by AnonYMous
Magnus nodded. ‘She remembered that years ago I said I wanted one.’
‘And did you give her something in return?’ I persisted.
Magnus looked even more uncomfortable. ‘Well … I made a small outlay at an antique jewellery stall …’
I sat down abruptly. ‘Magnus! Are you engaged to Dorothy Upton?’
‘No, No!’ Magnus hastened to reassure me. ‘We agreed that we are both better suited to the single life. But we have decided to renew our friendship …’
‘So what did you give her?’ I asked.
‘I came across a little Victorian brooch which spelled out her name in coloured stones?’
‘What kind of stones?’ I had never heard of such a thing.
‘Oh a diamond for the “d”, an opal for “o”, a ruby for “r”, another opal for the second “o”, then a topaz for the “t”, a hessionite for “h” and a yellow sapphire for “y”.’
‘Good heavens!’ I said. I was impressed. Then I had a sinking thought. ‘Please don’t tell Victoria about this. She’ll want one too. What precious stone begins with a “v”?’
Magnus looked complacent. ‘You know Dorothy said she’s never forgotten me! She makes a point of reading all my book reviews. She says it’s nice that at least there’s still one person in the world who has proper standards!’
‘It sounds like you two are very well suited,’ I observed.
‘She’s a bit less critical now in her old age. I still find it a bit galling that she can do the crossword faster than I can!’
I found this very hard to believe. Magnus invariably polished off the Times puzzle in less than ten minutes. ‘She’s obviously an exceptionally brilliant woman,’ I said.
Magnus nodded ‘Yes, she is! That’s why she likes me! And she always got on very well with my Aunt Ursula,’ he added. ‘She’s agreed to come with me to Norfolk to visit her over the next vacation.’
I thought it was time to change the subject. ‘I have to say, Magnus, your jacket’s a bit tight across the shoulders.’
‘Just a bit snug …’
‘And the cap comes down over your ears.’
‘I wouldn’t want it too tight. It would give me a headache. Anyway, sit down Harry and I’ll get you some coffee.’ Magnus handed over a biscuit tin with a picture of a zebra by George Stubbs on the top. Inside were a few crumbly chocolate digestive biscuits. ‘So,’ he said, ‘you’re here to greet the consultants.’
‘It appears so,’ I agreed. ‘Sloth wants me to make a good first impression and, as he put it, “Say some encouraging words”. Do you know how long they plan to stay?’
‘I understand they’re supposed to make several visits. This is the first. Sloth sent out an email with a list of people they want to see. They’re beginning with all the heads of departments, but it’s going much further than that. It looks like they intend to examine everything.’ Magnus handed me a mug of coffee and sprawled out on his sofa.
‘This mess is all Pilkington’s fault, you know,’ he said. ‘I always knew he was a mindless idiot, but I never cast him as a whistle-blower. But he jumped into this catastrophe with both his big feet. It’s unbelievable!’
‘How is he?’ I asked.
‘No one really knows. I saw Marigold yesterday. She said that John and his wife have gone to stay with Maureen’s sister in the Lake District to recuperate. She runs a bed and breakfast up there and it’s presumably empty at this time of year.’
‘When is he coming back?’ I asked.
‘Well it’s anyone’s guess. Everyone’s heard the story by now so it’ll be very humiliating for him. The rumour is that he’s thinking of changing careers.’
‘Just because of the inspection?’ I asked.
Magnus reached into his tin and took out the remaining biscuits. He started dunking them in his coffee. ‘Apparently John has been talking about training to be a Methodist minister. He’s already a lay-preacher so it wouldn’t take too long.’
‘Things are that bad?’
‘Marigold insisted that she heard Sloth shout at him when she was arranging the taxi for the inspection team. She heard him say that he would make sure Pilkington stopped being Dean.’
‘Sloth shouted?’ I was astonished. ‘Sloth can barely raise his voice from its normal sleepy langor. Are you sure?’
‘That’s what Marigold said!’ Magnus maintained.
