if he needs rescuing.’

  Mrs Brush looked thoughtful. ‘I see her every week … perhaps I should give her a little hint …’ And with that she put her oven chips into her trolley and trundled off.

  One afternoon a few days later I was working away at the adventures of Harry and Victoria when the telephone rang. Emma was upstairs in her study and she answered it. ‘It’s for you,’ she shouted down. ‘Someone ringing from America.’

  I struggled with my crutches and went to the telephone. ‘Hello,’ I said.

  ‘Is this Felix Glass?’ The voice was loud, with a strong New York accent.

  ‘It is,’ I replied.

  ‘Well my name’s Mark Margolis; I’m an agent at Goldfarb and Goldfarb in Hollywood. I’m a friend of Kate Fitzgerald who works at the BBC with your wife. I think you know that Kate sent me the first chapter of your novel and the outline of the rest.’

  I realised this was the famous transatlantic lover. He sounded as if he had a great deal of energy, but I wondered what he was telephoning me about.

  He got to the point quickly. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘I’m pretty sure we’ve got a winner here. I’m having lunch at the Los Angeles Country Club tomorrow with the Head Producer at Pacific Studios. I want to make a pitch. Is that OK with you?’

  ‘Pitch?’ I asked. I had a vision of my new friend rolling out a very long green cricket pitch somewhere in the Californian sunshine.

  ‘Yea. That’s the way it works.’ Max Margolis was certainly enthusiastic. ‘I’ll tell him the plot over lunch. And if he’s interested I’ll give him all the stuff you sent. Then we’ll take it from there.’

  I was astounded. ‘Seriously? You think there might be a film in it?’

  ‘Well it’s early days yet. It all depends who they can get. But it’s looking good. I’ll get back to you as soon as I know something. Let me give you my telephone number and my website address. You’ll want to look me up.’

  ‘Golly,’ I said. I found a pencil and wrote down what he told me.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Got to go! There’s someone on the other line.’ The telephone went dead.

  I was stunned. Could A Campus Conspiracy really become a film? This was a world I knew nothing about. Certainly no Hollywood agent had ever rung me about Kant’s Critiques Revisited. In any event the novel was not even written yet. I was only about a third of the way through. Yet they seemed to be thinking of casting the main parts already … Who would they want for Harry, I wondered. Who could play Wanda Catnip? And what about Magnus? When all was said and done only Magnus could play Magnus. Anyone else was inconceivable. It was all too fantastic.

  Nonetheless it was a fact that a real-life Hollywood agent had been in touch on the telephone. He was intending to discuss it over lunch with someone from a major studio. Probably it would come to nothing. But then again, one never knew …

  When I told Emma she was as amazed as I was. ‘I don’t believe it,’ she said. ‘Well this’ll certainly give you another interest beside that stupid university. You understand how it works, don’t you?’

  I was forced to confess total ignorance. My publishing ventures in the past had never involved Hollywood. However, my wife was good at money and she seemed to have a perfect grasp of procedure.

  ‘If you get an option,’ she explained, ‘it won’t be that much. Probably considerably less than a year’s salary from St Sebastian’s. The real money comes from receiving a
percentage of the box-office profits …’

  ‘A percentage of the box-office profits?’ I interrupted. ‘But I’ve only just started on Chapter Six. I haven’t even got to Wanda Catnip and the gorillagram yet. And that’s the central scene of the book.’

  ‘People sell film rights before they’ve written a single word,’ my wife informed me. ‘In fact, you’re rather slow on the uptake …’

  The next week a large white envelope arrived by special delivery. It was marked ‘Goldfarb and Goldfarb’ on the front in large gold letters. Inside there was a typewritten letter from Max Margolis and two detailed contracts. The letter read:

  Dear Felix

  Great news! I had lunch with Sherman Fish from Pacific. He loved the idea and wanted to see the outline and first chapter. I heard this morning that they want to buy the option on the book. Once it’s finished, they’ll hire someone to do a screenplay. But don’t worry, I’ll insist that you’re to be involved throughout. They’re willing to give you $50,000 now. I tried for more, but that’s the best I could do. They know you’re a first-time author and that’s always a disadvantage.

