Campus Trilogy : Changing Places; Small World; Nice Work (9781101577127)
Page 76
“Unable to contemplate a political solution to the social problems they described in their fiction, the industrial novelists could only offer narrative solutions to the personal dilemmas of their characters. And these narrative solutions are invariably negative or evasive. In Hard Times the victimised worker Stephen Blackpool dies in the odour of sanctity. In Mary Barton the working-class heroine and her husband go off to the colonies to start a new life. Kingsley’s Alton Locke emigrates after his disillusionment with Chartism, and dies shortly after. In Sybil, the humble heroine turns out to be an heiress and is able to marry her well-meaning aristocratic lover without compromising the class system, and a similar stroke of good fortune resolves the love stories in Shirley and North and South. Although the heroine of George Eliot’s Felix Holt renounces her inheritance, it is only so that she can marry the man she loves. In short, all the Victorian novelist could offer as a solution to the problems of industrial capitalism were: a legacy, a marriage, emigration or death.”
…
As Robyn Penrose is winding up her lecture, and Vic Wilcox is commencing his tour of the machine shop, Philip Swallow returns from a rather tiresome meeting of the Arts Faculty Postgraduate Studies Committee (which wrangled for two hours about the proposed revision of a clause in the PhD regulations and then voted to leave it unchanged, an expenditure of time that seemed all the more vain since there are scarcely any new candidates for the PhD in arts subjects anyway these days) to find a rather disturbing message from the Vice-Chancellor’s office.
His secretary Pamela reads it off her memo pad: “The VC’s PA rang to say could they have your nomination for the Industry Year Shadow Scheme.”
“What in God’s name is that?”
Pamela shrugs. “I don’t know. I’ve never heard of it. Shall I ring Phyllis Cameron and ask her?”
“No, no, don’t do that,” says Philip Swallow, nervously fingering his beardless chin. “Last resort. Don’t want to make the Arts Faculty look incompetent. We’re in enough trouble already.”
“I’m sure I never saw a letter about it,” says Pamela defensively.
“No, no, my fault, I’m sure.”
It is. Philip Swallow finds the VC’s memorandum, its envelope still unopened, at the bottom of his In-tray, trapped between the pages of a brochure for Bargain Winter Breaks in Belgium which he had picked up from a local travel agency some weeks ago. His casual treatment of this missive is not entirely surprising, since its external appearance hardly conveys an idea of its august addresser. The brown manila envelope, originally despatched to the University by an educational publishing firm, whose name and address, printed on the top lefthand corner, has been partially defaced, is creased and tattered. It has already been used twice for the circulation of internal mail and resealed by means of staples and Sellotape.
“Sometimes I think the VC takes his economy drive a little too far,” says Philip, gingerly extracting the stencilled memorandum from its patched and disintegrating container. The document is dated 1st December, 1985. “Oh dear,” says Philip, sinking into his swivel seat to read it. Pamela reads it with him, peering over his shoulder.
From: The Vice-Chancellor To: Deans of all Faculties
Subject: INDUSTRY YEAR SHADOW SCHEME
As you are no doubt aware, 1986 has been designated Industry Year by the Government. The DES, through the UGC, have urged the CVCP to ensure that universities throughout the UK—
“He does love acronyms, doesn’t he,” Philip murmurs.
“What?” says Pamela.
“All these initials,” says Philip.
“It’s supposed to save paper and typing time,” says Pamela. “We had a memo round about it. Acrowhatsits to be used whenever possible in University correspondence.”
—make a special effort in the coming year to show themselves responsive to the needs of industry, both in terms of collaboration in research and development, and the provision of well-trained and well-motivated graduates for recruitment to industry.
A working party was set up last July to advise on this University’s contribution to IY, and one of its recommendations, approved by Senate at its meeting of November 18th, is that each Faculty should nominate a member of staff to “shadow” some person employed at senior management level in local manufacturing industry, nominated through CRUM, in the course of the winter term.
“I don’t remember it coming up at that meeting of Senate,” says Philip. “Must have been passed without discussion. What’s CRUM?”
