The Campus Trilogy

by AnonYMous

  It was a particularly busy time in the cathedral. In many ways St Sebastian’s was old-fashioned. Not only did we go through all the offices, but we had the full three hour service on Good Friday with seven meditations on the Words from the Cross. There was also a splendid rendering of Bach’s ‘St Matthew’s Passion’ in the evening, performed by the local choral society with professional soloists. Altogether it was an exhausting twenty-four hours. On the Saturday we had a midnight Easter Vigil and, of course, there was the full programme of services on Easter Day itself.

  Because I was preoccupied, I rather lost track of what was happening at the university. Normally, I would have had regular bulletins from Magnus, but he had gone to visit his Aunt Ursula in Norfolk. He was a little nervous about it as he was taking Miss Upton with him. The two ladies had got on very well together nearly forty years previously, but as Magnus observed, that was no guarantee of present harmony. However, as soon as the Easter Bank Holiday was over, we received a postcard from him. It showed a view of Norwich Cathedral. The message on the back was reassuring. Dorothy Upton and Ursula Hamilton still liked each other.

  The classes on antiques began again the next week. This time, Victoria decided that the series would be about collecting old silver. It was a popular choice. The Secretary of the university Continuing Education department informed her that over a hundred people had registered. We realised it was going to be a tight squeeze in the drawing room. We asked the Clerk of Works to instruct his men to bring even more chairs than usual over from the cathedral.

  The old people remained faithful. Matron herself professed an interest in the subject so it was she who drove the Priory party over in the minibus just before seven. The days were growing longer and it was still light when they all arrived. I had reserved a special parking place in front of the house, so that no one would have to walk too far. Even so, it was not easy to extract the residents with all their sticks and handbags. There were eight old people all together. As usual Sir William was accompanied by old Mrs Blenkensop, Mrs Germaney and Mrs Mackenzie. An unexpected and not altogether welcome addition was Pookie on a lead.

  ‘He’s a bit under the weather,’ explained Mrs Mackenzie as I helped her out of the bus. ‘I hope you don’t mind. I didn’t want to leave him by himself. He’ll be a good boy …’ Before I could find something civil to say in response, I noticed a ginger figure crouching nearby. Marmaduke had emerged from the undergrowth. He sounded like a kettle boiling over and it was clear that he was about to spring at the unfortunate poodle. With enormous presence of mind, Sir William, who was standing next to me, stepped forward and started hitting at the cat with his stick. Marmaduke was stopped in his tracks. He spat and he swore, but he realised that he was outmatched. Growling in fury, he turned tail. Trying to look dignified, he stalked away across the Green Court. I noticed that after about twenty yards, he broke into a run.

  Mrs Mackenzie was all of a flutter. We took her and Pookie into the hall and sat her down on a chair. Mercifully, the little dog was untouched. He did not seem to be a particularly intelligent creature and had no appreciation that he had been in danger of his life. Mrs Mackenzie lifted him onto her knee and stroked his head. ‘My poor Pookie,’ she said. Pookie licked her hand.

  Mrs Germaney was particularly outraged. She could not believe what had happened. ‘It was an act of unprovoked aggression!’ she kept saying. ‘Who does that cat belong to? Surely not to you, Provost! Somebody ought to do something about him!’

  I was able to reassure her that he was nothing to do with me. Our own two were safely tucked up on our bed. ‘Marmaduke is rather a trial to us all,’ I said.

  Mrs Blenkensop did not shrink from hard facts. ‘I’m afraid,’ she said, ‘it’s my son’s cat.’

  Mrs Mackenzie continued to stroke Pookie fondly. ‘He should be locked up, shouldn’t he darling? What a nasty creature!’ She consoled him.

  Mrs Blenkensop did not disagree. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘he’s a complete menace. I keep telling Reg he should be neutered.’

  I was astonished. ‘You mean to say he’s never had the operation? He’s still a tom cat?’

