The Campus Trilogy

by AnonYMous

  I laughed. ‘Oh dear! She sounds very much as if she’s what my old mother would have described as ‘All mink coat and no knickers!”

  Felix looked rueful. ‘That’s exactly it … But what is the Vice-Chancellor doing giving her the salary of a professor and ignoring the demands of the Quality Control Agency. Do you think he’s gone mad?’

  After dinner that evening Victoria and I were having coffee in the study. Brutus and Cleo were perched together looking anxiously out of the window. The Green Court was in darkness. In the distance we heard the unmistakeable sound of a cat fight. Marmaduke was on the prowl. I was telling Victoria about my conversation with the Vice-Chancellor. ‘You know,’ I said, ‘I don’t think the university has any of the required documentation for this Quality Control visitation. Flanagan kept talking about creating paper trails where none exist. As I was leaving, Felix said that they have never even recruited external examiners for most of the new degree programmes. The inspectors will be outraged if they find out.’

  Victoria laughed. ‘I expect someone will create some fictitious papers …’

  ‘They can’t produce non-existent external examiners. It would be disgraceful. And anyway, if they got caught, the whole degree course and possibly the whole university would have to close down.’

  ‘But do you think anyone would check?’

  ‘I don’t know. Probably they wouldn’t. But the whole thing’s a scandal. And I can’t see how, as Visitor, I can ever approve of such a policy.’

  ‘I don’t think they’re going to ask for your permssion, Harry.’

  ‘No, they won’t. But if I know what’s going on, then I can’t stay silent.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ asked Victoria. ‘You certainly can’t tell anyone.’

  Indignantly, I said that I certainly would if necessary. ‘There have to be proper standards. That’s what the role of a Visitor is, to ensure fair play and all that …’

  ‘But imagine the consequences …’ Victoria smiled to herself. ‘Think about the situation in utilitarian terms. If what really matters is the greatest good for the greatest number, then calling attention to the fact that the university is making up its reports would have appalling results. The standard of St Sebastian’s degrees would be called into question. The staff and students would suffer. There would be a major investigation and they might even close the place down. All your erstwhile colleagues would lose their jobs. It would be a disaster. Surely a few little white lies and turning a blind eye would end in a much happier situation for everyone.’ Victoria looked smug as she passed me a box of chocolates, one of the housewarming presents we had received from the residential Canons.

  I sighed. I could see that here potentially was a very knotty situation. I did not feel strong enough to tackle it that night. ‘I think I’ll have to face the problem when it comes,’ I said, and ate the last two chocolates in the box. One was an orange cream – a flavour I greatly dislike.

  Exasperated, I went to answer the telephone which was ringing in the kitchen. It turned out to be Magnus who said he had run out of food for his cat and he wondered if we might be able to lend him some. About twenty minutes later he arrived at our front door. I led him into the study where he picked up the empty box of chocolates. ‘What a pity!’ he said. ‘It looks like you’ve run out.’

  He was displeased when he saw the brand of cat food we could offer him. ‘You don’t really make your two eat this cheap stuff, do you? Pushkin’s digestion would be upset for a week if I gave him muck like this. Oh well, I’ll just have to defrost some fish out of the freezer.’

  Victoria went out to the kitchen to refill the coffee pot as I told him about my conversation with Flanagan.

  ‘Inevitable,’ he said. ‘Flanagan’s batty. Thank God I only do a little part-time teaching. If I were dependent on the university for my livelihood, I’d be seriously worried. He’s turned the whole place upside down with his schemes. It’s overflowing with students doing degrees in God-knows-what. None of it academic as far as I can see. Do you know they have a degree in Striptease?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I said.

  ‘It’s true! It’s part of the Dance and Drama department. Flanagan went into partnership with an organisation in Florida called the Pussy Galore College. They pay the university a fortune and send students on exchange. Now you see these little girls running about campus dressed in a few feathers and very little else.’

  ‘But he can’t put “Striptease” in the university prospectus.’ Victoria had come back into the room.

