The Campus Trilogy

by AnonYMous

  I was astounded. ‘But we can’t deprive the whole town of the beauty of the lighted cathedral just to suit one middle-aged couple. It can’t be that …’

  The Clerk of Works shrugged again. ‘I’m sorry, Sir. I really don’t know. I just do what I’m told,’ he said.

  There was nothing for it. I had to go and tackle Blenkensop himself. Full of righteous indignation. I went over to the Diocesan Office next to the Trinity Gate. Marmaduke was sitting on the doorstep washing himself and I had to step around him to get through the door. A secretary told me that Canon Blenkensop was in and suggested that I go straight up. His office was on the second floor.

  When I knocked on his door, the Canon was standing looking out of the window smoking a pipe. As I entered the room, I was overwhelmed by the view of the west front of the cathedral. The office itself was comfortable, furnished with solid Victorian mahogany furniture from another age. On the walls were engravings in gold frames as well as several photographs of old rugby teams. I did not look at them closely, but no doubt they represented Reg Blenkensop’s moments of glory when he was part of the Oxford University Rugby squad.

  ‘Oh, it’s you Provost,’ Blenkensop’s greeting was not exactly welcoming. He did not invite me to sit down, but I made my way over to the nearest armchair anyway. I was determined that this should be a civilised conversation.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, Reg. But I did want to speak to you about an important matter.’ Blenkensop made no response and continued to loom over me. ‘It’s about the floodlighting,’ I said.

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’ he asked truculently.

  ‘Nothing’s wrong with it. It works excellently and adds immeasurably to the beauty of the precincts at night. That’s just the point. I understand from the Clerk of Works that you’ve given instructions for it to be turned off two hours earlier than usual and I’ve come to ask the reason why.’

  ‘Four hours is quite long enough.’

  ‘But I understand that they have always been on from six to twelve. You can’t just make a unilateral decision like this. It must be discussed in Chapter and there must be a proper vote.’

  Blenkensop continued to puff on his pipe. I found the smokey atmosphere very disagreeable, but I did not feel that this was the moment to discuss the Chapter’s ‘No Smoking’ rules. Therefore I waited for an answer in silence.

  Eventually, it came. Blenkensop frowned and knocked his pipe violently into an ash-tray. ‘Look, Provost,’ he said, ‘perhaps you’re not aware that I happen to be the Canon-Treasurer of the cathedral. It’s my responsibility to allocate costs and the floodlighting represents a sizeable expenditure. We simply can’t afford it. So I took the decision to cut it for two hours every night.’

  I was not going to put up with this. I smiled pleasantly. ‘Oh if it’s just a matter of money,’ I said, ‘you needn’t worry about that.’ I settled myself in the chair. ‘Victoria’s very good at fund-raising. Alf Flanagan has persuaded her to teach a course on Art and Antiques for the university. It’s going to take place every Tuesday evening for ten weeks in the Provost’s House, starting in January and the enrolment already stands at sixty. She’s refused the usual fee for herself and was looking for some good cause to donate the money to. She loves the floodlighting and would be delighted to foot the bill for the extra two hours. You must let me see the breakdown of costs. If her course doesn’t raise enough for the year, then she’ll launch a separate appeal for the remainder amongst the ladies of the town.’

  Reg Blenkensop went purple in the face. ‘I don’t want any interference from your wife,’ he said.

  I continued to smile nicely. ‘Please sit down Reg. It’s awkward to have a conversation on two levels, isn’t it? You mean we don’t accept donations? How unusual! We must be the only cathedral in England that doesn’t. And if we don’t need to, then surely we can afford the extra two hours of floodlighting?’

  Blenkensop looked ready to murder me. ‘It’s nothing to do with the money,’ he growled.

  I looked puzzled. ‘Oh I’m sorry; I misunderstood. I thought we couldn’t have the floodlights on because it is too expensive. Is there another reason then?’

  Blenkensop hesitated. ‘Not really.’

