The Campus Trilogy (36 page)

On her duffle coat my daughter had pinned a badge I had never seen before. It read: WOMEN ON TOP. ‘Have you got a spare one of those?’ I asked.

Imogen looked puzzled. ‘Do you really want to wear one?’

‘It’s not for me,’ I said. ‘It’s for Magnus on his cruise. I think he’s going to need it.’

After Emma and Imogen had greeted each other rapturously, we all sat down and had a cup of tea. Then six o’clock was approaching and it was time to brace ourselves for the Pilkington’s annual Christmas party. Neither Emma nor I were certain how everyone would be dressed. I thought it was better to err on the side of conservatism so I climbed into my dark blue corduroy suit and I put on my old college tie. Emma eschewed the garments she would have chosen for a BBC office party and was very sedate in a black silk skirt and a soft cashmere sweater. I hoped we would look like model members of the Theology department.

I drove slowly and reluctantly to the Pilkington residence. It was on a small modern estate on the outskirts of St Sebastian’s. By the time we arrived there was already a long line of cars parked in front of the bungalow. One of the department’s
graduate
students opened the door to us and showed us into the open-plan living room. I was curious to see the house and it was very much as I had imagined. The carpet throughout the ground floor was of a beige abstract design and the curtains were of the same neutral shade. The furniture was late 1970s modern and must have been new when John and his wife Maureen had married.

There was no doubt that they were married. There was a large picture of two youthful-looking Pilkingtons dressed as a bride and groom on the side-board. The kindest thing that could be said of the composition was that the flowers were pretty. Flanking this were several other photographs of our host. In each he was receiving some kind of academic degree from a benign dignitary. There were also pictures of two children, a boy and a girl, at various stages of childhood or adolescence. I looked
round the room to see if the originals were present at the party, but, wisely perhaps, they had absented themselves.

In one corner of the room was a mahogany cabinet with a
collection
of dolls from various parts of the world. There were
several
book-cases mainly full of organ music and the upholstered armchairs and sofa were of a dark sludge green. Magnus had told me to check on the downstairs lavatory. Apparently Harry Gilbert had always been fascinated that it was knicker-elastic pink and Magnus wanted to be able to report to him that nothing had changed. I thought I had better complete this task early so I made my way through the crowd. I was not
disappointed
. It was both an extraordinary colour and quite radiantly clean. I almost felt I should recommend it for some television commercial.

All my theological colleagues seemed to be there. I greeted them as I passed. They all smiled wanly, but no one was about to include me in their conversation. Maureen Pilkington, in a neat two-piece mauve costume, was handing out canapes from a large tray; they seemed to be pieces of cheddar and pineapple on orange sticks. In the corner Pilkington was responsible for the dispersal of alcohol. He handed me a glass of anonymous red. I took it into a corner and sipped it. It was irremediably disgusting so, after holding on to it for a few minutes and looking brightly at the assembled company, I left it on top of the book-case and started circulating.

First I went into the kitchen. This was fitted out in beige
laminate
and on every surface large platters of canapes were waiting to be distributed. I played a game with myself to decide which was the most horrible-looking. There were chipolata sausages on sticks, moist and pink on one side and burnt on the other. There was a large bowl of a mysterious white dip with limp pieces of celery and carrot to dunk into it. On another plate were small vol-au-vents which looked as if they were made of plastic; they were filled with a pink sauce and a very occasional shrimp. Then the pièce de résistance were tinned asparagus spears wrapped in very thin, sweating pieces of ham. I longed to discuss this display with Emma.

On the refrigerator was a poster from the St Sebastian’s Methodist Church announcing a Whist Drive. I wondered if Mrs
Brush and old Mrs Catnip would be attending. Then over the kitchen table was a notice board filled with miscellaneous post cards. There was an outside light so I could see the view. Immediately in front of the window was a clothes line, a
barbecue
and a small lawn. Over the fence at the end of the grass was another house, precisely like the one I was standing in. I could see someone working in the kitchen opposite.

