The Campus Trilogy

by AnonYMous

  Victoria could never resist telling a story. She was a good mimic and she acted out the different voices. ‘Well …,’ she said. ‘I was doing some shopping in Marks & Spencer and I felt that I’d earned a cup of coffee. Normally, it’s a place I avoid because I invariably run into one of the Holy Dusters and have to embark on a long conversation about the academic progress and health of their various grandchildren. ‘And how is young Justin getting along… Really? … Top in his common entrance exam, was he? … You must feel proud. And how is young Melinda’s glandular fever? … Oh I’m so glad to hear that … And you’ve just heard that she got three grade ‘A’s in her mock A-levels tests … How splendid! … And where is she planning to go to university?’ I can’t imagine why these ladies think I should be interested, but “noblesse oblige” … I do know my duty as Mrs Provost!’

  ‘Anyway, I was so tired, I thought I’d risk it. Well the café was very full and after I had collected my cappuccino and biscuit, I looked round for somewhere to sit. I swear to you that the only free place was at a table for two and sitting in the other seat was Maureen Pilkington!’

  We both laughed. Maureen Pilkington was the wife of John Pilkington, who was now dean at the university. Neither Victoria nor I had had much to do with Maureen, who was exactly as one would expect the wife of John Pilkington to be. However, we had dutifully attended her annual theology staff party and Victoria had been merciless afterwards about her ideas of food and interior decoration.

  ‘Well …,’ continued Victoria, ‘when I saw the situation, I nearly abandoned my tray and fled the shop there and then. But then I thought that I had paid much too much money for my coffee and I was jolly well going to drink it, Maureen Pilkington or no Maureen Pilkington. So I sat down opposite her. And I have to say she was extremely pleasant and welcoming.’

  ‘She wanted to tell me all about John. Apparently he’s been recruited to manufacture the paperwork for all the new degrees that Flanagan set up. Basically, it’s to deceive the Quality Control People.’

  ‘Surely she didn’t approve of this?’ I asked. The Pilkingtons were devout Methodists and even their worst enemies would acknowledge their show of upright integrity.

  Victoria smiled. ‘She didn’t know what to think. She kept saying, “It’s very shocking isn’t it, Victoria, that things have come to this.” But she was more like a naughty child, enjoying it all vicariously. Apparently John is astonished by the mess he’s found. He couldn’t believe the chaos in the Registrar’s office. Maureen said that she wasn’t in the least surprised. She’d never thought much of Robert Sloth. She said he was lazy and slipshod. She clearly believed that John would have been a far better Registrar and should now be the Acting Vice-Chancellor.’

  ‘I have some sympathy with that position,’ I commented. ‘It would be hard to be more hopeless than either of the Sloths. They really are in a class of their own.’

  ‘Anyway,’ continued Victoria, ‘she now seems to think that I am a person of influence, as I am married to the university Visitor, and she was anxious to tell me how clever John is being. Apparently when John saw the shambles, he took over completely. Maureen said that one of the major problems was that no-one had ever arranged for external examiners to be appointed for the new degree courses. Flanagan said it wasn’t important and Sloth never got around to doing it. But the difficulty is that the Quality Control people have to fail the university unless an infallible system of externals is in place.’

  ‘So what is John doing about it?’ I asked.

  ‘Maureen told me that he had no choice. She flushed bright pink and said, “You’ll think it very dreadful of him Victoria, but he really had no alternative.” He’s made up a series of names for examiners who do not exist and has manufactured their reports for the last five years!’

  I shook my head. ‘I was afraid they might do that,’ I said. ‘It’s both dishonest and dangerous.’

  ‘That’s not the worst of it,’ Victoria was overcome with mirth. ‘Maureen didn’t see that it’s funny. She thought John was merely being bold and creative, but it turns out that that man has a whimsical subconscious worthy of Dickens!’

  ‘John Pilkington?’ I was astonished. ‘He’s about as whimsical as Marmaduke. What on earth has he been doing?’

  ‘Honestly,’ said Victoria, ‘Maureen told me the names that Pilkington has made up. He’s obviously put down the first thing that came into his head. I wrote them down so I could tell you. I didn’t want to forget.’

