The Campus Trilogy (26 page)

‘I was thankful Lucille was coming,' said Victoria. ‘Emma is such a fantastic cook, you are not an easy person to entertain.'

Emma is my wife and she is a food and cookery journalist for the BBC. It is true that she is an excellent cook, but there was no doubt that Lucille was in the same class.

‘Now,' insisted Harry, ‘We do want to hear about Wanda Catnip. What happened to her?

The reason that there was a new Dean at St Sebastian's was because Wanda Catnip had resigned. For many years Dr Catnip had been the backbone of the university administration, selflessly and humourlessly serving a succession of
Vice-Chancellors
, initially as Head of the History department and for the last seven years as Dean. She had not been popular. She was rigid in her views and unimaginative in her management style. Then, nearly two years ago she had her reward. She had been
elevated
to the heights of a Personal Chair and had became Professor Catnip. It was from that moment that things began to go wrong.

‘Well,' I said, ‘I don't think she ever really recovered from her disastrous inaugural lecture. She lost her crisp edge and on several occasions in meetings she showed signs of becoming tearful.'

‘But why did she resign?' asked Victoria. ‘She loved being Dean. Harry and I used to call her Little Miss Bossyboots.'

‘It was just never the same again after that lecture. Then at the beginning of last year, she announced that no one appreciated her and that she was fed up with administration. It turns out that she's nearly sixty anyway and Barraclough offered her a good deal if she would take early retirement. She's doing some
part-time
teaching for the History department, and is said to be busy with a new book about eighteenth-century land tenure. Before I left I saw her in the supermarket accompanied by a grey-haired older woman using a stick who I assumed was her mother. So perhaps she's no longer living alone.'

Harry frowned. ‘It does sound dreary,' he said.

Victoria sniggered. ‘Can you imagine being Wanda's mother. Poor wretched old lady! I bet she's bullied mercilessly.' She embarked on an uncomfortably accurate imitation of Professor Catnip's mode of speech. ‘Come along mother! I haven't got all day! Don't waste my time! You've got to pull your socks up and improve your attitude …'

We all laughed and at this point Lucille brought in the most exquisite pecan pie. Decorated with thick cream, it melted in the mouth. I did not dare to contemplate its caloric value.

Over coffee, Sir William asserted himself again. He had been quiet through dinner, concentrating on the food, but now he wanted to demonstrate his blackjack skills. I felt nervous. I am not a natural card-player and I certainly could not afford to lose the kind of money which Sir William expected to win. However, there was no cause to worry. Victoria cleared the table and distributed ten dollars in dimes to each of us while Sir William shuffled a deck of cards. Victoria assured us that it was a fresh pack and there was no possibility of her father cheating. Nonetheless, thirty minutes later, Sir William had roundly defeated us all, and sat smiling over forty stacks of shining dimes which he assembled in a neat row in front of him.

‘No wonder they banned him from Cleopatra's Palace,' I said.

‘Well, Daddy hasn't given up,' Victoria said. ‘I promised we'd visit Atlantic City next weekend before he goes back home.'

‘They don't know me there,' the old baronet chuckled. ‘I bought some cowboy boots and a cowboy hat, so I'll look less conspicuous.'

It was time for me to go. Before I left, Sir William gave me his address and telephone number in Shropshire. ‘Call in any time,' he said. ‘We can have another session at blackjack. You can get your revenge!'

Harry drove me back to Washington in the red Rolls-Royce. I was tired after so much talk, but Harry was still interested in his old university. As we travelled through the warm Virginia
darkness
, he asked me if I were having any difficulties at St Sebastian's. I told him that everything seemed to be all right at the moment, but that philosophy was always in a perilous
position
. There were only three of us teaching the subject and my two colleagues were both in their late fifties, about seven years older
than I. When they left, I might have serious problems. I did not want to retire early, but it was unlikely that the university would continue with philosophy. It was not easy to imagine any
vice-chancellor
, particularly such a man as Flanagan, being
sympathetic
to such a non-utilitarian, cerebral subject.

My conference paper went rather well. There were more in the audience than I had anticipated and there was a very lively
discussion
afterwards. As soon as the session was over, I checked out of my room. Then I caught a bus to the airport, braved the departures queues, found my aeroplane and flew overnight back to Heathrow. I even managed to get some sleep. Altogether it had been a very successful and enjoyable visit to the United States.