‘It wasn’t entirely his fault.’ I was trying to be fair. ‘After all, it was Sloth who should have made sure that external examiners were appointed at the proper time.’
‘Well if it comes to that, the great Lord Flanagan of Fandonegal shouldn’t have forced everyone into introducing all these new courses at such a breakneck speed … Still I’m not going to weep for Pilkington. He’s always been a pain in the neck. In my view, the whole thing serves him right, the stupid clod.’
‘Do you know why John thinks that he’s been called to the ministry? Was it a long-time ambition, do you think?’
Magnus was amused. ‘I think it was more of an instant Damascus Road experience. But instead of the Call of the Lord, it was the Shout of the Sloth.’ Magnus sniggered. Then he looked at me slyly. ‘Now he can be just like you, Harry. Except I believe Methodists wear taller dog-collars!’
I left Magnus’s office at five to eleven. I had to pass the chapel on my way to see Sloth. There was a great deal of unusual bustle in the corridor. Groups of people, all very nicely dressed, were milling around. I could not imagine what was going on until I realised that a wedding was about to begin. I had never seen a gay commitment ceremony and I was curious about this innovation at St Sebastian’s. I tried to look inconspicuous and waited to see what would happen.
I was not disappointed. Accompanied by much camp laughter, the company drifted through the chapel doors and settled themselves in the pews. It was not a big gathering – after all it was a week-day – but everyone looked as if they were enjoying themselves. Then the organ struck up Mendelssohn’s wedding march; there was the sound of shuffling as the congregation rose to its feet and a procession came round the corner.
It was led by a diminutive little black boy carrying a silver cross. It was bigger than he was. Then came the choir; there were ten more small boys, all walking in perfect step, all looking angelic in starched ruffs and surplices. After the choir there were two devastatingly handsome young men. They were both very blond and could have been models for the young Narcissus. Dressed in white shirts and trousers with gold sashes, they were scattering a trail of yellow rose petals. I felt sure that our cleaner Mrs Thomas would not have approved. The two principals came next. They were both in immaculate morning coats with full-blown yellow roses in their button-holes. One was young – not much older than the two narcissi and equally good-looking. The other was older; he was perhaps a little fleshy, but still very well-preserved and prosperous. Both were smiling. To bring up the rear was the celebrant. To my amazement, he was a real-live bishop in full white-and-gold pontificals. He had soft white curly hair and appeared exactly as a bishop should – unworldly, charming and innocent.
I was mesmerised. I did not recognise the bishop and was curious who he was. Given the current homophobic climate in the Church of England, conducting a gay wedding was a brave thing to do. He seemed quite unperturbed. As the little procession turned into the chapel, there was the sound of clapping. Then there was quiet. The Mendelssohn was finished and the organist played an introductory chord. The boyish voices siezed the note and, with a piercing sweetness, they started singing, ‘Somewhere over the Rainbow, Skies are Blue …’
I have to confess that I thought the whole thing delightful, but I did wonder how much it cost. Flanagan’s money-making schemes were incredible. I looked back nostalgically to my own wedding day. It was a somewhat different occasion in the Dormouse Village Church. My father-in-law gave Victoria away. The choir and organist did their not-very-good best and the reception was in the Great Hall of the castle. Even in the middle of July, i
t was bitterly cold and the guests shivered in their summer finery. I had been terrified that Victoria would call it off at the last minute and my predominant memory was my relief that I had finally persuaded her to marry me.
Because of the gay wedding, I was a little late. Sloth was flustered and was waiting by the door when I arrived. Seated around the table in his office were three men in grey suits. Although one was bald and only two wore spectacles, somehow they were indistinguishable. Sloth did his best to introduce us and we all shook hands. Stacked on the table were piles of documents, a laptop computer, a printer, and a digital tape-recorder which was already running. Another chair was hastily pulled up and I sat down.