  She picked up her diary which was lying beside the bed. ‘Let’s see,’ she said. ‘The external examiner for the Dance department is a Professor Lightfoot. He has served for the past seven years, but for the last two they have also brought in a Dr Beryl Glitter. She specialises in the Artistic Dance division. Then they have a Dr Driver who checks the standards for the diploma in Professional Golf and his assistant, who managed all by herself last year, is one Ms Penelope Puttick. Then you’ll be interested to know that for the last two years a Dr Small-Beer has guaranteed the standards of the Brewing Technology department and, at the same time, Professor Stella Starr was appointed to look after Celebrity Studies. Then, as a piéce de resistence, the supremo for the licence in Catering is a Dr Morris Eatwell and the Drama department is examined by Professor William Playright.’

  I was astounded. ‘But they’ll never get away with it!’

  ‘That’s what I told Maureen.’

  ‘And what did she say?’

  ‘She didn’t understand what I was talking about. Neither she nor John saw the intrinsic improbability of every examiner having a name appropriate to the subject. When I pointed it out to her, she wasn’t a happy bunny …’

  ‘So what are they going to do about it?’ I asked.

  ‘There’s nothing that can be done now. They submitted all the papers to the inspectors at the beginning of last week.’

  ‘You’re not making this up?’

  ‘Really, Harry, that’s what she told me.’

  ‘But it’s asking for trouble. All the Quality Control people have to do is check to see if these people exist. What’s Pilkington thinking about?’

  ‘I don’t know Harry. But there’s nothing that can be done about it now. It’s too late. Perhaps the inspectors won’t notice. Maureen said they’ve given them piles and piles of documents. Perhaps all those ridiculous names will be lost in the morass. After all, the inspectors will only be at the university for a week.’

  I gave a sigh. ‘We can only hope …,’ I said.

  As soon as we returned to St Sebastian’s from our weekend away, it was time for Victoria to think about her class in the Provost’s House. As Flanagan had predicted, all the old ladies of the precincts and beyond had signed up for the course and on the first Tuesday evening more than eighty people crowded into the drawing room. We had to borrow some stacking chairs from the cathedral. Victoria was planning to talk about a different subject each week. She started off with antique snuff boxes and she gathered together some examples of our own to illustrate the lecture. She had also prepared a set of slides.

  We were rather touched that Sir William insisted on coming. He said that he had never heard Victoria speak in public and he was interested in what she had to say. On his own initiative, he hired a taxi and Mrs Mackenzie, Mrs Germaney and old Mrs Blenkensop accompanied him. It was not very easy conveying them all up the stairs, but with the aid of other members of the audience, the task was accomplished. All four old people enjoyed themselves hugely. ‘Jolly good show!’ was Sir William’s verdict on the proceedings when we said good-bye to them all at nine o’clock. ‘We’ll be back next week!’

  The weather took a turn for the worse in February. By the date of the inspection, the Green Court was covered in a thick coating of snow. As usual, the British railway system failed to rise to the occasion. Our guests were due to arrive in the city by five o’clock. This would give them plenty of time to settle themselves in the White Hart Hotel, freshen themselves up and be at
the Provost’s House at half past seven. In the event, it was rather more complicated.

  Emma Glass had appeared early in the afternoon accompanied by Felix who was burdened with an enormous bag of groceries. She began preparations immediately. Meanwhile, Felix read quietly in my study and helped out whenever he was called. Several students on the university catering degree turned up at half-past-five and, under Emma and Victoria’s supervision, helped lay the table and arrange the flowers. I was pleased to see that my wife had chosen to use my grandmother’s dinner service. It had been her parents’ wedding present. It had been specially commissioned from the Royal Worcester factory and was elaborately painted and gilded after the fashion of the time. The classical proportions of the dining room suited it perfectly.

  The Sloths arrived early. Unusually, the now Acting Vice-Chancellor looked wide-awake. He quivered like an anxious hamster. We settled him down in the drawing room with a weak whisky and soda to steady his nerves. Jenny looked her usual complacent self. She wore a printed silk dress in an unfortunate combination of colours. Pinned to her shoulder was a large amethyst brooch. It looked as if it had once beonged to a particularly dreary old aunt who was in perpetual mourning for one dead relative after another. As soon as the Sloths arrived, Emma Glass joined us from the kitchen. ‘Everything’s under control!’ she said.

