The Campus Trilogy

by AnonYMous

  When I went back to the study, Victoria was sitting on the sofa. She shook her head. ‘Poor wretched man. Reg Blenkensop is a real bully. You’re going to have to do something about him.’

  ‘I know. It’s going to be a problem …’

  Victoria smiled slyly. ‘I think you also have an ethical dilemma here, Harry.’ Victoria often teased me about my views. She had always thought my job a bit of a joke. I saw myself as a Christian utilitarian which meant that, with many qualifications and reservations, I believe that the right thing to do is whatever leads to the greatest happiness for the greatest number of people.

  ‘Why is there a difficulty in my situation?’ I smiled back at her.

  ‘Well I expect if you did a survey of cathedral congregations, the majority of them are made happier by the tunes of Handel than by the dischordance of Schoenberg. Therefore, according to your own principles, Blenkensop is right and the Precentor is wrong. The fact that the Precentor is a nice, sensitive man and Blenkensop is an oafish bully is irrelevant. According to your ethical theory you can only judge a situation by its results.’

  ‘You’re looking at the matter too simplistically,’ I teased her back. ‘Overall, as a general rule, it produces even unhappier results if bullies are allowed to win. Therefore, it’s right to support the Precentor in this instance. We may have to endure some ghastly Schoenberg and miss out on some splendid Handel. But this leads to the ultimately happier result that aggressive behaviour is discouraged.’

  Victoria laughed. ‘You are sweet,’ she said, ‘I’ve never heard such a roundabout way of demonstrating what everyone knows anyway.’

  ‘What does everyone know?’ I asked.

  ‘That people like Reg Blenkensop and his horrible cat should be clobbered on every possible occasion,’ she said as she went off again to the kitchen.

  On the day of my first Chapter Meeting, the three Canons, the Archdeacon and the Precentor assembled in a panelled room next door to the old Chapter House. The magnificent Chapter House with its carved stone seats for every canon, residential and non-residential, was only used occasionally on high days and holidays. The small Victorian annexe, known as the library was far more comfortable for everyday business.

  One of my duties as Provost was to act as chairman of Chapter Meetings. I sat in a large Chippendale armchair at the head of a mahogany table with the Canons arranged in order of seniority. Canon Sinclair, who was within a year of retirement was on my right. He had just been diagnosed with the beginnings of Parkinson’s disease and was a little shaky. The Archdeacon, a brisk sensible man, who was responsible for diocesan affairs sat on my left. The great bulk of Reg Blenkensop was on the other side of Sinclair and the red-haired Canon Trend who was said to be a promising young man destined for great things, was next to the Archdeacon. The Precentor was uncomfortably isolated by himself next to Blenkensop with no one opposite him; he looked pale and tired after his most recent confrontation. I made a mental note to have a leaf taken out of the table. Then the Precentor could sit fronting me at the end so we could all see one another at future meetings.

  The minutes of the last meeting had been circulated. We embarked on the agenda which was unexceptional. After an hour we had covered all the items except the last which was ominously headed ‘Admission Fees’. This item had been suggested by Canon Blenkensop and he introduced the subject. ‘Gentlemen,’ he began. ‘As you know a considerable number of cathedrals are now charging for admission. Some are even asking for fees to enter the precincts. This of course has many advantages. It preserves the quiet of the cathedral neighbourhood and deters undesirables from putting off genuine visitors.’

  ‘I thought Christianity was founded for the benefit of undesirables. Publicans and sinners our Lord called them,’ quavered Canon Sinclair … rather bravely, I thought. I realised that here was a potential ally. I would ask Victoria to invite him to lunch.

  Reg Blenkensop magisterially ignored this interruption. ‘I am not suggesting we take this step at this juncture despite its advantages. In the first instance I am merely recommending that we charge a nominal entrance fee to the cathedral itself …’ He paused, clearly expecting general agreement and approbation.

  ‘But why?’ blurted out the Precentor. ‘Our cathedral is a place of prayer and worship. It’s not a tourist attraction. This is not Disneyland. God’s grace is free. We shouldn’t think of charging people.’

  ‘It would make a considerable difference to the cathedral’s finances …,’ began the Archdeacon. He was of a practical turn of mind.