‘The Provost was previously a professor here in the Theology department,’ Sloth announced. ‘So he knows St Sebastian’s intimately. By virtue of his present office in the cathedral, he’s now acting as the university Visitor.’ The men in suits nodded. Bravely Sloth carried on. ‘I don’t know whether you want to know about the role of the Visitor …’ This suggestion was met with total silence. So, turning to me he smiled. ‘Perhaps you might like to say something about your time here,’ he said.
I cleared my throat. ‘Yes, yes,’ I began, ‘I was here for over ten years …’
‘The Provost made a distinguished contribution to his department. His academic speciality is Christian ethics,’ Sloth interrupted. I thought back to my previous encounters with Sloth in this very room. On those occasions he did his best to ensure my dismissal from the university. I faced one disciplinary procedure after another and he made no secret of the fact that he disliked and despised both me and my academic work. It is strange how circumstances alter memories.
The inspectors listened with a glazed expression as I told them about the various courses I had taught over the years. I struggled to present the university in the most positive light, but I had to admit that things might have changed in the three years I had been away. I tried to be sprightly, but the three grey men could not have looked more bored. Eventually I came to a halt.
‘Thanks so much for that,’ said Sloth. With an anxious expression, he looked at the inspectors. ‘Is there anything you might care to ask the Provost before he leaves us?’ he asked. There was another deathly hush.
‘No questions?’ asked the Acting Vice-Chancellor desperately. Further quiet. ‘Well, in that case, we must say goodbye,’ he said. The three men stood up and we shook hands again.
Sloth walked me to the door and took me outside. He shook his bald head. ‘This is not encouraging, Harry. It hasn’t been an easy morning. I know the Quality Control inspection was a disaster, but at least the inspectors were friendly. This group has hardly said a word. When they arrived, I offered them coffee. They said no. Then I invited them to lunch. They said that they had brought their own sandwiches and would eat them while they worked. They just sit like sphinxes waiting for the heads of department to arrive. They’re due to see each one at half-hourly intervals and tomorrow they’ve scheduled the heads of the faculties. They’re all getting a full hour …’
Sloth wiped his forehead as he voiced his indignation. ‘And they’ve made it clear that they don’t want me to be present while the interviews are taking place. They’re even insisting that everything is tape-recorded. Honestly, it’s as if they don’t trust us!’
I prepared to go. ‘Let me know if I can be of any more help,’ I said.
My erstwhile colleague smiled wanly and told me he’d be in touch if I were needed. ‘Thanks, Harry,’ he said as he walked back towards his office. ‘You’ve been a real trooper!’
The next afternoon I had a frantic telephone call from Felix. He was coughing and sneezing over the line. He asked if he could come to see me straightway. I was due to go to a meeting with the Clerk of Works about a patch of damp which had suddenly appeared in the cathedral crypt, but I told him that I could spare half an hour. A few minutes later he arrived carrying a file bulging with papers. I showed him into my study and he collapsed onto the sofa. ‘You look like you need a drink,’ I said.
‘I’ve got a filthy cold,’ he sniffed. ‘Could I have a large whisky, please?’
I sat opposite in an armchair as Felix blew his nose. ‘Harry,’ he began, ‘the situation’s desperate. I saw the Funding Council Consultants earlier. They met the other two faculty heads this morning and it was my turn this afternoon. It was terrible. They grilled me about our partnerships. I didn’t know what to say. I stressed that all these arrangements were made by Flanagan, and that I had had no choice but to go along with his plans. That didn’t seem to impress them.’
Felix took his handkerchief out of his pocket again. He looked flushed and feverish. ‘I’ve got an awful cold on top of everything,’ he said. ‘Emma thought I should stay in bed, but I told her I had to go to this interview. I really wish I hadn’t …’
‘They have doubts about the partnerships?’ I asked.
‘Not just doubts. They were outraged. Especially about our arrangements with the Florida Pussy Galore College. Honestly, Harry, the whole place is going to close down.’
I tried to be soothing. ‘Felix, you must calm down. It can’t really be as bad as all that,’ I said. ‘What is the Pussy Galore College?’
