The Campus Trilogy (56 page)

‘Only twice actually.’ Felix was deeply gloomy.

I thought the time had come to change the subject. After all this was meant to be a pleasant lunch amongst old colleagues.

‘How is everyone else? How is my old arch-enemy John Pilkington?’

John Pilkington was the Head of the Department of Theology and had been determined to get rid of me. Magnus was amused. ‘Oh he’s risen to great heights. He’s become Dean!’

‘Dean! No!’ I said. ‘But what happened to the old one? That nice lesbian you liked? What was her name? Patricia Parham?’

‘She’s gone off to Miami Beach to be the Head of Women’s Studies on an enormous salary.’ Magnus informed me. ‘There was much wailing and gnashing of teeth when she went, partly because she was so nice, but mainly because her partner was the best car mechanic in the town and everyone’s cars have fallen into little pieces since she left.’

‘But how did Pilkington get it?’ I asked.

‘He was the only candidate,’ said Felix, who was also clearly not happy with the situation. ‘I’ve also had my battles with Pilkington as you may know. The only consolation about his elevation is that he is as worried as I am about the
coming
quality inspection. And when all’s said and done, he is conscientious.’

‘Never mind!’ I consoled him. ‘At least you’ve written a couple of novels and you must have got some royalties on them.’

‘And movie rights,’ Magnus added pointedly. ‘I’m still waiting for my call from a Hollywood casting director.’

‘You may wait a long time,’ Felix said. ‘I helped with the screenplay, but there were problems and the whole thing seems
to be snarled up in some financial wrangle …’ He smiled. ‘Still the books did quite well …’

When we had finished our lunch, Magnus insisted that we paid a visit to the Great Hall. The university had been given a
picture
of its patron saint, St Sebastian, and Magnus was eagar for me to see it. I happened to know the artist who lived in Virginia, but I was unprepared for what I found. The picture was at least twelve feet tall and was hung at the far end of the room next to an antique longcase clock. It was larger than life in every sense of the word. Every vein and every muscle was outlined in sharp relief. The flesh was intensely flesh-coloured and, at intervals, golden arrows skewered bank notes to the body as streams of scarlet blood flowed from the wounds. Over the saint’s head was a golden halo and his face was lifted upwards toward heaven. It looked bizarre against the Victorian oak panelling.

‘Good God!’ I said. I regret to say that sometimes I forget that I am a clergyman.

‘Absolutely!’ Magnus smirked. ‘It’s quite memorable, isn’t it?’

‘It’s incredible! What’s it doing in the Great Hall?’

‘It’s to drum up custom for weddings,’ Felix said.

‘Weddings? What weddings?’

‘Actually gay weddings,’ Felix explained. ‘Of course the
university
doesn’t discriminate; it does offer a straight wedding package, but that picture rather pulls in the gay market.’

‘How does it work?’ I had understood that universities were in the business of teaching and research. Flamboyant life-cycle
ceremonies
were the preserve of cathedrals. Now it seemed the Church had a serious rival.

Magnus started laughing again. ‘It’s one of the Vice-Chancellor’s money-making schemes. He set up a company called Mixed Blessings. He employs an administrator who mainly uses student labour and every Saturday and often on week-days the college building is taken over by one wedding after another.’

‘Does the Mixed Blessings administrator teach as well?’ I asked. ‘Are you now offering a degree in Matrimonial Management?’

Felix shuddered. ‘Don’t suggest it! Don’t even think about it! Flanagan would be onto it like a dog after a rabbit!’

‘Now that you’re Provost, Harry, perhaps you could officiate,’ Magnus suggested. ‘It would be a nice little earner for you!’

As we were chuckling about this, we heard the voice of the Vice-Chancellor in the distance. As he came round the corner, we saw he was showing a delegation of Japanese visitors around the university. They were heading in the direction of the Great Hall; Flanagan was wanting to show off the portrait.

He was delighted to see us and seized the opportunity to make elaborate introductions. There was a great deal of bowing and quantities of Japanese business cards were thrust into our hands. I felt inadequate that I had nothing to give in return. Magnus, however, rose to the occasion. Leading the delegation to the foot of the portrait, he rattled off several very fluent-sounding Japanese phrases. His audience giggled uncertainly and then relaxed when Magnus said something else. When he had finished there were more smiles and bows and Flanagan led them all out.

I knew Magnus was a suberb linguist, but this time he had
surpassed
himself. ‘That’s very impressive,’ I said. ‘Where did you learn how to say that?’

‘Stopped off in Tokyo on one of the cruises,’ he said. ‘Bought a phrase book for tourists. Thought it might come in handy as a gentleman host. I hoped there might be some meek Japanese ladies who would be content to sit quietly rather than dance exhaustingly all the time.’

‘Did it work?’ I asked.

Magnus shook his head. ‘No. The cruises are only marketed in America. The only Japanese person I ever met on board was one of the cooks. Still I did practise a bit with him.’

