by AnonYMous
Magnus stretched himself out. ‘Did you say something about coffee?’ he asked, ‘And perhaps a few bikkies?’
I went off to the kitchen and returned with two mugs of coffee and a box of shortbread biscuits. Magnus helped himself to three and began dipping them into his coffee. He smiled like a snake. ‘Good, isn’t it!’ he remarked.
‘Magnus,’ I said, re-reading the article, ‘it’s frightful! If the reporter has got it right, then the Funding Council consultants fully endorse the Quality Control team’s criticisms of St Sebastian’s. Its lack of coherent procedure is a serious weakness. The Registry has failed to keep adequate records for a considerable period of time. There has been no systematic financial planning. Many degree courses have never been validated. The Senior Management team has no comprehension of standard good management practice and is out of touch with both the Council and Senate. The personnel department has no appreciation of staff needs and fails to provide adequate support … It’s a disaster from first to last.’
‘I’ve been saying all that for years,’ Magnus commented. ‘No one ever listened to me, but they’ll have to do something now …’
I was surprised to find no mention of the previous Vice-Chancellor in the article. After all, the current crisis was largely his fault. ‘Why didn’t they say anything about Flanagan, d’you think?’ I asked.
‘Because he had the very good sense to jump ship before all his sins were uncovered. He was safely ensconced in the House of Lords by the time both the Quality Control inspectors and the Funding Council consultants started poking around.’
‘It doesn’t seem fair,’ I said. ‘Still, Felix was quite right. He said those consultants were like ferrets. It’s clear nothing got past them.’
Magnus giggled. ‘Sometimes there is a particular satisfaction in being right,’ he said. ‘I always knew St Sebastian’s was a corrupt place. Look how they treated you! Look how they treated me, for that matter! It’s nice to see them get their just desserts!’
I was suspicious. ‘Look, is there something you’re not telling me?’ Magnus looked at me slyly over his spectacles. ‘Did you have anything to do with leaking the report?’
‘Me?’ He was all innocence.
I tried to look stern. ‘Come on, you’d better tell me …’
Magnus scattered crumbs over the carpet as he explained what had happened. ‘I wanted to photocopy several pages from a Hebrew grammar for my class,’ he said, ‘but that wretched woman Jenny Sloth was hogging the photocopier. She was reproducing something confidential for Council and she told me very rudely that I’d have to come back later. So I, obedient and anxious to please as ever, went away. But when I returned twenty minutes later, I found that she’d left the original document still in the tray …’
He took a sip of his coffee and drew breath. ‘Well, what would you do?’ he asked. ‘As soon as I saw that it was the consultants’ draft report, the temptation was irresistible. Of course, I couldn’t actually steal it … I’m a friend of the Provost of St Sebastian’s cathedral and the padre at school taught us that theft is very wrong. But to use the photocopier to create my own personal copy was the work of a moment … and then I replaced the original where I found it in the tray. I got away just in time. As I turned the corner, I heard the silly woman come out of her room to go back to the machine. I’m sure she was very reassured to find it still there!’
‘Well, you can imagine how thrilled I was when I read it. It was everything I’ve always been saying! Tremendous stuff from soup to nuts! Nobody knew what I’d done. I was completely safe. After I had relished every sentence, I wiped off all the fingerprints with my handkerchief, put it in a white envelope and dusted that off. I typed the address so no one would recognise my handwriting and I sent it off anonymously to the Times Higher Ed …. So here we are! Front page news! Rather explosive isn’t it?’
‘Really, Magnus. It wasn’t very responsible. This is going to do the university a lot of damage. And after all, it’s only a draft report. They may have nicer things to say in the final document when they make their recommendations.’
