The Campus Trilogy

by AnonYMous

  Billy and Selina drove him and Bess down. ‘Feels like my first day at prep school,’ Sir William remarked, as we all arrived together in front of the Priory. The sun was shining, the matron was cordial to us all, though she was surprised at Bess’s size. She had been expecting a small dog. Bess walked to heel impeccably at Sir William’s side and all was well. Sir William liked his room. He demonstated the raising action of his chair to any member of staff who was willing to be an audience and he admired all Victoria’s arrangements. It all seemed too good to be true.

  Then suddenly there was a disturbance. We heard the sound of an old lady screaming hysterically down the corridor and there were accompanying yaps of terror. Victoria rushed down the passage to investigate the problem. It was not good. Bess had made a category mistake. She had taken the small white poodle to be an errant lamb and had hemmed it up into a corner. The poodle’s owner was weeping and wringing her hands. She was sure that her darling Pookie was about to be eaten.

  Victoria called off Bess who responded instantly. Sir William limped over to apologise; he reproved the poor sheepdog (who was, after all, only being obedient to her training) and promised that henceforth Bess would be kept on a lead in the house. He was so remarkably charming that old Mrs Mackenzie – that was the name of Pookie’s owner – surrendered completely. The two old people sat down together and Victoria went out and asked one of the carers to bring everyone coffee.

  ‘Do you play cards, madam?’ asked Sir William.

  ‘Oh yes,’ fluttered Mrs Mackenzie. ‘We’re always looking for someone for our canasta group and my friend Mrs Germaney is a bridge fiend.’

  ‘Yes, yes! Very good! But what about blackjack? Do you play blackjack?’

  Mrs Mackenzie looked nervous. ‘Isn’t that a gambling game? I’m not sure my dear father would have approved of that!’

  ‘No, no!’ said Sir William. ‘You can always play with matchsticks. It makes it more interesting if there’s something to play for. I’ll demonstrate.’ He dug into his pocket and produced a pack of playing cards. ‘Now madam,’ he said, as he happily started dealing out the cards, ‘Let me show you. You’ll soon get the hang of it!’

  CHAPTER THREE

  You Wouldn’t Want Everybody to Be Unhappy

  We settled down to our life in the precincts. Victoria was very preoccupied with her father, but things seemed to be going well at the Priory. Sir William had established a good rapport with the matron. Bess had become a general favourite and now understood that, despite all appearances, Pookie was a dog like herself. The rules of blackjack had been taught to several old ladies and was widely established as the game of the moment. Sir William, to his great satisfaction, had also demonstrated that he was the best Scrabble-player in the home.

  On our third Sunday, Victoria invited Magnus to lunch following the cathedral service. It was a damp day and there was a slight mist over the Green Court as I made my way to the West Front. Despite the inclement weather, there were still a great many tourists in the precincts. The doorway into the cathedral was blocked by a large group of Japanese visitors all taking photographs. I wondered if it was the same delegation that I had met at the university. Perhaps unsurprisingly, they showed no sign of wanting to join us for prayer.

  When I finally arrived in the vestry, I found the rest of the Chapter waiting for me. Hurriedly, I put on the Provost’s Cope. This was one of the treasures of the cathedral. It was extremely heavy and it was covered with magnificent hand embroidery in gold, red and white. When I was a professor at the university, I had always admired it. I did not realise how hot and uncomfortable it was to wear. Just before we were due to begin, choir and clergy came together and I recited a brief prayer. Then, as the organ struck up the first hymn, led by the choir, we all filed into the nave. I brought up the end of the procession.

