by David Lodge
Like everything else in the Department, the Agenda Committee had a history, and a folklore, which Robyn had gradually pieced together from various sources. For decades the Head of Department had been a notorious eccentric called Gordon Masters, who spent every available moment pursuing field sports and had never been known to convene a Department Committee except for the annual Examiners’ Meeting. As a result of the student demonstrations of 1969 (which had contributed to Masters’ abrupt retirement in a disturbed mental condition) his successor, Dalton, was obliged by a new University statute to hold regular Department Committee meetings, but had cunningly defeated the democratic intention behind this rule by keeping the agenda of such meetings a secret unto himself. His colleagues were therefore able to raise important matters only under Any Other Business, and Dalton invariably contrived to spin out the discussion of his own agenda of yawn-inducing trivia for so long that by the time the meeting reached AOB it was no longer quorate. To counter this strategy, Philip Swallow, then a Senior Lecturer freshly energised by his exchange visit to America, had managed to secure the establishment of a new subcommittee called the Agenda Committee whose function was to prepare business for discussion by the full Department Committee. Swallow had inherited this apparatus when he himself became Head of Department following the sudden death of Dalton in a car accident, and he used the Agenda Committee as a kind of kitchen cabinet, to consider the Department’s policy on any given issue, and how it might be presented to the full Department Committee with the minimum risk of contentious debate. The Agenda Committee consisted of himself as de facto chairman, Rupert Sutcliffe, Bob Busby, Robyn, and a student representative who seldom attended, and was absent on this occasion.
“Rationalisation is what you’re talking about,” said Vic. “Cutting costs, improving efficiency. Maintaining throughput with a smaller workforce. It’s the same in industry.”
“Well, that’s an interesting thought,” said Philip Swallow politely.
“Perhaps Mr. Wilcox would like to design a new syllabus for us,” said Rupert Sutcliffe with a smirk.
“No, I couldn’t do that, but I can give you some advice,” said Vic. “There’s only one surefire way to succeed in business: make something people want, make it well, and make it in one size.”
“Henry Ford’s formula, I believe,” said Bob Busby. He wagged his beard from side to side, preening himself on this aperçu.
“Wasn’t he the one who said ‘History is bunk’?” said Rupert Sutcliffe. “It doesn’t sound like a very promising model for an English Department.”
“It’s absurd,” said Robyn. “If we followed it we would have just one standard course for all our students, with no options.”
“Oh, well, there’s a lot to be said for that, actually,” said Rupert Sutcliffe. “That was the sort of syllabus we had under Masters. We seemed to have more time to think in those days, and time to talk to each other. The students knew where they were.”
“It’s no use hankering after the good old days, which were actually the boring old days,” said Bob Busby impatiently. “The subject has expanded vastly since you started in it, Rupert. Now we have linguistics, media studies, American Literature, Commonwealth Literature, literary theory, women’s studies, not to mention about a hundred new British writers worth taking seriously. We can’t cover all of it in three years. We have to have a system of options.”
“And you end up with a hundred and seventy-three separate Finals papers, and endless timetable clashes,” said Rupert Sutcliffe.
“Better that than a syllabus which gives the students no choice,” said Robyn. “Anyway, Mr. Wilcox is being disingenuous. He makes more than one thing at his factory. He makes lots of different things.”
“True,” said Vic. “But not as many as we made when I took over. The point is, a repeatable operation is always cheaper and more reliable than one which has to be set up differently each time.”
“But repetition is death!” Robyn cried. “Difference is life. Difference is the condition of meaning. Language is a system of differences, as Saussure said.”
“But a system,” said Rupert Sutcliffe. “The question is whether we have a system any more, or just a muddle. A muddle this document”—he slapped the report of the Syllabus Review Committee with the palm of his hand—“will only exacerbate.”