  I’m including two contracts with the letter. The first one is for me to act as your agent. As you will see, I take 20% on all earnings. It’s the standard form I give to all my authors. Please read it through carefully and if you are not happy with anything, get in touch.

  The second contract is with Pacific, outlining the agreement about the option. It also includes sections dealing with a wide range of other issues including a percentage of the net returns on the film. Again, please give this your full attention and let me know if there is anything you feel needs changing.

  Both contracts should be signed and returned by special delivery. Once they arrive, I will inform Pacific that they should send me the check. I will take my percentage and forward the rest to you. The whole process should take about three weeks from when you return the documents.

  I hope you are as excited about this project as I am. We are only at the first stage, but I have high hopes that a first-rate movie will emerge from all this. We are on our way!

  Sincerely yours,

  Max Margolis,

  (Goldfarb and Goldfarb)

  Emma was in London working on a new programme about Japanese food so I couldn’t consult her. I rang the BBC, but she was unavailable. I would have to wait until she came home. I then telephoned Magnus at the university.

  He was in the process of writing a damning review of a new book about Assyrian archaeology and he was full of it. The book was by a professor at Wellington University who had been a postgraduate contemporary at Oxford. They had lived next door to each other in the same college lodgings.

  ‘Frightful nuisance he was too!’ Magnus was in a reminiscent mood. ‘He had a girl-friend called Norah who played in a brass band. She insisted on practising whenever she came to visit him. I told her that I had no objection to her playing the strumpet in his bed. That was up to her. But it was a bit much if she insisted on playing the trumpet as well…’

  ‘Look Magnus,’ I interrupted. ‘I’ve got something to tell you. You’ll be interested. I’ve heard from an agent in Hollywood. He’s just sold the film option of A Campus Conspiracy to a major studio.’

  Magnus did not believe me. ‘Very funny, Felix! And I suppose they’re asking Robert Redford to play Harry!’

  ‘Honestly Magnus, I’m not making it up. I’ve just got a letter from this agent …’

  ‘What agent?’

  ‘Somebody who is going out with a friend of Emma’s at the BBC.’

  ‘And they offered you a contract?’ Magnus was incredulous.

  ‘I just got it in the post. I’m going to be paid fifty thousand dollars for an option on the book. Then if they decide to turn it into a film, I’ll get a percentage of the box-office returns.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ he said. ‘What about me?’

  ‘What about you?’ I did not know what he was talking about.

  ‘But it was me who told you all about Harry. It’s my story really. Didn’t you tell your Hollywood agent that I should have a share?’ Magnus sounded aggrieved.

  ‘I didn’t think of it. After all, I’m doing all the work. And I’ve changed it all quite a lot.’

  ‘But the original idea was mine.’

  ‘It’s really Harry’s story,’ I said defensively. This was all becoming too complicated.

  There was a pause. Then Magnus laughed. ‘You’re probably right. I’d never get round to writing it all up. Don’t worry about it, old chap. I’ll be content to bask in your reflected glory …’

  ‘It’s good of you to take it that way, Magnus,’ I said hesitantly.

  ‘You can promise me one thing though.’

  ‘What’s that?’ I did not want to commit myself to something I would later regret.

  ‘If they’re looking for someone to play my part, you might suggest that they audition me. I’m a very complex character and I’ve always fancied myself as an actor. I did quite a lot at Winchester … my Polonius was much admired … I don’t want them to pick someone like Al Pacino. He’d mess it up for certain.’

  I agreed that Al Pacino would not be the ideal choice for the Magnus character, but I pointed out that I had only sold the option. We were still a very long way from the film actually being made.

  Before Emma arrived home, I dug out a bottle of champagne from the cupboard under the stairs and I put it in the fridge. Then I sat down to wait for her return. At six o’clock I heard her key in the door. ‘What’s this for?’ she asked as I popped the cork.

  I handed her the letter from Goldfarb and Goldfarb. Emma put on her spectacles, sat down and read the contracts through from cover to cover. ‘Good grief!’ she said. ‘Fifty thousand dollars for the option! That’s not at all bad for a beginner.’