  The service followed its usual course. I was somewhat disconcerted to discover that the choir was to sing yet another anthem by Handel. I made a mental note to myself that I must defend the Precentor’s choice of music against the assaults of Canon Blenkensop. Nothing else untoward happened until we were on the third hymn. I was due to be led by the Verger into the pulpit for my sermon, when I saw Marmaduke sauntering up the cathedral aisle. He turned this way and that as he walked, much as a royal personage graciously greets his subjects who have been standing all night in the rain to catch a glimpse of him. Then, to my horror, he sprang up onto the altar which stood at the top of the nave. Waving his tail, he sharpened his claws on the white linen cloth. Then he walked across it leaving a line of muddy footprints. They would have delighted the forensic department of Scotland Yard. Turning himself round several times, he stretched himself out and settled for sleep in the warmth of the candle flames.

  I was horrifed and thought about sending the Verger to turn him off. But, having confronted him several times in my own garden, I knew he would spit and struggle. In all likelihood there would be an unseemly scene and probably the Verger would end up wounded and in need of immediate first aid. Therefore, coward that I am, I pretended not to notice and started to deliver my sermon. Marmaduke did not seem to feel any obligation to listen. He slept soundly, snoring slightly until I finished. Then he leapt down, waited until I had been led back into my seat and proceeded back down the aisle with exactly the same aplomb as before.

  ‘Is this normal?’ I whispered to the Precenter under cover of the final hymn.

  ‘That damn cat does it whenever it rains. He sits, terrorising everyone in the precincts on fine days and then he comes into the cathedral to throw his weight about whenever it’s wet,’ he said.

  ‘But that’s outrageous. We can’t have a cat disrupt the service like that. Look at the state of the altar cloth.’

  The Precentor shrugged his shoulders and started singing the last verse of ‘Praise to the Holiest in the Height’ very loudly in his fine deep baritone.

  Back in the vestry, we all disrobed. Before he could leave, I tapped Canon Blenkensop on the shoulder. ‘Can I have a word?’ I said.

  The Canon looked at his watch. ‘I’ve only got a minute,’ he said. ‘I’ve an important luncheon engagement.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘It’s about your cat,’ I began.

  Canon Blenkensop frowned. ‘Marmaduke? What about him?’

  I realised that this was not going to be an easy conversation. ‘As you know, Reg, I’m a cat-lover myself, but we really can’t have Marmaduke wandering all over the cathedral during the services. It’s distracting for the congregation and really, it’s not very suitable in the house of God.’

  ‘Why not? As our Lord said ‘Suffer the little children to come unto me.’ Surely that includes all God’s creatures.’

  ‘I think there is a difference between children and animals,’ I said mildly. ‘And anyway I wouldn’t allow a child to march all over the altar and leave his footprints everywhere. It’s not reverent.’

  ‘I think you’re making a fuss about nothing. He doesn’t do any harm.’

  ‘I’m sorry Reg,’ I tried to sound firm. ‘Marmaduke really cannot come into the cathedral in future. You must keep him under better control.’

  The Canon looked at his watch again. ‘I’m sorry Provost,’ he said, ‘I really must go to my lunch. All I can say is that no one has ever complained before … Splendid anthem wasn’t it?’ And with that he turned on his heel and strode out of the vestry.

  Although Magnus had been at the service, we had agreed to meet back at the Provost’s House. I found him sitting in my study drinking sherry while Victoria was on the telephone in the kitchen. I helped myself to a drink and sat down opposite. ‘Well … what did you think?’ I asked.

  ‘Very jolly! I particularly liked the anthem,’ he said. I sighed inwardly. The problem was that Canon Blenkensop’s musical tastes, in contrast to those of the Precentor, probably did match those of the general public. ‘And I loved that Cope of yours,’ he continued. ‘Very stylish! Almost worth being Provost for!’


  ‘It’s very uncomfortable to wear and I don’t get to keep it,’ I said. ‘It’s over a hundred years old and it belongs to the cathedral.’

  ‘And that cat was quite an addition. He looks a tough customer!’

  ‘He is. He terrorises Cleo and Brutus. They don’t dare go outside and we’ve had to organise indoor sanitation for them. They haven’t had that since they were kittens, but they’re too frightened to face that ginger beast who dominates the whole precincts.’