My wife Emma was waiting for me by the arrivals barrier. She looked reassuringly the same – of middle height, brown haired, hazel-eyed, dimpled and smiling when she saw me. But once we reached the car, it became clear that she was worried. As we drove back to St Sebastian’s, she told me that she had had two different, but equally disturbing, telephone calls from my
philosophy
colleagues. Both Malcolm Bridgestock and Jonathan Pike were very anxious to be in touch. Emma had told them that I was away at a conference and so they had both spoken to her.

During the time I was in Washington they had both been
summoned
by the new Vice-Chancellor for an urgent appointment. Apparently over the summer, Flanagan had formulated a new
strategic plan for the university. This had been endorsed by Council at its first meeting prior to the beginning of the academic year. Among many other changes, it had been unanimously agreed that philosophy would be phased out of the university curriculum. Students currently on campus would need to be taught for the three years their courses lasted, but recruitment to the subject would cease immediately. Since both Malcolm and Jonathan were in their late fifties, they were offered a full enhancement to their pensions as well as quarter-time contracts until the current students graduated from St Sebastian’s. It had been made clear to them both that if they resisted this, they would not be offered such a good deal in the future. They could well be transferred to another department and they would
probably
have to teach some new, uncongenial courses.

‘And so they’re both taking the deal and leaving me in the lurch?’ I asked, knowing exactly what the answer would be.

‘Yes … Malcolm sounded more guilty than Jonathan and beat about the bush more, but ultimately that’s what it comes down to.’

‘When are they supposed to retire?’

‘I had the impression that they’ll both be going immediately, but of course they’ll still work part-time for three years.’

‘So what am I supposed to do?’ I asked. ‘We’ve got a full quota of first-year students so our undergraduate numbers are as high as ever. If they are both only teaching quarter-time, there’s a huge amount of extra work which will have to be mopped up. We were understaffed with three full-timers. There’s no way just one person can do it.’

‘It looks like that’s what’s going to happen …’

‘But I can’t do all that teaching! They’ll have to help.’

Emma shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Malcolm said he was planning to go on a lengthy vist to his daughter in Argentina next month and wouldn’t be back until after the New Year.’

‘And then what happens when all the philosophy students have graduated? What am I meant to do then?’

Emma shook her head. ‘I shouldn’t think anyone has thought about it. You know what they’re like. No idea of forward planning …’

‘It seems so unfair,’ I fumed. ‘The three of us did so well in the
Research Assessment Exercise. The government is giving the
university
more than sixty thousand pounds a year as a result of the excellence of Philosophy’s research.’

The Research Assessment Exercise is the bane of every
academic
’s life. Last year Philosophy was one of the best-rated groups at St Sebastian’s. We had gained a very high result – higher even than the Theology department, which was our traditional rival.

‘I asked about that.’ Emma said. ‘I thought perhaps the
university
would lose the money if the department disappeared, but apparently not. They will argue that there is a department because you’re still there.’

‘But sixty thousand pounds is more than I earn, quite apart from the fees my students bring in. What it means is that all that money will be used to subsidise a less hard-working department, while I kill myself teaching too much and the students get a raw deal from only having one lecturer. It’s not right!’

‘It’s not the only thing at St Sebastian’s that’s not right,’ observed my wife.

Then Emma told me about our house. I was delighted to hear that the builders had finally, at last, finished their work. For three months they had been building a Victorian-style conservatory on the back of our dining room. It turned out just as I had planned it and Emma knew I would be pleased.

We had lived in the same house for more than twenty years. It was double-fronted and was part of an early Victorian terrace in the centre of St Sebastian’s. When I was appointed to the
lectureship
in philosophy at the university, Emma and I had just
married
. As a wedding present, my parents had given us the down-payment, and through the years we had gradually paid off the mortgage. When our daughter’s fondness for loud pop music had become too much for us to endure, we had extended into the roof, so now Imogen had two rooms and her own bathroom upstairs. Now, of course, she was nineteen. She was away at Cambridge for most of the year, at Beaufort College. It broke my heart when she left, but she was doing exceptionally well reading Social and Political Science and enjoying a lively social life at the university. When she had moved upstairs, Emma had taken over her old nursery for a study and that was where she wrote her
articles
and planned her food programmes for the BBC.

Meanwhile, I had always preferred to work in the centre of the house with everything going on around me. To Emma’s fury, I had increasingly spurned the spare bedroom and had taken my books down to the dining room. For several years now, she had complained about clearing up my papers before she could serve her imaginative meals – hence the need for the new conservatory. It was going to have our dining room furniture and Emma was already planning the exotic vines and creepers which she intended to grow. Meanwhile the dining room was to become my little kingdom. The large Victorian pedestal desk and the
handsome
wellington chest which I had inherited from my
grandfather
would at last come down from upstairs, and Emma was sketching out designs for a more comfortable room for our visitors.