‘Now come on Harry,’ Magnus was unrepentant. ‘I know you’re a clergyman, but there’s no need to be stuffy. In the first place, St Sebastian’s deserves it. Sloth and that wife of his should have been put out to grass years ago. And secondly, you know as well as I do that if I hadn’t leaked the report, someone else on the Council would have done so. It was only a matter of time …’
Later in the day I had a phone call from Penelope Ransome. She sounded desperate. ‘Harry,’ she said. ‘There’s a ghastly article in the Times Higher Ed. today. It quotes the Funding Council’s draft report and says that the university management is incompetent and should be removed. Sloth summoned me to his office. He’s certain that I sent it to the newspaper because we’ve been complaining to him about the redundancy committee. I told him I didn’t know anything about it.’
‘Are you on Council?’ I asked. ‘How does he think you got hold of the report?’
‘He can’t think! You know that! He suggested that someone who’s on Council leaked it to me and then I contacted the journalists. It’s completely untrue. I didn’t even know the consultants had finished at the university and the article is the first I knew of the report.’
‘I don’t think you’ve anything to worry about,’ I said. ‘If you didn’t leak the document, then there’s no way he can prove that you did.’
‘But he doesn’t accept my word for it. He can get my user-name and password from the Computing department and he’s going to read all my emails. He’s on a fishing expedition and he insists that he has the right to do this.’
‘Well obviously that’s a disgrace. Your emails are private to you and your correspondents, but if you haven’t spoken to journalists, there’s still not a problem.’
Penelope’s voice became increasingly shrill on the other end of the telephone. ‘There is, Harry. I wasn’t responsible for this leak, I promise you. And I have no idea who was. But as president of the local union, I’ve sent out confidential emails to members all year. And I’ve received confidential emails back. There’s been lots of correspondence about Sloth and his awful wife. And now he can read everything.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I can see that it’s embarrassing, but being rude about one’s employer is not an illegal act. Even if you said something positively libellous, you’ll always have the defence of truth. So there’s nothing he can do about it.’
‘I don’t trust him. He’s a vindictive bastard.’
I was curious. ‘Penelope, does he really have the right to do this? You haven’t committed a crime. I shouldn’t think you’re a terrorist. I’d be surprised if you were part of a giant paedophiliac network. Can he really get into your emails just because he suspects you of speaking to a journalist?’
She sounded almost tearful. ‘He says the article is putting the university into disrepute. That’s gross misconduct and technically a sacking offence. I phoned Morris just after I left Sloth. He’s preoccupied with a mediation case up in East Anglia, so I didn’t feel he was really concentrating. But he did say that tapping my emails was an illegal violation of my human rights. As Acting Vice-Chancellor, Sloth is only justified in breaking into staff correspondence if there’s a suspicion that they’ve acted illegally. Morris has contacted him informing him of this. But you know what he’s like. It won’t make any difference.’
I tried to be consoling. ‘Sloth himself is in trouble after the Quality Control’s investigation and now the Funding Council’s report. If the article is accurate, he can’t survive much longer. Someone will have to put him out of his misery. So I don’t think you need be too concerned. He has other things to worry about.’
‘But, Harry,’ wailed Penelope, ‘you’ve no idea what I wrote about him on my computer. Among other things, I described him as a bald moron. He won’t like it! Really he won’t!’
The following week, I had a telephone call from Morris O�
�Murphy. He insisted on seeing me urgently within the next few days. I had already committed myself to a talk-dinner at the Acropolis Club on the following Wednesday night. Through the winter and spring, various eminent members gave lectures on their specialist subjects and there was a communal dinner beforehand. The occasion was always pleasant and this time my old friend Charles, the Bishop of Bosworth, was to be in the hot seat. He was going to talk on ‘Whither the Church of England?’ I felt he would probably need all the support he could muster.
Since I was going up to London anyway, I arranged to catch an earlier train and I invited Morris to meet me for tea in the club. We arrived together at the Pall Mall entrance at four o’clock and I ushered him inside. This was not the first time I had entertained him at the Acropolis. Several years previously, when I was having my difficulties at St Sebastian’s, we had had lunch together in the ground floor dining room. Then we had discussed how to save my job. This time we were going to talk about how to save the university.