  Magnus laughed. He knew what it was to be bullied by a cat. His tabby was called Pushkin. He was known to insist on an indoor lavatory and the most expensive cat litter. ‘I can’t understand it,’ I continued, ‘Marmaduke seems to run the place.’

  ‘I thought that was your job, Harry.’

  ‘Well perhaps the Almighty has put that cat here to keep me humble …’

  At that moment Victoria came into the room and poured herself a large glass of sherry. She looked flushed.

  I felt a chill of foreboding. ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked.

  ‘That was the Matron of the Priory on the telephone. She’s been trying to get hold of me since Friday. The gardeners have complained.’

  ‘How has your father managed to upset the gardeners?’ Magnus was amused. He always found it difficult to take domestic crises seriously.

  ‘He ticked them off. He told them that the herbacious borders hadn’t been properly weeded and that several of the perennial clumps should have been lifted and divided a couple of months ago. Then he rang Billy to send some cuttings from the castle grounds and he is demanding that the gardeners plant them.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘They say it’s against union rules. They’re only prepared to take their orders from Matron. And apparently Daddy walks about the garden like a fieldmarshal, looking down his nose and pointing his stick at everything he disapproves of.’

  ‘He’s behaving like Marmaduke! And how do the gardeners show their displeasure?’ I asked.

  ‘Well they’re scarcely gardeners. They’re a couple of youths on some ex-delinquent employment programme and Matron says they don’t react well to authority figures. They went to see her insisting on their rights. They told her that if she didn’t keep the old bugger under control, they’d give in their notice.’

  ‘It sounds as if the Priory would be better off without them if that’s their attitude.’

  ‘Well I made that point, but apparently labour is almost impossible to find in St Sebastian’s. You have to take whatever you can get.’

  ‘Perhaps Sir William could organise a volunteer corps of gardeners from among the old ladies. Probably several of them are veterans of the Second World War Land Army and he could be their commander-in-chief,’ suggested Magnus helpfully.

  We all giggled. Then Victoria became serious. ‘I’ll have to go and see him after lunch and talk to him. I’m sorry to send you off before tea, Magnus, but we must calm him down a bit before there’s real trouble.’

  There were further difficulties later in the afternoon. Victoria did manage to persuade her father that he was no longer the lord of the manor and that he could not go about giving orders to the gardeners, however inadequate. She had just arrived home and was looking forward to a quick glance at the Sunday newspaper when there was a knock on the front door. We really did not want to be disturbed, but I knew my duty. I rose from my chair and opened the door. Outside, looking as if he were about to burst into tears, was the Precentor. ‘Provost,’ he said, ‘I feel dreadful disturbing your Sunday evening, but I just don’t know what to do. Could I have a minute of your time?’

  I gathered him up and led him into the study while Victoria tactfully melted away into the kitchen. ‘Sit here,’ I said pointing at an armchair beside the fire. ‘Let me pour you a drink. You look a bit as if you need one. What would you like? How about a little whisky?’

  The Precentor huddled into himself, but cheered up a little when I suggested a large gin and tonic instead.

  With trembling hands he told me that he had just had another argument with Reg Blenkensop. Apparently, earlier in the afternoon, the Canon had marched over to the Precentor’s house uninvited and had insisted that the matter of cathedral music be sorted out once and for all.

  ‘He had heard that I was planning a special service for the Bishop of Tuckenham’s visit in a fortnight’s time,’ the Precentor told me. ‘I don’t know how he found out. He always seems to know the coming anthems almost before I do. I think Mrs Blenkensop has struck up a friendship with the girlfriend of one of the lay-clerks and that’s how he gets all his inside information.’