  Magnus sniggered. ‘He doesn’t! It’s called Artistic Dance. Flanagan mentioned it to you when we all had lunch together, remember?’

  ‘I thought he looked a bit shifty about it,’ said Victoria.

  Brutus jumped down from the window and hopped onto Magnus’s lap as Victoria poured him out a cup of coffee. Magnus sprawled on the sofa as I complained about the Vice-Chancellor’s plans to manufacture documents for the Quality Control Agency. ‘Sloth and his wife are supposed to do it,’ I said.

  Magnus groaned. ‘It’ll be a disaster.’

  ‘That’s what I told Flanagan,’ I sighed. ‘Don’t you think I ought to do something about it, Magnus? I am the Visitor, after all …’

  ‘I wouldn’t if I were you. You’re only supposed to be filling in temporarily. Why make trouble?’

  ‘But there’s a principle involved,’ I objected.

  ‘Harry somehow believes that blowing the whistle will lead to the greatest happiness for the greatest number in the long run,’ Victoria smirked. ‘But I demonstrated to him that it could only lead to general misery.’

  ‘That sounds most probable,’ agreed Magnus. ‘You wouldn’t want everyone to be unhappy, would you Harry? Let them do whatever they want – Celebrity Studies, Fashion, Brewing Technology, Tourism, Striptease … as long as it keeps the place full and the money coming in.’

  Victoria nodded her head. ‘Please Harry. Stay out of this. You promised me that you wouldn’t get mixed up with things you don’t understand when you took this job.’

  ‘But I do understand. I understand all too well. Alf Flanagan is planning to cheat.’

  ‘Cheat? Of course they are!’ Magnus said. ‘They always have; they always will! What’s new? Victoria’s right! Just lie low and enjoy your fancy Cope, Harry.’ Picking up the empty chocolate box, he looked at Victoria. ‘You haven’t got another one of these things, have you?’ he asked.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  He’s Created a Monster

  For the next fortnight, Reg Blenkensop served as Canon-in-Residence. The practice at St Sebastian’s Cathedral was that each residential Canon led the services for two weeks at a time. As Provost, I was not part of this rota, though of course I attended the cathedral whenever I could. Blenkensop’s stall was next to mine in the choir. Every day I attempted to make pleasant conversation, but it was to no avail. Before the services, Blenkensop robed himself in sulky silence and would only speak to me if he was compelled to discuss details of the liturgy. When any other canon was present, he would have long animated chats with them. Generally, he reminisced about the good old days of the previous Provost or he talked of his time as a rugby blue when the Oxford University team was so exceptionally well-managed.

  I have to confess that during this period I did become very tired of dischordant modern music. I had told the printer only to accept the order of cathedral services from me or from the Precentor. This meant that there was no possibility of Blenkensop sabotaging the Precentor’s choices. As a result, we had a plethora of difficult anthems. However, I told myself that this was better in the long run than allowing a bully to prosper.

  Unfortunately I was not so successful in improving Marmaduke’s behaviour. He continued to stalk around the cathedral whenever he felt like it and he systematically decimated the unfortunate small fauna of the precincts. He also took to spitting at me whenever I was anywhere near him. This did not improve the atmosphere in the G
reen Court. However, the other Canons and the Precentor did their best to be friendly to both sides. Altogether it was all very awkward and embarrassing.

  At the next meeting of the Chapter, young Derek Trend, keeping his eyes firmly on his papers, hesitantly reported that he had been in contact with a number of cathedrals. He gave a very diplomatic account of the advantages and disadvantages of introducing formal charges. By the end of his exposition, we were no nearer reaching a decision.

  Blenkensop remained adamant in his championship of the cause and was supported more mildly by the Archdeacon. Old Canon Sinclair, trembling and with much lamentation over any possible unpleasantness, came out against the motion and was whole-heartedly supported by the Precentor. Trend refused to declare his colours. He was a young man who knew the unwisdom of offending any of his elders and, as a result, succeeded in pleasing none of them. So it all came down to me and I said that I wanted to discuss it with the Archbishop. Therefore, to Blenkensop’s fury, it was agreed that no formal decision would be made until after Christmas.