I knew I had to make an effort. I returned to the living room where Emma was circulating among the wives. She never had trouble at parties. In contrast the husbands stood in small groups clustered against the wall. No one was anxious to talk to me, and I stood for a few moments in front of the French windows by myself. Then I caught sight of Chantry-Pigg. He had just entered the room and before he could be monopolised by Mrs Sloth who was walking purposefully towards him, I intercepted him. He was forced to stop as I blocked his path. He looked disconcerted to see me. His crucifix swung from his belt and his brown habit radiated a slightly spicy smell. ‘Lovely party, isn’t it?’ I said.

‘It is indeed,’ he intoned and made as if he would move on, but I was determined. ‘Have you brought Madame Bousset with you? I was eager to continue a conversation I had with her after your inauguration service.’

The friar looked even more uncomfortable. ‘How did you know her name?’ he asked.

‘She told me when I spoke to her.’ I looked at him out of the corner of my eye. I was going to make him guess how much I knew. ‘I expect she misses France,’ I said, ‘England is miserable at this time of year’

‘It is indeed!’

‘And where does she come from originally?’ I persisted.

‘I know very little of the former life of my housekeeper,’ declared Chantry-Pigg. ‘She is, of course, at home, attending to her duties …’

‘Good heavens,’ I said, ‘is she still working at a quarter to seven in the evening?’ I thought of the enormous divorce
settlement
Danielle Bousset’s lawyer had achieved for her. ‘She really is a treasure!’

‘She is indeed.’ And Chantry-Pigg stepped round me into the welcoming conversational ambit of Mrs Sloth.

I was a little puzzled why Jenny Sloth was at the party. She had no claim to be a theologian; as far as her work was concerned, she was barely a librarian. Presumably the Pilkingtons felt sorry for her in her deserted state and had invited her as an exercise in Christian charity. Or maybe she was a close friend of Maureen Pilkington ….

Anyway it was clear that no one was going to talk to me. Surprisingly, Pilkington had abandoned all his reservations about Chantry-Pigg. He greeted him effusively and made sure he was provided with wine and food. There was a great deal of
animated
conversation and it seemed as if the two had become best friends. I was shocked. I knew that the Vice-Chancellor had told Pilkington about the sexual harassment case. Presumably my Head of Department was so relieved that the friar was not
corrupting
the young men of the university, he was prepared to
overlook
his behaviour towards the young women.

I had had enough. Even though we had been there only half an hour, I really did not want to stay any longer and I started looking for Emma. But before I could gather her up, there was a commotion at the front door. There was a blast of fresh air; everyone turned to see what was going on and we heard an Australian bellow of greeting. The Vice-Chancellor had arrived.

Flanagan was wearing an enormous camel-hair coat and was exuding excitement and bonhomie. Behind him trailed Helga. She had abandoned her dark glasses, was heavily made up around her eyes and looked miserable. She was walking with a very slight limp that I had not noticed before. The graduate student who had opened the door relieved them of their coats and Maureen Pilkington came forward and guided them into the room. The Vice-Chancellor took a glass of wine off Pilkington’s tray and headed in my direction. ‘Felix mate,’ he said, shaking my hand, ‘I thought I’d see you here. Let’s sit on this sofa.’ I realised that he had been drinking before he came to the party, but there was no escape. I could feel the entire
company
looking at us and I wondered what they thought about the scene.

‘Well, Felix,’ the Vice-Chancellor began, overwhelming me with his alcohol-laden breath, ‘I understand you’re off to Las Vegas for the New Year. I’ve just had a letter from Sylvester. He
tells me they’ve booked the top suite for you and your wife at the Ziggurat.’

I leant as far back into the sofa as I could and nodded. Two days previously I had received a letter from the Mancinis with two first-class return air tickets. We were to arrive in Las Vegas on the evening of December 30th. All expenses would be covered for the trip and one of the Mancini staff – a certain Wolfie Goldberg – was to meet us at the airport and take us to the hotel. The first night we were to have dinner with Sylvester himself at his house and we would be given our full programme then.

As I was telling Flanagan about the arrangements, another of Pilkington’s postgraduates came over with a plate of selected canapes. They looked even worse than in the kitchen. Flanagan gazed at them and shook his head. ‘Looks awful,’ he said, ‘Just get me another drink, would you mate?’ The student scurried away.