Morris had made an effort to conform to the rules. At our previous lunch, he had been astonished to discover that the club insisted on a jacket and a tie. Since he had arrived without either, he had had to be kitted out with a selection of leftover garments by the porters. The result was most peculiar. Today there were no problems. He was wearing dark green corduroy trousers, a green tweed sports coat and a natty green and white polka-dot tie. ‘Very elegant, Morris,’ I said smiling.
‘Like the boy scouts,’ he said, ‘you’ve got to be prepared for all eventualities in life!’
We went up the magnificent staircase. It was presided over by a vast portrait of George IV who had been the reigning monarch when the club was founded. As we entered the drawing room, we passed a group of three women, all wearing dog-collars. They were chattering merrily together. ‘Did you see that?’ Morris asked as we sat down. ‘Are they allowed in here?’
‘One of them has to be a member,’ I said.
‘But did you notice that they’re all vicars?’ He was fascinated.
‘They’re like the Vicar of Dibley on the television – only there are three of them! I thought this was a gentlemen’s club …’
‘It was, but recently the members decided to admit ladies as well. After all, Morris, even the Acropolis believes in equal opportunities nowadays!’
‘Bugger me! I thought it was just a working men’s club, only posh!’ The waiter arrived to take our order. We asked for cups of tea and four toasted tea cakes. I thought Morris could probably eat three.
Almost before the attendant had left, he had reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a crumpled document. ‘This is what I wanted to talk to you about,’ he said.
‘I hate to tell you this,’ I said. ‘But we can’t look at any papers while we eat.’
‘What?’
‘It’s a club regulation.’
Morris looked around the room. ‘This place is a madhouse,’ he said. ‘You have to wear a jacket and a tie. You can’t look at documents when you eat. They won’t allow mobile telephones anywhere. The members fall asleep on the sofas. Some of them have probably been dead for a couple of days, but everyone is too polite to mention it. There are gaggles of lady-vicars nattering together and the place is haunted by a cat who takes the best chair.’ He sighed and put the papers back in his pocket.
Looking around the beautiful room, which was decorated in the original 1830s colour-scheme, I could see what he meant. The scene was very much as he described it. I had not noticed the cat, but he was indeed asleep on a large padded sofa next to a bust of Spinoza. According to the annual report, the club employed him to keep the mice down in the kitchens and cellars. Not surprisingly, he preferred the conviviality of upstairs. Some of the chairs were very comfortable.
Morris had positioned himself near the window overlooking Pall Mall. ‘Look, Harry,’ he said, ‘I don’t want to break any of the sacred club rules, but do you think you might be able to read the material I brought if you hid it behind a newspaper?’
‘I’ll look at it as soon as we’ve eaten our tea cakes,’ I promised.
Morris rolled his eyes. ‘Damn strangest place I’ve ever been in!’ he pronounced.
Despite his complaints, Morris was enjoying himself. He drank three cups of tea and he commended the tea cakes. ‘I like them swimming in butter,’ he said. ‘These are excellent!’ I wondered if I should order another, but he was anxious to show me his document.
It turned out to be a further instalment of the paper Morris had shown me when he had stayed at the Provost’s House. This time the barrister went further. It was entitled: ‘Injunction against St Sebastian’s University’ and it ran to eight pages. There was no doubt that Sloth had seriously bungled the whole redundancy process. One university statute after another had been ignored or violated. On the final page the document concluded: ‘It is clear that the university has carried out the redundancy process in breach of its statutes and has acted ultra vires.’ The whole opinion was signed by one Solomon Shapiro QC, 12 Stone Chambers, Clements Inn.
It took me some time to unravel the impenetrable legal language and to understand the flow of the argument. Mr Shapiro was demonstrating that the university had acted against its own regulations and that therefore the whole process could be halted by an injunction in the High Court. Morris explained that the union was determined to follow this recommendation. This would prevent the Acting Vice-Chancellor continuing on his chosen path. ‘The union’s legal department has already approved taking out the injunction,’ Morris said, ‘and the Executive Committee has authorised it.’