  We were worried about the cats. There was already a cat-flap cut into the scullery door which led out to the Green Court. Victoria tried very hard to persuade Brutus and Cleo to go outside and enjoy the fresh air. They would have none of it. They spent most of the time on my study window-sill peering out in terror in case Marmaduke was in the vicinity. On one appalling occasion, Marmaduke actually marched into the scullery and proceeded to consume two large saucers of food which we had just put down. Mercifully, our two were sitting with me in the study and Victoria managed to chase the ginger intruder out before there was an almighty cat fight. However, the two Siamese knew from the smell what had happened and for two days they were both off their food. After that we had to keep the cat-flap locked.

  Even though the weather was becoming colder, Marmaduke did not moderate his activities. Every day I saw him out pacing about, hunting some wretched creature or preening himself for tourists’ photographs. The peaceful ambiance of the cathedral was frequently disturbed by his appalling caterwaulings. It sounded as if someone were being murdered and probably someone was.

  On my way to and from services, I often came across Mrs Blenkensop. She was a mousey, little woman. In contrast to her husband, she always smiled and said ‘Good Morning!’ She was invariably burdened with large numbers of shopping bags. On a couple of occasions I offered to carry them over to her house, but she refused. She said she was used to heavy shopping. I could not help but notice that the bags seemed equally divided between numerous tins of cat food and large quantities of expensive cuts of meat. Clearly both Reg Blenkensop and Marmaduke were fond of their food.

  At the beginning of November, I was invited to preach at Cannonbury Cathedral. I thought it would be a pleasant interlude and I drove down to the beautiful mediaeval city thirty miles away. I was particularly anxious to learn about their Dean and Chapter’s experience with admission charges.

  I had been at theological seminary in Cambridge with the current Archdeacon, and he invited me to lunch after the service. Sitting in the splendid Archdeaconry overlooking the magnificent cloisters, we drank sherry as my old friend told me about the disagreements that existed within the Chapter. ‘They forced the charges through, Harry,’ he said. ‘I have always been opposed to admission fees, but the Dean was determined. He had just been on a management course for clergy and he persuaded the entire Chapter.’

  ‘Couldn’t you stand against it?’ I asked.

  ‘There was nothing I could do. As you know, we’ve had problems with the roof. We’ve tried to raise enough money for repairs, but it’s been quite hopeless. We’ve been running at a deficit for years and we can’t let the cathedral actually fall down. The projections of future income were very pessimistic and the Chapter was convinced that charging was the only answer.’

  He took a deep breath, before he started again. ‘To tell you the truth, I hate it. You saw the barriers just outside at the entrance to the cloisters. Nobody can come in without paying. We lock the doors of the precincts at night and God’s glorious church is only open between the hours of nine and seven to those who can afford to pay. Even those who live in the town have to make a token yearly subscription for the priviledge of walking around. It’s unchristian and dreadful, but there was really very little alternative.’

  ‘And has it worked?’ I asked.

  The Archdeacon nodded ruefully. ‘Amazingly well. Last year we had over fifty thousand tourists all paying ten pounds each. And of course the relative quiet in the precincts is blissful. All the social problems are left firmly in the town.’

  ‘That sounds very much in accord with the teachings of the Gospel,’ I said.

  ‘It’s dreadful, isn’t it?’ he agreed. ‘What it all comes down to in the end is money. It governs everything. The Church seems to think of nothing else. Well … when they’re not cowering at the thought that a woman might become a bishop or wondering how much of a witch-hunt they should have against gay priests … As if half the clergy aren’t gay anyway! Honestly … You were sensible to choose the academic life, Harry.’

  I sighed. ‘But I’m a Provost now.’

  ‘Indeed, so you are. And how is it going?’