  She seemed quite happy with it all until she came to the clause about box-office returns. She was on to it immediately. ‘Ohh!’ she frowned. ‘The sneaks! I suspected they’d want to give you a percentage of the net returns. Two per cent sounds very generous, but these people employ some very sharp accountants. They’ll bump up expenses and calculate it so there are no net profits at all. Writers always lose out that way. I’m not going to have it!’ She took a pen out of her handbag, crossed out ‘2% net’ and substituted ‘1% gross’. ‘Let’s see what the accountants of the Pacific make of that! It’s not unreasonable …’

  I knew better than to argue with my wife about financial matters. She was far shrewder than I. Instead I handed her a glass and poured out the champagne. ‘Well what do you think?’ I asked.

  ‘I think your colleagues at St Sebastian’s will be furious,’ she said.

  Time marched on. Every day I went into my new study and worked on A Campus Conspiracy. I loved it. The story ran away with me and each day I found myself producing between two and three thousand words. When she was at home Emma could hear me laughing over the manuscript. The whole experience was totally different from writing my previous philosophical books. Then I had pondered every word and had compulsively written and rewritten. Sadly, there were still no plans to market Kant’s Critiques Revisited as a paperback and the hardback sales (at sixty pounds a time) were not overwhelming.

  By the end of May, the novel was nearly finished. My predominant feeling was one of sadness that the story was ending. Everything was coming together: Wanda Catnip had been humiliated; the Vice-Chancellor had been made to look foolish; Magnus was the toast of the old ladies on his cruise ship; and Harry had got his job in Sweetpea, Virginia. It only needed the final couple of chapters set in America and a last ironic twist at the end.

  My hip was also much better. I felt more secure when I moved around the house and I was sure the doctors would be pleased with me. I could not wait to shed my crutches.

  One afternoon Magnus came over to see us. He was so overcome with mirth that it was some time before he could speak coherently. Emma was at home and she provided the three of us with tea
and home-made Swiss roll. Once Magnus had eaten two large slices of cake and was on his third cup of tea, he had recovered enough to tell us the news.

  He had been over to the Theology department to hand in some student reports to the secretary, Wendy Morehouse. There, displayed over her desk was a set of wedding photographs. The bride turned out to be Joy Pickles while the groom was Wolfie Goldberg.

  Apparently Wendy and Joy had always been friendly. Joy had sent the pictures because she had wanted her old colleagues from St Sebastian’s to know of her good fortune.

  ‘Well I suppose she could hardly send the collection to Registrar Sloth.’ I said.

  Magnus snorted. ‘You should see the photographs!’ They really are incredible. I’ve never seen anything like them. They certainly put the St Sebastian’s Mixed Blessings brochure in the shade.’

  ‘Tell us all!’ commanded Emma.

  Magnus settled in his chair. ‘Well in the first place there were two services. The first was a civil ceremony in a small wedding chapel in Las Vegas. I don’t know how American weddings work, but I suppose that made the whole thing legal. Anyway Joy wore a bright orange dress which might have been suitable for the Folies Bergère. But the real excitement was that she was given away by Elvis Presley!’

  ‘Elvis Presley?’ Emma was puzzled. ‘Don’t be absurd! He died ages ago.’

  ‘It was a professional look-alike,’ explained Magnus. ‘Apparently in those places you can have whoever you want – Frank Sinatra, Louis Armstrong, Clarke Gable, whoever …’

  ‘Presumably not Immanuel Kant?’ I suggested.

  Magnus regarded this remark as beneath contempt. ‘Still, that’s not the end. After this encounter with the great king of rock in his blue suede shoes, there was another even more sumptuous ceremony. This time religion really came into it. It was at the Ziggurat, the hotel you stayed in when you were in Las Vegas. The management closed it for two whole nights to accommodate all the out-of-town guests. The service took place on a Saturday evening so everyone was in evening dress. It was huge … hundreds of people … Joy looked like an overgrown meringue in an gigantic white confection.’