  ‘Precisely,’ continued Blenkensop smoothly. ‘You’ve hit the nail on the head, Archdeacon. It would bring many great benefits. We would find it easier to keep the fabric of this great building in repair and we have to face facts. It is a major tourist attraction. Every year thousands of visitors come to see our historic buildings. They drop their wrappers on the Green Court; they stamp out their cigarettes on the pathways; they toss their empty beer cans in the cloisters; and, unsuitably dressed, they sun themselves on our benches. At present they do all this for free.’

  ‘Surely then you’re suggesting an entrance fee to the precincts?’ I asked.

  ‘Not at this stage. It’s always more sensible to proceed slowly. To test the waters, we should charge visitors who wish to come into the cathedral. This will deter all those hoardes of French adolescents whose teachers dump them in the building as if we were a kind of baby-sitting service.’

  I could not resist it. ‘But you reminded me only yesterday that Jesus said “Suffer the little children to come unto me.”’

  Canon Blenkensop went purple. ‘Provost, I have to say with all due respect for your great learning and your academic qualifications and so on, you have no experience whatsoever in cathedral administration. You are only here as a caretaker and your interference in this matter is not welcome. No indeed! I must insist on my right as a member of the Chapter that the motion be put to a vote.’

  At this point Marmaduke sauntered into the Chapter House. He leapt on a radiator just inside the door and settled himself comfortably to enjoy its warmth. I felt his cold green eyes balefully staring at me. The whole Chapter looked at him and then looked back at me.

  I made up my mind. ‘I’m sorry Reg. It’s a big decision. I want further investigation as to how it has worked out at other foundations. Would you look into it, Derek?’ I turned to young Canon Trend.

  ‘Yes Provost,’ he mumbled, looking away from Reg Blenkensop.

  ‘We will examine the matter again in six weeks’ time when we have more solid information,’ I declared. ‘Now, if there is no other business, we can adjourn.’

  The Canons rose slowly from their chairs. Blenkensop stood rigidly, put a pair of gold spectacles in a leather case, and picked up his papers. Without speaking, he marched to the door and passed out into the cloisters. His cat followed him.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said old Canon Sinclair, shaking his head. ‘This kind of conflict is always so unpleasant. It is indeed!’

  Despite all my worries about the cathedral, I still wanted to keep in touch with the university. After all, as Provost, I was the official Visitor. In particular I was anxious about the coming quality inspection later in the academic year. Felix Glass was clearly uneasy about it. Early in the week I made a telephone call to the Vice-Chancellor’s secretary to ask if he could spare the time to have a little chat. Alf Flanagan was efficient. The very same afternoon he rang me back to invite me up to the university. Felix, as Head of the Faculty of Entertainment, would join us and he would explain to me what was happening.

  On the appointed day I made my way to the Vice-Chancellor’s office. Nothing had changed. It was still located in the Old Building on the top floor. When I arrived, I knocked on the door and heard a loud cuckoo coming from inside. Flanagan opened the door himself. He was wearing his dark suit, this time with a florid purple and gold tie. The silk handkerchief which flowed from his pocket was black. He shook my hand heartily and drew m
e inside. ‘G’Day, mate,’ he said.

  The room was much as I remembered it under his predecessor. There was the same emerald green fitted carpet on the floor. The furniture was reproduction mahogany and the pictures were undistinguished but inoffensive. However, I could not fail to notice an enormous brown cuckoo clock hanging behind the Vice-Chancellor’s large pedestal desk. The desk itself was covered with an untidy array of papers. Felix was already sitting on the sofa.

  Despite his girth, Flanagan was clearly a man who found it difficult to stay still. I sat down in one of the armchairs, but the Vice-Chancellor continued to pace the room. ‘As you know,’ he began, ‘we are to have a visitation from the Higher Education Quality Control people within the next few months. I’ve tried to put them off as long as I could, but like death and taxes, they catch up with you in the end. I can’t imagine what they expect to find. The whole thing’s damned silly in my opinion, but there it is.’

  ‘How long will they be staying?’ I asked. ‘Should Victoria and I be doing something for them at the Provost’s House?’