Felix shuddered. ‘Don’t ask! The university has a partnership with it …’
I realised that I needed to begin at the beginning. ‘Look,’ I said, ‘I don’t really understand how the partnerships work. Explain them to me.’
Felix took a deep breath. ‘It’s a very lucrative scheme of Flanagan’s. The principle is that some Mickey Mouse college goes into partnership with St Sebastian’s. They teach their own students and sometimes they send the students over to us for a term or so. In either case the college pays handsomely for the privilege. The university monitors and examines all the work and the students get a St Sebastian’s degree at the end of it.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’ I asked.
‘Well nothing, if there were a proper system of moderation and examination in place. But, as we all know, there isn’t. But worse still, the university is given a sum of money from the Funding Council for every student it takes onto a degree course.’
‘So it’s not only the Pussy Galore College which pays for these Florida students to get their degrees in Artistic Dance, it’s also the British Funding Council. Is that right?’ I was not sure that I had fully understood.
‘Exactly,’ said Felix. ‘I don’t think the Funding Council had any idea what was going on at St Sebastian’s. They just fired off cheques whenever they were asked. Now they’ve just found out and they’re not amused. The consultants told me that they’re going to shut off all funding for the partnerships immediately. In other words, they’ll all have to be self-supporting if they exist at all.’
I tried to look on the bright side. ‘I’m sure the Pussy Galore College could afford to pay a little more to make up for the loss of Funding Council money.’
Felix was almost in tears. ‘The Pussy Galore College is only the tip of the iceberg. We’ve got scores of partners, obscure missionary seminaries, strange third world teacher-training establishments, dance and drama schools which are barely registered even in their own countries. You name it, we give it degrees. At present we receive more than three million pounds a year from the Funding Council for them all. St Sebastian’s will be crippled without that money.’
‘Surely there are other income streams coming into the university?’ I asked. ‘You aren’t just dependent on these rather shaky partnerships. What about all the normal resident undergraduate and post-graduate students?’
‘Yes we’ll still get money from them … Though of course we’re in trouble with the Quality Control Agency. If we can’t get our assessment procedures right, we won’t be able to give degrees to anybody. But the immediate problem is the Funding Council. If we lose the partnerships’ money, there will be a gigantic hole in the university budget. There will inevitably be job losses and redundancies and who knows what
else …’
‘I’m sure some interim compromise can be sorted out,’ I tried to console him.
‘But that’s not the end of it …’ Felix could not be pacified. ‘These consultants are going to look at everything. They’re complete ferrets. They’re going to discover all the appalling programmes Flanagan set up … I know they won’t approve any of them… No one could … Nothing was done properly … Honestly, it’s a complete disaster …’
He gazed outside through the windows. The sky was grey and rain was falling in heavy drops onto the Green Court. Felix’s expression was anguished and his nose dripped. ‘Harry,’ he said, ‘you’re a senior clergyman. You know all about signs and wonders. Your religious tradition is based on them. There’s only one thing that will save the university now and that is a theological miracle of very substantial proportions!’
Things went quiet at the university. The Funding Council consultants continued to do their work, inspecting, interviewing and listening. Apparently they remained as inscrutable as ever. Meanwhile I was not having an easy time at the cathedral. The damp patch in the crypt proved to be more serious than was first thought and was going to cost a lot of money to put right.
By the Tuesday of the following week, I felt I needed a break. After yet another gloomy session with the Clerk of Works, I slipped out of the precincts and treated myself to a cup of coffee at the Mitre café. It was a charming place. Situated in a mediaeval building next to the Trinity Gate, it had low ceilings and heavy oak beams. The walls were decorated with delicate watercolours of the cathedral, all executed by the two proprietors. Cream and blue linen curtains hung at the windows and the plates and cups were all in the traditional blue willow pattern.
It had been run by Miss Betty and Miss Mildred Monkton for over twenty years. They were regarded as a St Sebastian’s institution with their white hair and blue overalls. I knew them quite well because they were both regular attenders at services as well as dedicated ‘Holy Dusters’ in the cathedral. They could also bake the most delicious sponge cake I have ever tasted.