We were both interested in house furnishings. I collected old Caucasian carpets, while Emma was fond of Regency furniture and was a compulsive haunter of antique auctions. She was also a passionate gardener. She spent every weekend planting and weeding our square town garden and the flowers and shrubs always bloomed for her.

When we arrived home, I found several letters addressed to me on the hall table. One in particular looked ominous. It had a St Sebastian’s crest on the envelope and was stamped Private and Confidential. It proved to be a summons from John Pilkington, the Head of the Department of Theology. It read as follows:

‘So,’ I said, ‘the three of us are going to join Theology.’

‘With that stuffed shirt John Pilkington?’ Emma had a low
opinion
of many of the employees of St Sebastian’s. She felt, with some justification, that her friends in the BBC were far more amusing.

‘But apparently I am the only one who is expected to attend departmental meetings. Jonathan and Malcolm have been let off the hook.’

Emma looked grave. ‘That means you’re going to be the only philosopher in the department. I’m sure they want your money, but it doesn’t look as if they’re wildly keen on a massive
philosophical
input into their God-centred debates.’

‘Well I’m not going to worry about it,’ I said resolutely. ‘We must wait and see how it turns out.’

On the day the first meeting of the department of Theology was to take place, Emma had a radio programme to organise, so she was up by seven to catch the early train to London. I had a more leisurely breakfast and set off for the university just after nine. I turned down our lane which came out onto the High Street. Like every other town in England, this had been pedestrianised; rents were enormous and all the small, privately-owned interesting shops had been displaced by the standard national chains. The pathway was an ugly shade of pink and the rubbish bins, crammed with fast food cartons, had not yet been emptied from the night before.

Things changed when I went through the Monks’ Gate into the cathedral precincts. I wandered round the large green court (only the cathedral clergy and distinguished visitors were
privileged
to walk on the grass) and I passed in front of the gracious seventeenth-century Provost’s House. This has been described as one of the most beautiful houses in England. It was a square Queen Anne building of old red brick, perfectly symmetrical with white-painted small-paned sash windows. It had been inhabited by the various provosts of the cathedral without a break since the middle of the eighteenth century. I knew the
present
incumbent. As well as running the cathedral, he was the Visitor of the University and took a spasmodic interest in what was going on. However, he was not a particularly effective person. He had previously been the archdeacon of a big urban
diocese
where the Church was undergoing sharp decline. The rumour was that he had been moved to St Sebastian’s because it was felt that he could do less damage there. Victoria Gilbert, Harry’s wife, used to do a hilarious imitation of his ingratiating manner and his constant references to ‘the dear Archbishop.’

Then, in front of me loomed the great, golden-grey stone mass of the cathedral. Tourists were already gathering in little groups. They were either wandering uncertainly around or were being chivvied by determined-looking ladies with umbrellas. There was the constant click of cameras and a general atmosphere of disorganised reverence. Then suddenly a group of unruly foreign
school children swarmed past me, chewing gum and shrieking to each other. The bells struck the quarter hour and I passed under the archway into the cool of the cloisters. Here was order and quiet. Then, as I came out the other side, I walked passed a couple of canons’ residences, both on a less grand scale than the Provost’s House. I was always amused that an institution which taught that it was the meek who would inherit the earth should have such a clear sense of hierarchy in its housing policy. Finally I passed the cathedral souvenir shop which was already open for business. When I walked out of the precincts through the Trinity Gate, the buildings of St Sebastian’s University were directly in front of me.

Established in the reign of Queen Victoria as a training-school for missionaries, the original college was influenced by
Oxford-style
architecture. Following the ideas of John Ruskin, it was built of local sandstone and decorated with pointed Gothic
towers
. My office, sadly, was in another building, in a hideous
nineteen
-sixties construction known as the Arts Block further along the street. Off the entrance hall was a small anteroom which housed the pigeonholes for the academics. My slot was crammed with the letters and periodicals which had collected while I was away, and I hurried to dispose of them in my office.

I unlocked my door and spread the post on my desk. There did not seem to be anything sinister so I abandoned it and searched wildly for the agenda of the coming meeting. Then I set off for the seminar room where the gathering was scheduled to begin at 9:30. I was early and, as I arrived, the departmental secretary, Wendy Morehouse, was just wheeling in a trolley of cups and saucers, coffee pots and a couple of plates of rather sad-looking biscuits. I was not the first. A number of my new colleagues had already arrived.