  Alf Flanagan suddenly became enthusiastic. ‘That’d be great mate! They’ll certainly be impressed by the architecture and Victoria could keep anyone sweet. I understand the delegation will be in St Sebastian’s for five days, Monday to Friday, so we must find plenty for them to do. We don’t want to have them asking awkward questions, do we?’ He roared with laughter. Felix looked agonised.

  Flanagan was impervious to the effect he was having on his audience. ‘I’ve already booked the best rooms at the White Hart Hotel. They’ll have their breakfast there, but we’ll give them a fair-dinkum lunch in Flanagan’s and dinner in the Old Hall. I’m going to line up the lecturers in the Catering department to ply them with plenty of their best food and drink. Hopefully they’ll go off to sleep after meals and won’t be too much of a nuisance to us!’

  He rummaged among the papers on his desk and handed over several menus and a wine list. ‘Got to keep the buggers happy whatever it costs. That’ll be the job of your department, Felix. You’ll need to find some of your prettiest little sheilas to act as waitresses. Make sure they’re careful. However tempting, it wouldn’t be a good idea to drop soup all over them. And I’ve just ordered a couple of cases of Bordeaux and Burgundy from my wine club that we can put in the cellars …’

  ‘But Alf,’ Felix sounded desperate ‘A visitation from the Higher Education Quality Control Committee requires more than just entertainment. They’ll want to see documents to show we’re doing our jobs properly. Things like grade criteria and external examiners’ reports and teaching statistics and minutes of committee meetings and so on. Then all our partnership-institutions need similar paperwork to justify our giving them degrees. And I’m sorry to fuss, but we don’t have anything like a comprehensive record. Everything was started up too quickly…’

  Flanagan turned to Felix in the manner of a kindly uncle. ‘Don’t get so hot and bothered, mate. It’ll all be fine. I’ve asked poor old Registrar Sloth to manufacture whatever paperwork we need.’

  ‘How can he manufacture the paperwork?’ I asked. ‘Surely the documents should reflect what is actually going on and should already be in place.’

  Felix shot me a grateful look, but Flanagan was unrepentant. ‘Oh he’ll just fix them up a bit. A touch here, a touch there. There’s no need to worry Harry. I know what these bureaucrats are like. I went through all this at Fandonegal, my last university. They whinged a bit but as long as you gave them piles of pen-pushing stuff, they’re quite happy. You’ve just got to produce a convincing paper-trail. It doesn’t matter if it bears no relationship to reality.’

  I felt that somehow I was losing the plot ‘I’m not following this,’ I said. ‘Could you go over it again?’

  The Vice-Chancellor put on a golfing cap which was lying on a side-table and he picked up a golf club from his umbrella stand. He started practising his putting. ‘You know, I’ve just been elected onto the board of the St Sebastian’s Golf Club,’ he said. ‘How many students are registered for the diploma in professional golf this year, Felix?’ he asked.

  ‘Nearly a hundred,’ Felix mumbled.

  ‘You see, Harry. Everything’s booming. Golf, Celebrity Studies, Artistic Dance. The students are practically breaking down the doors to come to us …’

  ‘Could we get back to the paper trail?’ I insisted.

  ‘I think you’re too upset about it all. It’ll be a piece of cake. If a paper-trail doesn’t exist at the moment – and I’m sure that it probably does – then we’ll just have to invent one. The quality inspectors won’t know the difference.’

  ‘The Registrar’s doing this?’ I asked. I could hardly believe what I was hearing. During my time at St Sebastian’s the Registrar, Dr Robert Sloth, had lived in a complete haze. Nothing ever got done. A mild narcoleptic, he slept through most meetings. It was impossible to imagine him producing a credible set of documents, even if such a thing were tolerable.

  ‘He’s just appointed his wife as Quality Assurance Officer,’ Flanagan pointed out. ‘If he can’t do it, she will.’

  I was almost speechless. Reminding myself that I was a clergyman and, in theory at least, Alf Flanagan’s boss, I pulled myself together. ‘Vice-Chancellor,’ I pronounced. ‘This is most unwise. We cannot falsify documents. It would be dishonest and unethical and unworthy of the traditions of St Sebastian’s. And even if we were prepared to engage in this sort of activity, the Registrar’s wife is the last person in the world who should be asked to do it. She was absolutely hopeless when she worked in the university library. She was notoriously lazy and incompetent and I simply cannot imagine her creating a document which would deceive anyone …’

  ‘Ah … you mustn’t underestimate the lady …’ Alf Flanagan reproved me as he tried to knock a golf ball into his wastebasket. It veered off in the wrong direction and nearly hit Felix’s foot. ‘Damn!’ he said.