  A good quarter of an hour passed before a taxi swooped into the Green Court and stopped outside the house. I opened the front door before our guests could ring the bell and I urged everyone to come in from the cold. The head of the team was an Oxford don, Harold Ewing, a Professor of Jurisprudence whom I had once met at a talk-dinner at the Acropolis Club. He was very affable, pretended that he remembered me and introduced me to the other members of the team. The next one through the front door was a Dr Hermione Fairweather from the University of Wessex. Her speciality was French Literature and Philosophy. She was followed by a Mr Brian Senior who was a partner in a large Cambridge accountancy firm. And last, but not least, was a Miss (‘Not Ms!’ as she was determined to inform me) Dorothy Upton. For many years Miss Upton had been Senior Copy-Editor at Oxford University Press, but was now Reader in Information Retrieval at the University of Brambletye.

  After shaking hands, Victoria led them upstairs into the drawing room and urged them to warm themselves by the fire. Everyone was introduced. We were served drinks by two good-looking student waiters who also passed around the most delicious home-made canapés. Yet again, Flanagan had been right. Good food and drink does make a difference and very quickly everyone relaxed.

  Professor Ewing sat on the sofa with Dr Fairweather beside him. She downed her drink in a couple of gulps and had no hesitation in demanding another. ‘Ghastly journey,’ she said. ‘It took two-and-a-half hours from London. The excuse was snow on the line. I ask you! What do they expect in weather like this?’ She reached in her handbag and took out an ebony cigarette holder and a packet of Camel cigarettes. ‘Mind if I have a smoke?’ she asked. I did, but did not feel it would be polite to say so. One of the waiters quickly produced an ash tray and a lighter. Engulfed in cigarette smoke she told us that she was half way through a book on Voltaire, but that her duties as an inspector had interrupted her research. I asked if she had seen Leonard Bernstein’s opera Candide. She smirked and said she thought it was a pointless frivolous work. Then she embarked on a long denunciation of the modern musical theatre.

  Brian Senior sat on the opposite side of the room. He had been monopolised by ex-Registrar Sloth who was explaining the problems of modern university administration. I noticed, however, that although he smiled and nodded in the right places, he was far more interested in the handsome young serving staff. His eyes followed them around the room and he summoned one in particular more often than was strictly necessary. Meanwhile, the fourth of our visitors was chatting to Felix Glass and Jenny Sloth. Dorothy Upton was a compact little woman in her late fifties. Her hair was grey and looked as if it had been cut round a pudding-basin. She had a high-pitched giggle, very dark eyes and delightful dimples in her cheeks. I thought how pleasant she looked until Felix showed her the coming menu. She balanced her glasses on the end of her nose and read it with the most intense attention. I realised that underneath the frivolous exterior, she was formidable.

  At eight o’clock exactly, one of the waiters struck a gong and announced ‘Dinner is Served!’ We all got to our feet and clattered downstairs to the dining room.

  Victoria indicated where everyone was to sit. She took one end of the table and I the other. Once we had found our places, I said a short Latin grace. I sat between Dr Fairweather and Miss Upton. Victoria had Professor Ewing and Brian Senior. The Sloths and the Glasses fitted in-between. The first course was a marvellous parsnip concoction, more purée than soup. It was feathered with cream and was accompanied by tiny twists of hot French bread and a very dry sherry.

  Throughout, Hermione Fairweather told me about the conference she had attended in Paris during the winter vacation. She had given a paper on the influence of Voltaire on Foucault (or it could have been the other way round). This was to be published in an avant-garde journal of linguistics. I then asked her about her current research. She moaned and said she had just applied for a grant from the Arts and Humanities Research Council. If she were awarded it, she could spend six months in France and escape from her present ‘crushing teaching load’. I felt it more tactful not to ask precisely how many hours a week she did in fact devote to her students.