  Old Mrs Blenkensop nodded. ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘Reg doesn’t approve of neutering animals. He thinks it’s unnatural. My daughter-in-law’s more sensible and she’d have had it done, but Reg likes things his own way. You’ve probably discovered that by now …’ She glanced at me over Mrs Mackenzie’s head.

  ‘It’s a disgrace!’ pronounced Sir William. ‘Even the RSPCA tells people to neuter their pets. What’s the man thinking of? Someone should take control of the situation!’

  ‘No wonder our two are so terrified of him,’ I said.

  Time was moving on and Matron took the lead. The lecture was scheduled to begin. She shepherded her charges up the stairs and they all settled down to enjoy Victoria’s talk and slides. It must be said that Pookie behaved impeccably throughout.

  I worked downstairs in my study while my wife did her piece. When I heard the audience making a move, I went to the front door to say goodbye. The little group from the Priory came down the stairs last. Victoria asked them if they would like a cup of tea before they left. ‘It’ll calm everyone’s nerves,’ she said.

  Sir William seated himself between Mrs Blenkensop and Mrs Germaney on the large Victorian sofa; Matron and the other residents sat in armchairs in front of the fire. They had all had a good time and were full of praise for the session. After asking a few questions, they were soon engaged in a cosy discussion as to the best way to polish silver.

  While this conversation was going on, Mrs Blenkensop who was seated near me apologised about Marmaduke. ‘I’m sure he’s terrible in the precincts,’ she said. ‘Reg won’t hear a bad word about him, but I know he’s a dreadful cat. I’ve heard rumours about his activites.’

  It was hard to disagree with her. I tried to compromise by suggesting that he was very handsome. ‘Handsome is as handsome does!’ pronounced Mrs Blenkensop crisply. ‘You know,’ she continued, ‘I’ve got to go in and feed him next month. Reg is at a college reunion in Oxford and Henrietta is seizing the opportunity to stay with her sister in Somerset while he’s away.’

  ‘Reg must have been quite a star when he was up at the university,’ I said.

  ‘You mean at games?’ she asked. ‘He’s a nice boy, but he was certainly no great shakes intellectually. His sister was the clever one. I always had a struggle making him concentrate on his books.’

  ‘Still the rugger …,’ I said. ‘It’s really quite something to win a blue. I certainly was nowhere near it in any sport …’

  Mrs Blenkensop looked surprised. ‘He never won a blue …,’ she said. ‘My husband did. He was a wonderful sportsman. Reg was big and strong enough, but he lacked finesse. He was in the first team at school, of course, and he played for his college, but he never made it into the first university team. It was a disappointment to his father …’

  ‘Well children must forge their own paths,’ I remarked.

  ‘That’s what I always told my husband,’ pronounced old Mrs Blenkensop.

  After we had waved the Priory party off, I talked to Victoria about what I had learned. She shook her head. ‘Poor Reg. He’s never managed to escape from his father’s expectations. Think about it … a sister who was brighter than he was and a dominating father who was satisfied with nothing less than outstanding sporting success. That’s not much fun for a boy.’

  ‘Old Mrs Blenkensop’s nice,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Yes, she is,’ Victoria agreed. ‘She was very kind to Kev’s mother after the trial. And there’s no doubt that Reg is devoted to her. But he must have been very damaged by his father. It’s sad that he has to pretend to his colleagues that he did better at Oxford than he did.’

  ‘Why do you think he won’t have Marmaduke neutered?’ I asked.

  Victoria shrugged. ‘Who knows? No doubt the psychiatrists would say that he projects his uncertainities about his own masculinity onto that ca
t.’

  I put on a Viennese accent. ‘You mean it’s all to do wiz zee muzzer.’

  ‘Actually, in this particular case, I suspect it was zee fahzzer who was the problem,’ retorted Victoria. ‘Anyway I always said that cat was a bad influence.’