  ‘Anyway, I know the Bishop is one of the more musical members of the bench so I was planning to have a treat for him, a special arrangement of extracts from the Schoenberg Mass in F.’ I tried to look as if I were familiar with the work. The Precentor continued, ‘Canon Blenkensop stormed around my study and said it was a totally unsuitable choice and no wonder people stayed away from church if they had to listen to that sort of rubbish. Rubbish … that’s what he said!’ The Precentor’s voice became higher and higher in indignation. ‘Schoenberg was one of the finest composers of the twentieth century. His work may not have the immediate appeal of Ralph Vaughan Williams or Arthur Sullivan which is the limit of Reg Blenkensop’s taste, but it’s infinitely more subtle …’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ I tried to soothe my agitated colleague. ‘What did Reg want in place of the Schoenberg?’

  ‘He suggested that if I wanted something special for the Bishop, we could have Bach’s ‘Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring’ cantata, but really one of Elgar’s anthems would be more suitable. How dare the man interfere! He’s a complete Philistine! He’s almost tone deaf and he’s had no musical education at all! The only thing he ever did when he was at Oxford, besides scraping a third in theology, was play rugby for the university …’

  ‘Was he really a rugby blue when he was an undergraduate?’ I was impressed.

  ‘Oh yes … he boasts about it all the time. But that doesn’t give him the right to lay down the law about cathedral music. I just can’t bear it any longer …’

  ‘Oh dear!’ I said rather inadequately.

  The Precentor was not to be halted. ‘He just wants to control everything, every detail. I’m the Precentor and the responsibility for cathedral music is part of my job description. I tried to tell him so, but he wouldn’t let me speak. He just cut across me. He accused me of being a modernist and having no respect for the traditions of the Church of England. And then he told me that he had told the printer after the morning service to change the proposed service sheet and put Bach’s ‘Jesu, Joy’ as the anthem rather than the Schoenberg. The printer always prints it out before lunch on Sunday so it can’t be changed now. It’s too bad! When I tried to protest he told me to attend to my duties and he went out and slammed the door. His horrible cat was waiting for him, eating a pigeon in my garden, and the two of them went off together leaving a mangled corpse in my rose bed.’

  ‘Oh dear!’ I said again.

  ‘And that’s not all, Provost.’ There was no way the Precentor’s indignation could be assuaged. ‘I think you ought to know that he wants to introduce a scheme so that visitors will have to pay to come into the cathedral in the future. It’s an outrage! Our cathedral is a house of God. It belongs to all faithful people and its doors should be open to anyone whatever their financial circumstances.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I had heard something about that. It’s supposed to come up at the next Chapter meeting. There’s an item on the agenda about imposing an admission charge. But surely the other Canons won’t approve of it?’

  ‘You don’t know what he’s like, Provost. He marches about the place like a sergeant-major barking at us and giving his orders. The whole Chapter is terrified of him. Your predecessor, Provost Woodcock, wouldn’t even be in the same room as him without his wife present.’ The Precentor gave a little smile. ‘Mrs Woodcock was the o
nly person who could stand up to him and even then, when they did have a battle, it was sort of an honourable draw between them!’

  ‘Perhaps I’d better set Victoria on him,’ I suggested.

  The Precentor looked doubtful. ‘She looks far too charming ever to defeat Reg Blenkensop,’ he said. I thought back on various occasions in our marriage when Victoria had completely humiliated several of her enemies in the neatest, most elegant way, but I felt this was not the right moment to reminisce.

  ‘I did speak to Reg about Marmaduke,’ I said.

  ‘He’s a monster. He dominates the Green Court. He slaughters the birds and squirrels, he spits at the tourists and he bit my dog.’

  ‘I heard about that,’ I said.

  ‘The vet bill was seventy-five pounds and poor Otto really needs intensive psychiatric help to get over it. And as for that cat’s behaviour during services … it’s beyond belief.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ I said.

  ‘Please, Provost.’ The Precentor downed his drink and stood up. ‘I don’t know how I can continue any longer if this goes on,’ he said as I led him through the hall. ‘We’re counting on you to do something about this reign of terror.’

  As I let my unfortunate colleague out of the front door, I noticed that Marmaduke was sitting outside on the study window-sill. It was almost as if he had been listening to every word. As soon as the Precentor turned the corner, he sauntered off.