“Confederation of Rummidge Manufacturers?” Pamela hazarded.
“Could be. Good try, Pam.”
There is a widespread feeling in the country that universities are “ivory tower” institutions, whose staff are ignorant of the realities of the modern commercial world. Whatever the justice of this prejudice, it is important in the present economic climate that we should do our utmost to dispel it. The SS will advertise our willingness to inform ourselves about the needs of industry.
“The SS? Got his own stormtroopers, now, has he, the VC?”
“I think it stands for Shadow Scheme,” says Pamela.
“Yes, I’m afraid you’re probably right.”
A Shadow, as the name implies, is someone who follows another person about all day as he goes about his normal work. In this way a genuine, inward understanding of that work is obtained by the Shadow, which could not be obtained by a simple briefing or organized visit. Ideally, the Shadow should spend an uninterrupted week or fortnight with his opposite number, but if that is impracticable, a regular visit of one day a week throughout the term would be satisfactory. Shadows will be asked to write a short report of what they have learned at the end of the exercise.
Action: Nominations to reach the VC’s Office by Wednesday 8th January, 1986.
“Oh dear,” says Philip Swallow, once more, when he has finished reading the memorandum.
Anxiety makes him want to pee. He hurries to the Male Staff toilet and finds Rupert Sutcliffe and Bob Busby already ensconced at the three-stall urinal.
“Ah, well met,” says Philip, taking his place between them. In front of his nose dangles a hexagonal rubber handle suspended from a chain, installed a year or two earlier when the University removed all automatic flushing systems from its men’s cloakrooms as an economy measure. Someone in the Works and Buildings Department, haunted by the thought of these urinals gushing pointlessly at regular intervals all through the hours of darkness, Sundays and public holidays, had hit on this means of reducing the University’s water rate. “I need a volunteer,” says Philip, and briefly explains the Shadow Scheme.
“Not my cup of tea, I’m afraid,” says Rupert Sutcliffe. “What are you laughing at, Swallow?”
“Cup of pee. Very good, Rupert, I must admit.”
“Tea. I said cup of tea,” says Rupert Sutcliffe frostily. “Traipsing round a factory all day is not mine. I can’t think of anything more wearisome.” Buttoning up his fly (Sutcliffe’s trousers date back to that era, and look it) he retreats to the washbasins on the other side of the room.
“Bob, what about you?” says Philip, swivelling his head in the opposite direction. Bob Busby has also concluded his business at the urinal, but is adjusting his dress with a great deal of fumbling and knee-flexing, as if his member is of such majestic size that it can be coaxed back into his Y-fronts only with the greatest difficulty.
“Quite impossible this term, Philip. With all the extra AUT work on top of everything else.” Bob Busby stretches out a hand in front of Philip’s face and pulls the chain. The cistern flushes, sending a fine spray over Philip’s shoes and trouser bottoms, and the swinging handle released by Busby hits him on the nose. The protocol of chain-pulling in multiple-occupancy urinals has not been thought through by the Works and Buildings Department.
“Who shall I nominate, then?” says Philip Swallow plaintively. “I’ve got to have a name by 4:30 this afternoon. There isn’t time to consult other Departments.”
&n
bsp; “Why not do it yourself?” Rupert Sutcliffe suggests.
“Don’t be absurd. With all the work I have as Dean?”
“Well, the whole idea is pretty absurd,” says Sutcliffe. “What has the Faculty of Arts to do with Industry Year, or Industry Year to do with the Faculty of Arts?”
“I wish you’d put that question to the Vice-Chancellor, Rupert,” says Philip. “What has the FA to do with IY, or IY with the FA?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Just my little joke,” says Philip to Sutcliffe’s departing back. “Not much to joke about when you’re Dean of sweet FA,” he continues to Bob Busby, who is carefully combing his hair in the mirror. “It’s responsibility without power. You know, I ought to be able to order one of you to do this shadow nonsense.”
“You can’t,” says Bob Busby smugly. “Not without asking for nominations and holding a Department meeting to discuss it first.”
“I know, and there isn’t time.”