  While she droned on, I could hear at the other end of the table Sloth telling Professor Ewing about the recent changes at St Sebastian’s. He explained that Flanagan had just been elevated to the House of Lords and that he was currently taking his place as Acting Vice-Chancellor. ‘I’m afraid you may find us rather at sixes and sevens, but I hope everything will be satisfactory.’

  ‘Well you’ve certainly sent us plenty of literature to look at!’ said Harold Ewing as he took another sip of his Tio Pépé.

  The main course consisted of a succulent Boeuf Daube which was accompanied by a magnificent selection of vegetables and potatoes. It was unbelievably rich and winey and French. Victoria’s brother Billy had sent a case of Mouton Rothschild for Christmas, and earlier I had opened several bottles. This was poured from a couple of wine decanters that I had been given as a leaving gift from Sweetpea College. When there was a break in Ms Fairweather’s disquisition, I turned my attention to Miss Upton.

  She was enjoying herself. She ate the food with relish and she started telling me about her time at the university press. She was very amusing about the personalities involved. However, we were interrupted by Harold Ewing asking me how St Sebastian’s University had changed since my retirement.

  Before I could speak, Sloth intervened. ‘Harry’s only been gone three years, but the university has altered enormously. We’ve modernised. I think I can say with confidence that we’re now the most progressive liberal arts institution in the British Isles.’ I looked at Felix who took a deep breath. Sloth was not to be hushed. ‘We offer a whole array of new subjects which are all proving very popular. You’ll find all the information in the papers we sent you.’

  Harold Ewing turned to Felix. He looked puzzled. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I saw that you are the Head of the Entertainment Faculty and that you have an established Chair. Is it true that you are the Immanuel Kant Professor of Entertainment? I thought it might be a misprint.’

  Felix was embarrassed. ‘I wish it were. As it happens I am a philosopher and I’d like to be able to say that I am the Immanuel Kant Professor of Epistemology. But alas, although I am allowed to teach Philosophy, it’s the entertainment subjects that I administer.’

  Victoria giggled as Felix went on to explain how he had acquired such an incongruous title. He turned it into a joke, but nonetheless it was obvious that he found the situation galling.

  Dr Fairweather shook her head. ‘Quite unbelievable,’ she said ‘But times change, and I suppose we must change with the
m.’ She looked across at Professor Ewing who nodded. The waiter refilled her glass as she told us about their last inspection. They had to interview film students who were doing a joint project about the history of European pornography. ‘Quite revolting, wasn’t it?’ she said to Professor Ewing.

  ‘Quite,’ he replied. ‘But an inspector has to do what an inspector has to do!’

  There was a short pause after the beef for everyone to digest. To my fury Dr Fairweather insisted on smoking between courses, but at least conversation was lively and animated. Then it was time for the pudding. One of the waiters brought in an exquisite tarte aux poires. Ten halved pears lay downwards in a beautiful yellow custardy syrup, the whole encased in a golden French pastry circle. It was served with thick crème fraîche and the young attendants poured sweet sauterne wine into the waiting dessert glasses. It was a confection fit for angels.

  As if this were not enough, the tarte was followed by a selection of French cheeses with celery and grapes. I have always had the inclination to be tubby and I knew that this dinner was not doing me any good, but it was irresistible. The vintage port which accompanied the cheese had come from the Castle Dormouse cellars. I understood why my father-in-law would only bring it out if he particularly liked the company.

  As we all dallied with the last crumbs, I looked round the table. There was no doubt that every one was having a good time. When I caught Emma Glass’s eye, I slightly raised my glass to her. She was a real artist.

  Then just as we were ready to go back to the drawing room for coffee, Robert Sloth rose unsteadily to his feet. When all was said and done, he was the Acting Vice-Chancellor and he was determined to assert himself in front of our visitors. The candle-light reflected on his bald head. With a slightly drunken expression on his flushed face, he raised his glass.

  ‘You are all very welcome here in St Sebastian’s,’ he said. ‘Very welcome indeed! May our partnership together be as happy and harmonious as this delicious dinner has been! Happy and harmonious!’ he repeated. Professor Ewing bowed across the table in silent acknowledgement.