  The more I thought about Reg Blenkensop, the sadder I found it. He had certainly always given the impression that he had played rugby for Oxford. And there was no doubt that this had contributed to his image as an athletic and powerful figure. I had always felt somehow physically inferior beside him. Yet his whole persona was built on sand. Clearly he was not as self-confident and impregnable as he seemed.

  Later in the week, I had a chance to speak to him by himself. As I was walking into the town, I came across him chaining his bicycle to the railings. ‘I saw your mother this week,’ I said. ‘She’s a great friend of Victoria’s father and she’s coming to the lectures at the Provost’s House. She said you’ll be in Oxford next month.’

  Blenkensop decided to be civil. He was excited about his trip. He told me that this was a five-yearly event. He was planning to meet up with all his old rugby friends for Sunday lunch the day after the college feast.

  ‘That’ll be fun,’ I said. ‘It must have been hard following in your father’s footsteps. I understand he was a very brilliant rugger man. I always think it’s difficult trying to live up to one’s parents’ expectations.’

  Blenkensop flushed. For a moment we looked at each other. Something passed between us. He knew that I knew.

  ‘You must excuse me, Provost,’ he said abruptly. ‘I’ve got an important appointment at eleven.’ And without another word, he turned on his heel and strode off in the direction of the diocesan office.

  The university was closed over the Easter period so I was not too worried about my commission from Morris. However, once things started up again, and particularly after Victoria’s class, I knew I would have to bestir myself. Through his secretary, I tried to make an appointment to see Robert Sloth.

  I told her that I had heard some disturbing rumours. Firstly, I was aware that the Funding Council consultants had not been altogether complimentary about the St Sebastian’s administration. Secondly, that many of the partnership were likely to be dissolved and that this would have unfortunate financial implications. Thirdly, that I understood the Acting Vice-Chancellor intended to cover the projected shortfall by a programme of staff redundancies. As Visitor of the university, I felt it my duty to hear from Dr Sloth himself what was happening.

  There was no response to my message. Clearly Sloth did not like my questions. Nothing daunted, I telephoned again two days later. This time I insisted on speaking to the great man himself.

  I was kept waiting for several minutes and when he finally came on the line, he was less than forthcoming. He conceded that the consultants’ draft report had been disappointing, but he insisted that the tone of the final document would be very different. He also admitted that there was a problem with Flanagan’s partnerships and that ‘minor adjustments’ would have to be made to the budget. He was not, however, prepared to discuss future staffing arrangements. Initially, he pretended that the projected redundancies were merely gossip and had no foundation in fact. He was disconcerted to find that I already knew all about the establishment of the redundancy committee.

  We fenced around these points for a good ten minutes. In the end I lost patience and pulled rank. ‘Robert,’ I said, ‘It’s my duty as Visitor to know what’s happening in the university and it’s your duty as Acting Vice-Chancellor to keep me informed. Consequently, I propose making a formal visit next Wednesday afternoon at two o’clock. I hope that will be agreeable to you. I have already checked with your secretary that you are free at that time.’

  He had no defence. He did his best to put me off, but I cut through his excuses. I told him that I looked forward to seeing him and I rang off. Then I put the engagement in my diary.

  However, two days before my appointment at the university, I received a distraught call from Penelope Ransome. She asked if I could see her immediately. As it happened, I had a free hour at two o’clock and I invited her over to the Provost’s House.

  When she arrived, she looked even more untidy than usual. She told me that she had just been to the doctor to renew a prescription. He had insisted on taking her blood-pressure and had been appalled at the result. Penelope was going to have to take a serious course of medication and what was needed was rest and relaxation. Given that the university had just delivered a bombshell, these remedies were unlikely to be available.

  I sat her down in an armchair in front of the fire and went to make us both some coffee. When I returned, she was wiping her eyes and was clearly miserable. ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  Silently she rummaged around in her shopping bag and brought out a document. It was a letter from the personnel department and it stated in the bluntest possible terms that she was one of the ten university employees who had been selected for redundancy. Her contract would terminate at the end of the month.