“Why don’t you ask Robyn Penrose?”
“The most junior member of the Department? Surely it wouldn’t—”
“It’s right up her street.”
“Is it?”
“Of course—her book on the Victorian industrial novel.”
“Oh, that. It’s hardly the same… Still, it’s a thought, Bob.”
…
Later that day, much later, when Shirley and the other office staff have gone home, and Vic sits alone in the administration block, working in his darkened office by the light of a single desk lamp, he gets a call from Stuart Baxter.
“You’ve heard about Industry Year, Vic?”
“Enough to know it’s a waste of time and money.”
“I’m inclined to agree with you. But the Board feels that we’ve got to go along with it. Good PR for the Group, you know. Our chairman is dead keen. I’ve been asked to co-ordinate initiatives—”
“What do you want me to do?” Vic cuts in impatiently.
“I was coming to that, Vic. You know what a shadow is, don’t you?”
When Stuart Baxter has finished telling him, Vic says: “No way.”
“Why not, Vic?”
“I don’t want some academic berk following me about all day.”
“It’s only one day a week, Vic, for a few weeks.”
“Why me?”
“Because you’re the most dynamic MD in the division. We want to show them the best.”
Vic knows this compliment is totally insincere, but he has no wish to disown it. It could be useful to remind Stuart Baxter of it some time in the future.
“I’ll think about it,” he says.
“Sorry, Vic. I’ve got to tie it up now. Seeing the Chairman tonight at a function.”
“Left it a bit late, haven’t you?”
“To tell you the truth, my secretary fucked up. Lost the letter.”
“Oh yes?” says Vic sceptically.
“I’d be very grateful if you’d co-operate.”
“You mean, it’s an order?”
“Don’t be silly, Vic. We’re not in the Army.”
Vic keeps Baxter in suspense for a few moments, while he reviews the advantages of having him under an obligation. “About that automatic core blower…”
“Send me a Capex and I’ll run it up the flagpole.”
“Thanks,” says Vic. “Will do.”
“And the other?”
“All right.”
“Great! The name of your shadow is Dr. Robin Penrose.”
“A medic?”
“No.”
“Not a shrink, for Christ’s sake?”
“No, I understand he’s a lecturer in English Literature.”
“English what?”
“Don’t know much else about him—only got the message this afternoon.”
“Jesus wept.”
Stuart Baxter chuckles. “Read any good books lately, Vic?”
PART II
Mrs. Thornton went on after a moment’s pause: “Do you know anything of Milton, Miss Hale? Have you seen any of our factories? our magnificent warehouses?”
“No,” said Margaret. “I have not seen anything of that description as yet.”
Then she felt that, by concealing her utter indifference to all such places, she was hardly speaking the truth; so she went on: “I dare say, papa would have taken me before now if I had cared. But I really do not find much pleasure in going over manufactories.”
ELIZABETH GASKELL: North and South
1
Ten days later, at eight-thirty in the morning of Wednesday, 22nd January, Robyn Penrose set off in a snowstorm and an ill humour to begin her stint as the University of Rummidge Faculty of Arts Industry Year Shadow, or URFAIYS as she was designated in memoranda emanating from the Vice-Chancellor’s Office. One of these documents had informed her that she was to be attached to a Mr. Victor Wilcox, Managing Director of J. Pringle & Sons, for one day a week during the remainder of the winter term, and she had chosen Wednesdays for this undertaking since it was the day she normally kept free from teaching. By the same token it was a day she normally spent at home, catching up on her marking, preparation and research, and she bitterly resented having to sacrifice it. For this reason above all others she had come very close to declining Philip Swallow’s proposal to nominate her for the Shadow Scheme. After all, if the University wasn’t going to keep her on (Swallow’s request had come, rather tactlessly, later in the very same day on which he had communicated this gloomy prognosis) why should she put herself out to oblige the University?
“Exactly!” said Penny Black the following evening, as she peeled off her jeans in the women’s changing-room at the University Sports Centre. “I don’t understand why you agreed to do it.” Penny was a feminist friend of Robyn’s from the Sociology Department, with whom she played squash once a week.