Philip Swallow, who had been listening to this debate with his head bowed and cradled in his hands, straightened up and spoke: “I think that, as usual, the truth lies between the two extremes. Of course I take Robyn’s point that if we all taught the same thing over and over again we should all go mad or die of boredom, and so would our students. On the other hand, I think it’s fair to say that we are trying to do too many things at the same time and not doing any of them particularly well.”
Philip Swallow seemed to be in rather good form today, Robyn thought to herself. A small transparent plastic worm curling out of his right ear, and disappearing under a silver grey wing of hair, suggested that this might have something to do with his having adopted a hearing aid.
“It’s partly a matter of history,” he went on. “Once upon a time, as Rupert remembers, there was a single syllabus, essentially a survey course on Eng. Lit. from Beowulf to Virginia Woolf, which all the students followed in common, through lectures and a weekly tutorial, and life was very simple and comfortable, if a little dull. And then in the sixties and seventies we began to add all kinds of exciting new ingredients, like the ones Bob mentioned—but without subtracting anything from the original syllabus. So we ended up with an elaborate system of seminar options piled on top of a core curriculum of lectures and tutorials. Well, that was just about workable, if a little frantic, as long as there was plenty of cash to recruit more teachers, but now that the money is running out I think we have to face the fact that the present syllabus is top-heavy. It’s like a three-masted ship with too many sails aloft and a diminishing crew. We’re exhausting ourselves scrambling up and down the rigging, just trying to keep the damn thing from capsizing, never mind getting anywhere, or enjoying the voyage. With respect, Bob, I don’t think your committee has addressed itself to the fundamental problem. Could I possibly ask you to have another look at it before we bring the matter before the Department Committee?”
“All right,” Bob Busby sighed.
“Good,” said Philip Swallow. “That should make room for another item on the agenda: DEVs.”
“What in God’s name are they?” said Rupert Sutcliffe.
“Department Enterprise Ventures. A new idea of the VC’s.”
“Not another!” Bob Busby groaned.
“He wants every Department to put forward projects for raising money from the private sector to support its activities. Any suggestions?”
“Do you mean something like a jumble sale?” said Rupert Sutcliffe. “Or a flag day?”
“No, no, Rupert! Consultancies, research services, that sort of thing,” said Swallow. “Of course, it’s much easier for the sciences to come up with ideas. But I understand Egyptology is planning to offer guided package tours down the Nile. What we need to ask ourselves is, what do we have as a Department that’s marketable in the outside world?”
“We have a lot of pretty girls,” said Bob Busby, with a hearty laugh that faded as he caught Robyn’s eye.
“I don’t understand,” said Robyn. “We’re already overstretched teaching our own students and doing our own research. Where are we supposed to find the time and energy to make money on the side as well?”
“The theory is that with the additional income we shall be able to hire more staff. The University will take its twenty per cent cut and the rest we can spend as we like.”
“And supposing we make a loss,” said Robyn. “What will happen then?”
Philip Swallow shrugged. “The University will underwrite any approved scheme. Of course, in that case, we shouldn’t get any new staff.”
“And we should have wasted a lot of valuable time.”
“There is that risk,” said Philip Swallow. “But it’s the spirit of the times. Self-help. Venture capitalism. Isn’t that right, Mr. Wilcox?”
“I agree with Robyn,” said Vic, to her surprise. “It’s not that I don’t believe in the market, I do. But you people don’t belong in it. You’d be playing at capitalism. Stick to what you’re good at.”
“How do you mean, playing at capitalism?” said Philip Swallow.
“You can’t really lose because the University would underwrite any failures. You can’t really win because, as I understand it, there are no individual incentives for success. Suppose, for the sake of argument, Robyn here was to come up with a commerical project for the English Department—say, a consultancy on the wording of safety notices in industrial plant.”
“That’s not a bad idea, actually,” said Philip Swallow, making a note.
“And supposing it proved to be a terrific money-spinner. Would she get a bonus? Would she get a salary raise? Would she advance faster than Mr. Sutcliffe, who is clearly not going to have anything to do with it?”