  ‘Fine,’ I cut in. ‘Then I shall tell George Carpenter to go back to the original schedule. I’m glad we’ve got that sorted out so easily. Now you must excuse me. I have an appointment at three …’ And with that I rose from my seat and left the room. I closed the door quietly behind me, feeling rather pleased with myself.

  As I descended the stairs, I came face to face with the secretary. She was carrying a neatly laid tray with a cup of coffee and a large plate of chocolate digestive biscuits. Reg Blenkensop clearly needed regular nourishment. I hoped the biscuits would sweeten his temper.

  The next day Felix invited me to come round for a drink before dinner. He said he had more worries about the university. I walked to his house. He and his wife Emma lived in an elegant Victorian double-fronted villa near the precincts. They were probably quite comfortably-off since Emma was a food journalist for the BBC. She was also generally acknowledged to be the best cook at St Sebastian’s.

  She opened the door to me. ‘Hello, Harry,’ she said. ‘I’m in the middle of rather a tricky soufflé recipe, so you must excuse me. Felix is waiting for you in his study.’ She hurried off into the kitchen.

  Felix was sitting in an armchair besides a pretty Regency table which was littered with papers. In the middle was a decanter with two glasses and a bowl of cheese straws. He motioned for me to sit down on a small sofa and poured me out some sherry.

  ‘Thanks for coming over,’ he said in an exasperated tone. ‘It’s very good of you; I know how busy you must be, but I really don’t know what to do. Flanagan wasn’t joking when he said that Sloth and his wife were fixing things up for the Higher Education Quality Control inspection. But they’ve made everything far, far worse.’

  I sipped at my sherry and nibbled a cheese straw. It was homemade and was completely delicious. Felix picked up a document in a shiny plastic folder and sighed. ‘These are supposed to be the Entertainment Faculty minutes. Of course we do keep minutes, but we haven’t done all the things which we should have done as far as student assessment is concerned. So Sloth has been doctoring the original documents adding extra sentences here and there to deceive the inspectors.’

  ‘That sounds appalling,’ I said. ‘But Flanagan seems to think you’ll get away with it, so it’s not a disaster.’

  ‘Yes it is,’ said Felix. ‘The additions bear all the marks of Mrs Sloth. You know how she gets everything wrong. She can’t even copy out the original material correctly. She’s spelt all the names wrong and she’s missed out words here and there so most of the sentences don’t even make sense. Then she’s managed to lose the minutes of three of the meetings altogether and the extra bits she’s invented all refer to the wrong dates. Honestly her efforts wouldn’t deceive a child …’

  I stopped him mid-flow. ‘Felix, I can’t know about this. I’m the Visitor to the university. I can’t be party to what is in effect a fraud.’

  ‘But what am I to do?’ wailed Felix.

  ‘Discuss it with Sloth. Show him the doctored documents. Point out all the mistakes. Insist that they’re all done again,’ I said.

  ‘It won’t do any good. He just goes to sleep.’

  ‘Then tell Flanagan.’

  ‘He won’t listen. You know he won’t!’

  ‘What are you asking me to do?’ I asked.

  Felix was clear ‘I’m asking you for advice as a former colleague and as a friend. We’re in trouble. The university is in danger. We could all lose our jobs!’

  I took a deep breath. ‘All right. This conversation has not happened. I won’t discuss the matter again and I’m only going to make one suggestion. Have you thought of bringing in Pilkington?’

  John Pilkington, former head of the Theology department, and now the university Dean, was a dour, na
rrow-minded man, who had never been a friend to either Felix or me.

  ‘Pilkington?’ Felix was astonished.

  ‘He wants to keep his job as much as anyone and when I was at the university, I never noticed he was particularly scrupulous about telling the truth. But when all’s said and done, he is efficient and meticulous.’

  ‘You mean he could produce credible documents that show all that the Quality Control people want them to show …?’

  ‘I don’t want to know anything about it,’ I said again.

  Felix smiled. ‘Well it’s certainly an idea. You can’t imagine his forgeries being full of inaccuracies,’ he said.