  I read the missive. Then I took a handkerchief out of my pocket and handed it to her. ‘This is ridiculous,’ I said. ‘Why have you been chosen?’

  She reached into her bag and took out another typed leaflet entitled ‘Criteria for Reduncancy’. ‘It’s all in here,’ she said.

  ‘Explain to me how it works.’

  Penelope took a deep breath. ‘As I told you, Sloth established a redundancy committee which is chaired by Jenny. Somehow they’ve decided on ten criteria to evaluate every member of staff. Things like whether their area of expertise can be taught by anyone else, whether they attract post-graduate students, whether they have an international reputation and whether they contribute to the administration of the university.’

  ‘So the whole thing is meant to be objective?’ I suggested.

  ‘Supposedly,’ sniffed Penelope. ‘It’s the heads of department who have been told to rank each staff member. You get three points for excellent; two points for average; and one point for poor. Then they add up each person’s points. Whoever is lowest is put at risk. Then all these people in the different departments are compared with one another, and those with the lowest scores of all get this horrible letter telling them they’ll be sacked.’

  Penelope tried to pull herself together. She blew her nose. ‘Look at my assessment, Harry. I only got thirteen out of a possible thirty.’

  ‘That can’t be right,’ I said. ‘You work very hard for the university. Look at what you’ve done for the union.’

  Penelope sounded bitter. ‘That doesn’t count. You get no points for the union at all …’

  I was shocked. ‘That’s a disgrace! It’s an important element in staff welfare. Anyway, even without it, I just don’t believe your score. You publish a lot and I know you’re a successful teacher. Your classes always attract lots of students.’

  ‘I know. Thirteen is ridiculous. I teach as much as everyone else – more than some. I have six full-time doctoral students. My research is included in the Research Assessment Exercise and I’m the examinations’ officer for my department. That’s a big administrative job …’

  ‘But surely your head of department knows all this.’ I was bewildered.

  ‘She does. But she refused to do the scoring. Almost all the departmental heads did. It’s a matter of solidarity. They don’t want to be responsible for getting their colleagues dismissed.’

  ‘Good for them!’ I said. ‘But who did do the dreaded deed then?’

  ‘Jenny Sloth, of course … who do you think?’

  I felt that I was descending into the world of Alice in Wonderland. ‘But she doesn’t have any idea about your work. How does she know if you have an international reputation or not?’

  ‘She doesn’t … But somebody had to do it. And so, as chairman of the redundancy committee, she did. And she was determined to mark me down.’

  ‘Are you certain about this?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh yes … I
went to see her. She admitted it. She said that she had definite proof of my disloyalty towards the Acting Vice-Chancellor. Those were her very words …’

  I was uncomprehending. ‘What on earth did she mean?’

  ‘I told you, Harry. Sloth’s read all my emails. I know it’s against my human rights and anyway no gentleman reads someone’s private correspondence, but, as I’ve told you, he tapped into my computer. That’s how he knows what I think of him … and that’s why that cow gave me the score she did.’

  ‘That’s disgraceful,’ I said. ‘You must appeal …’

  ‘There’s no proper appeal mechanism. It’s all happening so fast. I’m going to be out before anything can be done about it. And anyway, I’m not the only one.’

  I was alarmed. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The Sloths hate me because of my emails and, as a result, I got almost the lowest score … but of the ten people being made redundant, eight either are or have been members of the union committee. Sloth sees this as his chance to destroy the opposition once and for all. He wants to abolish all union activity in the university.’

  I had to admit this sounded all too probable. ‘Just as a matter of academic interest, who were the other two?’ I asked.

  Penelope gave the ghost of a smile. ‘One was someone in English. His head of department was prepared to participate in the exercise and, in this case, it’s fair. The person selected has a serious drink problem. He hardly ever turns up to his classes; he’s published no research for more than ten years and he refuses even to think about administration. In any case, it won’t be much of a saving for the university; he’s due to retire at the end of next year anyway.’