“Well, no,” said Philip Swallow. “But,” he added, triumphantly, “in that case we should be able to keep her on here!”
“Terrific,” said Vic. “She knocks herself out to earn the money to pay for her own lousy salary while the University takes all the profit and redistributes it to drones like Sutcliffe.”
“I say, I resent that,” said Rupert Sutcliffe.
“It would make more sense for her to set up as a consultant on her own,” said Vic.
“But I don’t want to be a consultant,” said Robyn. “I just want to be a university teacher.”
The telephone on Swallow’s desk rang, and he tilted his chair backwards from the head of the table to reach the receiver. “I did say no phone calls, Pam,” he said irritably; then his expression changed to one of expectant gravity. “Oh. All right. Put him through.” He listened for what seemed a very long time, though it was probably only a couple of minutes, saying nothing except, “Oh,” “I see,” and “Oh, dear.” As this one-sided conversation proceeded, he tilted his chair further and further back, as if he was being drawn away from the table by the magnetic force of his interlocutor. Robyn and the others watched helplessly as the chair approached an angle of no return. Sure enough, as Philip Swallow twisted to replace the receiver he crashed to the ground, and banged his head on the wastepaper bin. They hurried to assist him to his feet. “It’s all right, it’s all right,” he said, rubbing his forehead. “The UGC letter has arrived. It’s bad news, I’m afraid. Our grant is going to be cut by ten per cent in real terms. The VC thinks we shall have to lose another hundred academic posts.” Philip Swallow did not meet Robyn’s eye as he made his announcement.
…
“Well, that’s that,” said Robyn, when they were back in her room. “There goes my last chance of keeping my job.”
“I’m sorry,” said Vic. “You’re really good at it.”
Robyn smiled wanly. “Thank you, Vic. Can I use you as a referee?”
Raindrops trickled down the pane, distorting her vision like tears. The fine weather at the beginning of term had not lasted. There were no golden lads and girls disporting themselves on the sodden lawns today, only a few people hurrying along the footpaths under umbrellas.
“I mean it,” he said. “You’re a natural teacher. That stuff about metaphor and metonymy, for instance. I see them all over the shop now. TV commercials, colour supplements, the way people talk.”
Robyn turned and beamed at him. “I’m very glad to hear you say that. If you understand it, anybody can.”
“Thanks very much,” he said.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. The point is, it means Charles was wrong to say that we shouldn’t teach theory to students who haven’t read anything. It’s a false opposition. Nobody’s read less than you, I imagine.”
“I’ve read more in the last few weeks than in all the years since I left school,” he said. “Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights and Daniel Deronda. Well, half of Daniel Deronda. This bloke”—he took a paperback edition of Matthew Arnold’s Culture and Anarchy, assigned for a tutorial that afternoon, from his pocket, and waved it in the air—“and Tennyson. Funnily enough, I like Tennyson best. I never thought I’d like reading poetry, but I do. I like to learn bits off by heart and recite them to myself in the car.”
“Instead of Jennifer Rush?” she said, mischievously.
“I’ve got a bit tired of Jennifer Rush.”
“Good!”
“Her words don’t rhyme properly. Tennyson’s a good rhymer.”
“He is. What bits have you memorised, then?”
Looking into her eyes, he recited:
“In my life there was a picture, she that clasped my neck had flown.
I was left within the shadow, sitting on the wreck alone.”
“That’s rather beautiful,” said Robyn, after a pause.
“I thought it was rather appropriate.”
“Never mind that,” said Robyn briskly. “Where’s it from?”
“Don’t you know? A poem called ‘Locksley Hall Sixty Years After.’”
“I don’t think I’ve ever read that one.”
“You mean, I’ve read something you haven’t read? Amazing.” He looked childishly pleased with himself.
“Well,” she said, “if you’ve acquired a taste for poetry, the Shadow Scheme hasn’t been in vain.”