‘Now Felix, I’ve several pieces of good news. First of all, I’ve been in touch with our friend Sir William Dormouse. He tells me that his rich pal – that Porpoise bloke – has arranged for the young artist to do a large portrait of St Sebastian for the Great Hall.’

‘Probably the person who painted Harry’s wife,’ I suggested. ‘I saw it when I visited Sir William’s daughter and son-in-law in Sweetpea. It was quite something.’

‘Quite something is what I’m hoping for,’ boomed Flanagan. ‘Anyway, he’s started work on it already and he’ll send it to the university as soon as it’s finished.’

‘For the casino?’ I asked.

‘Right! It’ll strike all the right notes. A giant St Sebastian pierced with banknotes and golden arrows. Absolutely
top-notch
for the Golden Arrow Casino! Of course, until we get the squash courts fixed, it’ll go in the Great Hall. A good change from all those dull portraits of my illustrious predecessors.’

‘What are you going to do with the pictures of the old
Vice-Chancellors
?’ I asked.

‘Put them on a bonfire if I had my way.’ He saw I looked aghast. ‘No, they can go in the Senior Common Room for the time being. Put our colleages off their lunches.’ He guffawed loudly. I was very aware that everyone in the room was listening to the conversation.

‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘they’ll all go back to the Great Hall when the new casino is ready.’

‘Oh no they won’t.’ Flanagan was in full flow. He looked around for Pilkington. ‘John, you need to hear this … and get me another drink, would you?’

The graduate student appeared as if by magic and another glass of red wine was put in the Vice-Chancellor’s hand. John Pilkington came over and Flanagan looked up. ‘I’ve got some very good news. I’ve just heard from a friend on the local council that the university has been awarded a licence to perform civil marriages and commitment ceremonies. That’s where the money lies nowadays. From now on the Great Hall will be given over to that purpose.’

There was a stunned silence in the room. The Great Hall was the glory of the university. All important lectures and dinners were held there. It gave our students a small glimpse of the
traditional
university experience. They could imagine they were back in a time when students were undergraduates, when the term was for tutorials, the vacations for reading parties and no one even thought of supporting themselves with a part-time job. In the Great Hall even the staff could enjoy the illusion that they were scholars in a university, not wage-slaves striving after targets in an education factory.

The Vice-Chancellor was impervious to the sensation he had caused. ‘I heard there’s a shortage of marriage venues in the St Sebastian’s area, now the Church no longer has a monopoly.’ He looked spitefully at Chantry-Pigg. ‘We think that we’ll be able to clean up. We’ll do as many as four or five ceremonies a week. If the couple want religion, they can always use the chapel and our caterers will do the wedding breakfasts. It’s a winner, a real little earner…’

The whole party stood like statues. Then Chantry-Pigg cleared his throat. ‘With all due respect, Vice-Chancellor, you seem to be taking the sacrament of marriage very lightly …’

Flanagan brushed him aside. ‘We must move with the times, Crispin, we must move with the times. Anyway, it won’t just be weddings. We’re doing commitment ceremonies as well. There’s a big demand. If we’re to hit our targets, we must diversify. Diversification … that’s the name of the game nowadays!’

Pilkington looked as if he were about to faint. ‘Commitment ceremonies … You mean between homosexuals … I really think …’

I realised that Flanagan was very drunk by this time, but no one was about to cross him when he demanded yet another glass of wine. ‘You’ve no business to think, John, that’s my job. Weddings and commitment ceremonies, that’s what we’re at. St Sebastian’s will be famous for them. I want none of your
po-faced
Methodist principles here! I’ll have another glass of that red stuff please …’

Helga came forward. She looked frightened, but she put her hand on Flanagan’s arm. She was obviously used to dealing with this situation. She said in her German accent, ‘Alf, I think it’s time for us to go home. We both need an early night.’ She turned to our host and smiled, ‘Thank you for a lovely party Dr Pilkington.’ There was a short tense moment. I thought the
Vice-Chancellor
was going to argue the point, but then he nodded, heaved himself up and stumbled towards the door. The party had come to an end.

On the way home Emma shook her head about the food. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know you could still buy tinned asparagus. And all that grease! Honestly I could almost hear everyone’s arteries screaming for mercy!’