  I told him about my problems with Blenkensop and hinted about the difficulties at the university. ‘The Archbishop just wanted me to fill in,’ I explained. ‘I knew there were one or two problems, but I thought it was basically a caretaking job in a beautiful house. But unfortunately it isn’t.’

  As the Archdeacon’s wife went off to look after lunch, my mobile telephone rang. It was Victoria. Her father had been coaching the other Priory residents at croquet. He had not been looking where he was going and he had tripped over his mallet. The gardeners called an ambulance and he had been taken to hospital. Victoria was sitting with him in the X-ray department.

  I asked how Sir William was. Not surprisingly, he was very shaken, but he could still walk and nothing appeared to be broken. They wanted to X-ray his ankle as it was possible that he might have a fracture in one of the small bones.

  ‘He’s as stubborn as always,’ pronounced my wife. ‘His foot has swollen up like a ballon, but he was furious that the ladies insisted on stopping the game and calling Matron. He wanted to carry on regardless. He was way ahead of everyone else and you know how he likes to win.’

  ‘Will the hospital want to keep him in overnight?’ I asked ‘After all he is in his late eighties. He was lucky not to break a hip.’

  ‘They don’t seem too worried. I think he’ll be sent back to the Priory, but I’ll stay with him until he gets the final “all-clear”,’ she said. ‘You know, Harry,’ she went on, ‘one of the old dears he was playing with was Canon Blenkensop’s mother. Did you have any idea she was another resident of the Priory?’

  ‘No. No one told me. What’s she like?’

  ‘Rather a nice old biddy. She’s built on a large scale like her son and she can never have been pretty. Also she’s not helped now by the fact that her false teeth don’t fit very well. Daddy says he finds it difficult to hear what she says because she mumbles. But she’s a game old bird. She’s one of the group Daddy’s teaching blackjack to and she says it’s a nice change from canasta. Actually, it was she who insisted on summoning the gardeners and calling the ambulance.’

  ‘Well we owe her a debt of gratitude then …’

  ‘Yes I agree … I thought I’d take her some flowers when I next call in to see Daddy. It would be nice to get to know her. She might have a story or two to tell me about her loathsome son!’

  ‘She probably thinks he’s wonderful in every particular. Mothers are often unrealistic,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Yes …,’ remarked Victoria dryly, ‘if I remember rightly, your mother had some very peculiar illusions about you!’

  As the nights drew in, it was the custom for the cathedral to turn on its floodlights. The great building was lit from six o’clock until midnight. I have always thought that floodlighting
was the great twentieth-century contribution to architecture. High above the town, the towers of the cathedral looked magnificent floating in a golden glow against the blackness of the night. Close to, the play of light and shadows was overpowering and I loved to see the illuminated cathedral from the windows of the Provost’s House. However, during the last week of November, for no reason that I could discover, the lights were turned off at ten o’clock. Puzzled by this change, I went over to the office of the Clerk of Works.

  ‘What happened to the floodlights, George?’ I asked. ‘Why are they suddenly being turned off at ten o’clock?’

  ‘It’s Canon Blenkensop’s orders, Sir,’ the Clerk of Works responded. ‘He came into the office last week and told me that from now on the lights must be out by ten. I thought it was a decision of the Chapter. Didn’t you know about it?’

  ‘I did not,’ I replied, trying not to sound tetchy, ‘and it hasn’t been discussed in a Chapter meeting either …’

  ‘Well what am I to do?’ George Carpenter was understandably upset. He was a young man and had not held his post long.

  ‘Did Canon Blenkensop give you any idea why he wanted the change?’ I asked.

  Carpenter shook his head. ‘No! It was just an order and I thought it came from you.’

  ‘But is there a reason why he might want to turn off the lights so early?’

  The young man shrugged. ‘Well the only thing I can think … I did hear that he and Mrs Blenkensop have changed their bedroom. They now sleep at the front of the house. Perhaps the floodlighting kept them awake at night …’