“What about you?”
“I’ve learned to thank my lucky stars I don’t have to work in a factory,” she said. “The sooner they introduce those lightless factories of yours, the better. Nobody should have to earn their living by doing the same thing over and over again.”
“How will they earn it, then?”
“They won’t have to. They can be students instead. Robots will do all the work and produce all the wealth.”
“Oh, so you admit somebody has to do that?”
“I recognise that universities don’t grow on trees, if that’s what you mean.”
“Well, that’s something, I suppose.”
There was a knock on the door and Pamela, the Department Secretary, put her head round it. “Outside call for you, Robyn.”
…
“Hi,” said the voice of Morris Zapp when she picked up the phone in the Department Office. “How are you?”
“I’m all right,” she said. “How are you? Where are you?”
“I’m fine and I’m at home in Euphoria. It’s a warm starry night and I’m sitting out on my deck with a cordless phone enjoying the view of the Bay while I make some calls. Listen, I read your book. I think it’s terrific.”
Robyn felt her spirits lift like an untethered balloon. “Really?” she said. “Are you going to recommend it to your university press?”
“I already have. You’ll be getting a letter from them. Ask for double the advance they’re offering.”
“Oh, I don’t think I’d have the nerve to do that,” said Robyn. “How much is it, anyway?”
“I’ve no idea, but whatever it is, insist they double it.”
“They might say no, and back out.”
“They won’t,” said Morris Zapp. “It will only make them more eager to sign you up. But I’m not calling you about the Press. I’m calling you about a job.”
“A job?” Robyn covered her unengaged ear to shut out the noise of Pamela’s typewriter.
“Yeah, we’re making a tenure-track appointment in Women’s Studies here, starting in the fall. You interested?”
“Well, yes,” said Robyn.
“Great. Now what I need is your CV, fast as possible. Could you fax it to me?”
“Facts?”
“F-a-x, fax. Fax? OK, forget it. Send it airmail, special delivery. You’d have to come over here for a few days, meet the faculty, give a paper, the usual sort of thing—that all right? We’d pay your airfare, naturally.”
“Fine,” said Robyn. “When?”
“Next week?”
“Next week!”
“The week after then. The point is—I’ll level with you, Robyn—there’s another candidate some of my dumber colleagues are backing. I want to get you into the ball-game as fast as I can. I know they’ll all be knocked out by your accent. We don’t have another Brit in the Department at the moment. That’s a plus for you, we have a lot of Anglophiles here, it must be because we’re so far from England.”
“Who’s the other candidate?”
“Don’t worry about her. She’s not a serious scholar. Just a writer. Leave it to me. Do what I tell you, and the job’s yours.”
“Well… how can I thank you?” said Robyn.
“We’ll work on it together,” said Morris Zapp, but the innuendo seemed harmless, it was so obviously a conditioned reflex. “Don’t you want to know what the salary is?”
“All right,” said Robyn. “What is it?”
“I can’t tell you exactly. You’re young, of course. But I’d say, not less than forty thousand dollars.”
Robyn was silent while she did some rapid mental arithmetic.
“I know that’s not a lot—” said Morris Zapp.
“It seems very reasonable to me,” said Robyn, who had worked out that it was exactly twice as much as she was earning at Rummidge.
“And it should go up very quickly. People like you are very hot right now.”
“What do you mean, people like me?”
“Feminists who can do literary theory. Theory is all the rage here. Your life would be one long round of conferences and visiting lectures. And Euphoric State has just put in a bid to be the home of a new Institute of Advanced Research on the West Coast. If that works out, we’ll have all the fat cats from Yale and Johns Hopkins and Duke lining up to spend semesters with us.”
“Sounds exciting,” said Robyn.
“Yeah, you’ll love it,” said Morris Zapp. “Don’t forget the CV, and tell your referees to write immediately to our chairman, Morton Ziegfield. Speak to you soon. Ciao!”