  Advent Sunday, the start of the Christian calendar, fell on December 1st that year. It was the time when all Christian people should examine their consciences in preparation for the great Christmas celebration of the First Coming and in awesome contemplation of the Final Judgement. Despite the solemnity of the season, relations had not improved in the precincts. Blenkensop had literally stopped speaking to me. Canon Sinclair, the Archdeacon and young Derek Trend continued to be civil, but I was aware they were all frightened of Reg and were careful not to be too friendly in front of him. Only the Precentor seemed happy.

  As a result of my intervention, he had introduced a whole range of modern pieces into the musical repertory. One dischordant anthem followed another. We sang hymns with familiar words, which had been reset to strange melodies and the organ voluntaries at the end of services seemed to have no tune at all. The congregation was beginning to grumble and even members of the choir, most of whom seemed to like the Precentor, started to be restive.

  The situation came to a climax on Advent Sunday itself. From year to year, everyone looked forward to the traditional old Advent hymns, ‘On Jordan’s Bank the Baptist’s Cry’ and ‘Oh Come, Oh Come Emmanuel’. There was to be nothing like that in St Sebastian’s Cathedral. Instead we had one hymn based on African rhythms and harmonies and another which had enjoyed its first performance only a year ago and was by an avant-garde Czech composer. The anthem was also unlistenable. Blenkensop smirked throughout the service and I realised that something had to be done.

  I invited the Precentor for a pre-luncheon glass of sherry in the Provost’s House and ventured to tackle the subject. ‘You see, Percival, people like the old tunes. Of course I don’t want the choir to have to sing nothing but Handel and Elgar, but there is a happy medium.’

  ‘You mean you want traditional carol services – “Once in Royal David’s City”, “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” and an extract from the “Messiah”?’ asked the Precentor sarcastically.

  I took the question seriously. ‘Yes, I’m afraid I do. People expect it. It’s one of the reasons they come to church. It’s all part of childhood and being English and sharing a common heritage in the Anglican Communion. I hope you’ll continue to introduce some new music. It’s good for all of us and things can’t stand still or they stagnate.’ I suddenly remembered that Alf Flanagan had said something like that to me when he was explaining the virtues of Brewing Technology. I dragged my mind back to the situation in hand. ‘But we mustn’t forget the traditions from which we’ve come. People miss the old favourites.’

  I tried to speak gently and be understanding, but Precentor Samuel was not to be persuaded. ‘I hoped for better things from you, Provost,’ he said, ‘But of course I will do as you ask.’ He rose to his feet, curtly thanked Victoria for her hospitality and left the house without looking back.

  Victoria shook her head. ‘Dear me …’ she said, ‘The artistic temperament … Well there goes your last friend in the cathedral …’

  To everyone’s relief, Sir William had made a remarkable recovery from his fall. It turned out that he had only twisted his ankle and he accepted Matron’s rebuke that he should be more careful. ‘Not as young as I was!’ was his own verdict. Meanwhile he enjoyed all the fuss the ladies made of him. Mrs Mackenzie, Pookie’s owner, lent him a footstool so he could keep his foot up; her friend Mrs Germaney started knitting him a pair of fair-isle socks and old Mrs Blenkensop was willing to play blackjack with him by the hour.

  Best of all, he had got on terms with the gardeners. Victoria described them to me. Apparently, they were terrifying young men with shaved heads, ferocious tattoos and truculent manners. Sir William was more than equal to them. It was not for nothing that he had spent twenty years in the army, training similar thugs. He took an interest in their lives, taught them horticultural techniques and helped them with their various youth employment forms. Soon they were offering to take Bess for walks and were asking the old man about his experiences at the D-Day landings.

  One weekend he had even taken them to a clay-pigeon shoot at a local country hotel. The Priory had arranged a picnic lunch which they ate in the grounds, and Sir William instructed the lads how to handle a gun. They showed considerable talent and were full of admiration at Sir William’s skill. It turned out that both of them had been brought up by lone mothers. There had been occasional, short-lived and unsatisfactory ‘uncles’, but neither of them had known many grown men. They had begun truanting from school at an early age and both of them had been through the dreary cycle of police-arrests, cautions and probation. The job at the Priory was their last chance before prison. It seemed that Sir William was succeeding with them when the whole panoply of the social services had failed.