“I wish I hadn’t, now,” said Robyn. “I wish I’d told him to, to…”
“To stick his shadow scheme up his ass. Why didn’t you?”
“I don’t know. Well, I do, really. A little voice, a nasty, calculating little voice whispered in my ear that one day I’m going to need a reference from Swallow.”
“You’re right, honey. That’s how they screw us, these men in authority. It’s a power trip. Damn these hooks and eyes.”
Penny Black fumbled with the fastenings of her bra, reversed around her waist like a belt. Succeeding, she rotated the garment, levered her formidable breasts into the cups and thrust her arms through the shoulderstraps. Latex smacked lustily against solid flesh. Playing squash was the only time Penny wore a bra—without it, as she said, her boozums would bounce from wall to wall faster than the ball.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that about Swallow,” Robyn demurred. “To be fair, he doesn’t seem to have much power. He was practically begging me to agree.”
“So why didn’t you bargain with him? Why didn’t you say you’d be his fucking shadow if he’d give you tenure?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Penny.”
“What’s ridiculous?”
“Well, A, he’s not in a position to give it to me, and B, I wouldn’t stoop to that sort of thing.”
“You British!” said Penny Black, shaking her head in despair. She herself was British, in fact, but having spent several years as a graduate student in California, where she had been converted to radical feminism, she now thought of herself as spiritually an American, and tried as far as possible to speak like one. “Well,” she continued, pulling on a red Amazon sports shirt, “you’ll just have to sweat out your hostility on the squash court.” Her dark, tousled head popped out of the collar, a grinning Jill-in-the-box: “Pretend the ball is one of Swallow’s.”
A middle-aged grey-haired woman swathed in a bath-towel nodded a greeting to Robyn as she passed between the sauna and the showers. Robyn smiled radiantly back, hissing between her teeth, “For God’s sake keep your voice down, Penny, that’s his wife.”
“It’s not your sort of thing, is it?”
“Well, I am supposed to be an expert on the industrial novel. Swallow made a great point of that.”
“But not in a realist sort of way. I mean, you’re not suggesting that there’s any possible relevance—”
“No, no, of course not,” said Robyn, anxious to disown the taint of realism. “I’m just trying to explain the pressure that was put on me.” She was beginning to feel that she had made a mistake, and allowed herself to be exploited. It was a rare sensation for Robyn, and all the more unpleasant for that.
This suspicion hardened into certainty in the days that followed. She woke on the morning appointed for her initiation into the Shadow Scheme with a heavy heart, which the weather did nothing to lighten. “Oh no,” she groaned, pulling the bedroom curtain aside on a sky swirling with snowflakes, like a shaken paperweight. A thin layer already covered the frost-hardened ground, and clung delicately to tree-branches, clothes-lines and back-garden bric-à-brac. She was tempted to use the weather as an excuse to postpone her visit to J. Pringle & Sons, but the work ethic that had carried her successfully through so many years of study and so many examinations now exerted its leverage on her conscience once more. She had already postponed the exercise by one week, because of the AUT strike. Another cancellation would look bad.
Over breakfast (no Guardian was delivered, doubtless because of the snow) she pondered the question of what clothes to wear for the occasion. She possessed a boiler suit bought recently from Next, which seemed in theory appropriate, but it was bright orange, with a yellow flower appliquéd on the bib, and it might, she thought, lack dignity. On the other hand, she wasn’t going to show excessive respect by wearing her olive-green tailored interview suit. What did a liberated woman wear to visit a factory? It was a nice semiotic problem. Robyn was well aware that clothes do not merely serve the practical purpose of covering our bodies, but also convey messages about who we are, what we are doing, and how we feel. However, she did in the end let the weather partly determine her choice: a pair of elephant-cord trousers tucked Cossack-style into her high boots, and a chunky-knit cardigan with a shawl collar worn over a Liberty print blouse. On top of this outfit she wore her cream-coloured quilted cotton jacket and a Russian-style hat made of artificial fur. Thus attired, she ventured out into the blizzard.