‘How much is all this going to cost?’ I was familiar enough with the law to know that it was very expensive.
‘At least forty thousand pounds. Maybe more. Initially, we’ll seek an interim injunction. But then there has to be a hearing in the High Court. All the barristers have to be paid. These things don’t come cheap.’
‘And the union’s prepared to spend that amount of money on St Sebastians?’ I was amazed.
‘We don’t approve of compulsory redundancy when there are alternatives,’ said Morris sanctimoniously. Then he laughed. ‘Actually, we hope that in the end it won’t be our money. It’ll be the university’s. They’re in the wrong and that means they’ll have to pay our costs. And this is just the beginning. If they’re stupid enough to contest it in the High Court – and I wouldn’t put anything past Sloth – the bill could run to hundreds of thousands of pounds.’
These sums of money made me nervous. ‘Is the union certain it will win?’ I asked.
‘Well you can never be absolutely sure. Our lawyers are pretty positive. There’s no doubt Sloth has made every mistake in the book, but there’s no certainity in this business. Sometimes you can come up against a rogue judge … but the odds are very much in our favour.’
I felt out of my depth. ‘Why are you telling me all this, Morris?’
‘Because you’re the university Visitor. It’s hard to believe it when you think of the situation you were in a few years ago. But now you’re a person of influence. We want you to tell Sloth not to challenge the action … or, better still, to draw back even before we go to the High Court.’
I took a deep breath. ‘Morris, I don’t think you understand. I’m the Visitor. That means I’m a sort of neutral eminence grise. I’m not even on the Council and this ultimately must be a Council decision …’
‘Oh come on Harry,’ Morris was impatient, ‘you know as well as I do that the St Sebastian’s Council has just been a rubber stamp for years. It got into the habit of doing whatever Flanagan told it. And it’ll do the same for Sloth. That’s why we need you to talk to him.’
It was an accurate assessment of the situation. I sighed. ‘What exactly is going to be my task?’ I asked.
Morris leaned forward in his seat. ‘It’s crazy, but the injunction will have to be served within the next few days. Sloth is determined to make at least ten people redundant even before the Funding Council
consultants issue their final report. So we’ve got to get in there first. It’s idiotic to sack people before the long-term plans for the university are known.’
I could see what he meant. It would be characteristic of Sloth to destroy the very departments which the Funding Council was in fact prepared to finance.
‘St Sebastian’s would also be mad to embark on a lengthy legal battle. But you know what Sloth is like. He never listens to reason. He won’t even understand how much it’s going to cost and if we try to tell him, he’ll go to sleep.’
‘I agree he’s very obstinate …,’ I began.
‘I know,’ Morris nodded. ‘That’s just the trouble. I’m sure he thinks that it doesn’t matter if he gets into a complicated legal fight with the union. If he understands it at all, he’s probably decided that if costs are awarded against St Sebastian’s, the university can find the money by making a few more people redundant. The next thing you know, there’ll be no academics left at all …’
I nodded. The scenario sounded all too probable.
‘So we’re counting on you, Harry,’ Morris continued. ‘You’ve got to pull him back from the brink before it’s too late …’
I felt despondant. I could see that I was not going to have an easy couple of months. Morris, however, had cheered up. As we were talking, he had noticed that the waiters were uncovering the drinks table nearby. He looked longingly towards it. ‘Harry,’ he said, ‘you don’t think we could have a little something from over there. I don’t want to be greedy, but I’ve had a hard day. And all those nuts and olives would be particularly tasty with a small glass of Scotch …’
CHAPTER NINE
Absolute Accuracy is Essential
Holy Week began in the first week of April. I was always glad to see Lent coming to an end. I do not have the temperament for penetential gloom – although I am well aware that there are plenty of things I should be gloomy and penetential about. Consequently, Palm Sunday always felt like the light at the end of the tunnel. To add to my relief, the Precentor had chosen a good mixture of traditional and modern hymns and anthems, all of which were appropriate to the festival.