  A few days after my difficult encounter with the Precentor, the Mandril-Fortescues came down from the Cotswolds to stay with us for a couple of nights. My wife had been to Cambridge and was an acknowleged expert on English antique furniture. Vanessa’s formal education had stopped when she was seventeen and she had subsequently devoted herself to being a good wife and mother. Nonetheless, the two of them were excellent friends. Vanessa could not have been more enthusiastic about the beauties of the Provost’s House and much enjoyed contributing to all the decorating plans.

  I had less in common with James. He had spent his career in the City and had established a small financial consultancy in his retirement. He was a good churchman, however. He deplored all the recent liturgical alterations which had been made in the Church of England and was eagar to tell me about the problems the village was having with their progressive lady-vicar. He also came with me to the cathedral week-day Evensong and I was thankful that the Precentor had accepted my suggestions. We had a couple of traditional Advent hymns and a very acceptable setting to the canticles.

  One interesting piece of information did come out. The Mandril-Fortescue’s younger son, Freddie, had taken his degree at Fandonegal University when Flanagan was Pro-Vice-Chancellor. We did not know the boy well, but I had a dim recollection that he was less academic than his elder brother and sister and that there had been an awkward incident when he was at Marlborough. He was on the outskirts of a drug scandal and he was lucky to escape being expelled. After Fandonegal, he had drifted about and was at present in a temporary job doing some research for a female Member of Parliament. I knew that James and Vanessa were still worried about him.

  However, when he was at Fandonegal, one of his friends was a son of Lord Barridon. At that stage, Barridon was not married to Olive O’Shea; he was still formally attached to his second wife who was a hopeless alcoholic. Addiction ran in the family. The boy, Tristram had been expelled from Eton in his second year and had finished his education at a series of tutorial colleges. By all accounts Barridon had done his best for the child, but it had been an uphill task.

  By the time he reached Fandonegal, he was a veteran of several expensive rehabilitation courses. He had more or less failed his ‘A’ levels and Fandonegal, under Flanagan, had been the only university prepared to accept him. James, who told me the story, was not enthusiastic. ‘All the students seemed to regard Tristram as a bit of a joke. He did no work at all. Lay in bed all day and was obviously still taking drugs. He had much too much money and never bothered to go to any lectures. Freddie said he was hopeless.’

  ‘How did
he manage to graduate?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s just the point,’ said James. ‘The Pro-Vice-Chancellor, O’Flannel, or whatever his name was, took an interest in the boy. He was given chance after chance. I honestly don’t think that if he’d been anyone other than the Honourable Tristram Barridon that they’d have taken so much trouble. On one occasion the Pro-Vice-Chancellor even drove him to the hospital to have his stomach pumped. Anyway he was allowed to do his exams by himself in the university sanitorium and he emerged with a very respectable lower second class degree …’

  ‘Do you think he got it by fair means?’ I asked.

  James laughed and shrugged his shoulders. ‘How should I know? Freddie always maintained that this O’Flannel did the exams for him because he was anxious to keep in with his father …’

  ‘Well Barridon now lives near St Sebastian’s,’ I pointed out, ‘And Flanagan has just given his new young wife a most lucrative job …’

  James and Vanessa returned to Gloucestershire on the Friday and that evening Victoria and I were invited to be guests of honour at the St Sebastian’s Christmas feast. It was a black tie occasion, so I climbed into my ancient dinner jacket, trying to ignore how tight it had become. Victoria looked wonderful. Her dark slenderness was perfectly set off by the wine-red velvet dress and the triple string of pearls she was wearing.

  We found ourselves at eight o’clock in the panelled Great Hall which was decorated with holly and mistletoe. The bizarre, super-life-like portrait of St Sebastian was lit up. Somehow, in the candle-light, it looked better than in the day-time. We were at the top table and I was placed next to Alf Flanagan on one side and Lady Barridon, otherwise known as Olive O’Shea, on the other. Victoria was on the other side of the Vice-Chancellor and had old Lord Barridon on her right.