  I was about to remonstrate further, but the Vice-Chancellor was distracted. He went to his desk again and rummaged among the papers. ‘Ah … here it is! Now don’t you worry about anything, Harry. Leave it all to me! I’ve got just the thing here to cheer you up.’

  He sifted through the litter and pulled out a shiny photograph of a blonde young woman of about twenty-five. ‘Before you go I wanted to talk to you about Olive O’Shea. I’ve just made a brilliant appointment.’

  ‘Who is Olive O’Shea?’ I asked.

  ‘She’s a watercolour artist. Had a small one-woman show in the fringe at Edinburgh a couple of years ago. She’s married to old Lord Barridon. You’ll remember him. He used to be a junior minister in the foreign office some time ago, but there was a bit of a scandal about kerb-crawling or something twenty years back and he was thrown out. But he still sits in the House of Lords.’

  ‘But Lord Barridon must be nearly seventy by now. What’s he doing with a young woman like that?’

  Flanagan winked. ‘Well … what can I say? Anyway I need someone to be a Director of Hospitality for the university. We need a front-woman to charm the pants off everyone and she’s just the person to do it …’

  He handed me a job description for the new post. I noticed that the salary was in the professorial range. ‘It seems an awful lot of money to pay for a glorified hostess.’ I said ‘With a salary like that, you must have attracted some excellent candidates. What are Lady Barridon’s qualifications and experience for this sort of post?’

  Alf Flanagan shook his head. ‘Oh she’s a real cracker, mate. You’ll love her. She’s got loads of influential friends who know important people, if you know what I mean. Actually we haven’t advertised the post yet and we’ll have to go through the motions of interviewing, but she knows the job’s hers. She’s already put it on her curriculum vitae.’

  ‘She’s not the easiest person to work with Alf …’ began Felix.

  The Vice-Chancellor patted his colleague’s shoulder and looked across at me. ‘This bloke’s always such a worri
er,’ he said. ‘It’ll all be all right on the night, just you see!’

  At this point, Flanagan’s secretary knocked on the door to inform him that his next appointment was waiting. It was time for us to go. We both stood up and thanked the Vice-Chancellor for his time.

  ‘Now you mustn’t be concerned about a thing, Harry,’ he said, as I opened the door to leave. ‘It’s all under control …’

  Felix wanted me to go to his room to talk things over. It turned out that he had been allocated the same study that had been mine during my eleven years at the university and I felt at home straightaway.

  ‘You see,’ said Felix, throwing himself down into an armchair. ‘It’s impossible to get any sense out of Alf. He won’t concentrate on the matter at all …’

  I tried to be encouraging. ‘Well he’s been through all this before. The Quality Control people did an inspection at Fandonegal University when he was Pro-Vice-Chancellor there. As at St Sebastian’s, he’d introduced all sorts of educational partnerships with some very shady institutions …’

  ‘Most of whom have since transferred here …’ interrupted Felix.

  ‘I seem to remember that the final report was pretty critical,’ I continued, ‘but Fandondegal got away with it in the end. The Times Higher Education magazine covered it pretty thoroughly at the time.’

  ‘But he can’t believe that Registrar Sloth or that idiotic wife of his could create a decent smoke-screen if they tried with both hands. And as for Lady Barridon, or Olive O’Shea as she insists on calling herself …’

  ‘Yes … what was all that about?’ I asked. ‘Why’s he doing this for her? Is she his mistress?’

  Felix shook his head, ‘I don’t think so … she seems genuinely attached to Barridon. But she’s completely unsuitable for the job. She has only two subjects of conversation – one is herself and the other is her activites. She has no interest whatsover in anyone else. I had to sit next to her at a formal dinner last month and she talked non-stop about her talents through the whole first course. She didn’t ask a single thing about me. Then the conversation at the table became general. She tried to interrupt several times, but the other guests had things to say. So as soon as the second course was finished, she got up, pulled poor old Lord Barridon out of his seat, announced she was developing influenza and disappeared off home.’