‘They seemed pleased. What did you say?’

‘Well I took them to the picture and asked them if they’d ever seen anything so camp in their lives. I’m not sure if I got the right word for camp which is why the reaction was a little uncertain. They may have thought I was saying something improper. Then I told them to make sure that the Vice Chancellor gave them something to eat. Business visiting is very exhausting and one must always keep one’s strength up. They liked that!’

Felix and I looked at each other and shook our heads. For all his faults, Magnus was incredibly talented.

Later in the week, Sir William and Bess came to stay with us at the Provost’s House. Our cats were not pleased. In their view, Marmaduke was a terror and Bess an affront. But some things have to be endured and they decamped to a high chest of drawers and spat at the poor dog whenever she went past. My
father-in-law
was in good form. He had always liked St Sebastian’s and we got the impression he was looking forward to his new life.

True to her promise, Victoria had found a very nice residential home within walking distance of the precincts. It was located in an old regency mansion known as the Priory and there were extensive grounds. There was plenty of room for both Sir William and for Bess to walk about and there was no objection to dogs. Indeed, on our visit, we were introduced to a small white poodle in a jewelled collar who belonged to one of the old ladies.

There was one room vacant. It was not very large, but it was on the ground floor and it overlooked the garden. We stayed to lunch and the meal was just what my father-in-law liked; basic well-cooked school food. Then we were shown the programme of entertainment and were pleased to see that the other old
people
looked well-cared for and comfortable. I was a little
perturbed
that there seemed to be almost no men amongst the inhabitants, but Victoria was not troubled. ‘Daddy’s always liked ladies,’ she said.

We took him round the following Saturday. Sir William was enthusiastic about the grounds, but felt that the gardeners were not sufficiently supervised. ‘Damned untidy herbacious border,’ he remarked. ‘It should have been thoroughly cleared for the winter by now. And the lawn edges are a disgrace!’ I feared that the Priory staff would have a hard time under his aegis.

He also liked the room. I thought he would find it too small after the castle, but he was unbothered. ‘I’m used to army
quarters
, remember. This is very cosy. As long as I’ve got my new arm chair and we can fit in Bess’s basket, I’m happy.’ He ogled all the young carers who were very amused by him. The other old ladies were put in quite a flutter at the idea that a real-life baronet was going to join them and he was remarkably gallant to them all. He even got on with the matron. He addressed her as if she were his sergeant. ‘I say, you’re doing a fine job here, Matron,’ he said. ‘Carry on the good work, carry on the good work!’

So it was decided. Victoria drove him back to the castle to help him select which of his possessions he wanted to bring. Since for many years he had lived mainly in the old housekeeper’s room which was not much bigger than his new residence, the choice was not difficult. It was all packed up by Victoria’s brother Billy and sent off in a van. Victoria followed to set up the new room, leaving her father behind for one last week. During this time, his tenants on the estate organised a surprise farewell party for the old man which touched him very much.

Meanwhile, Victoria was busy. She persuaded the matron to have the room repainted in cream and a dark brown carpet was fitted. This was the scheme Sir William was used to in the castle. She hung a couple of pairs of old gold velvet curtains at the
windows
and somehow managed to fit in an incredible quantity of furniture. There was his old leather armchair, the new self-lifting contraption, a Regency mahogany gentleman’s wardrobe and a couple of sidetables as well as his bed and a flat-screen television. On the walls, she hung several engravings of Shropshire as well as three or four small ancestral portraits from the castle and an array of family photographs. There was a replica of the arms of his old regiment and pictures of his old school and college. Just before he arrived Victoria set out an enormous bouquet of
red-hot
pokers in one of the castle vases.

Billy and Selina drove him and Bess down. ‘Feels like my first day at prep school,’ Sir William remarked, as we all arrived together in front of the Priory. The sun was shining, the matron was cordial to us all, though she was surprised at Bess’s size. She had been expecting a small dog. Bess walked to heel impeccably at Sir William’s side and all was well. Sir William liked his room. He demonstated the raising action of his chair to any member of staff who was willing to be an audience and he admired all Victoria’s arrangements. It all seemed too good to be true.

Then suddenly there was a disturbance. We heard the sound of an old lady screaming hysterically down the corridor and there were accompanying yaps of terror. Victoria rushed down the passage to investigate the problem. It was not good. Bess had made a category mistake. She had taken the small white poodle to be an errant lamb and had hemmed it up into a corner. The
poodle’s owner was weeping and wringing her hands. She was sure that her darling Pookie was about to be eaten.

Victoria called off Bess who responded instantly. Sir William limped over to apologise; he reproved the poor sheepdog (who was, after all, only being obedient to her training) and promised that henceforth Bess would be kept on a lead in the house. He was so remarkably charming that old Mrs Mackenzie – that was the name of Pookie’s owner – surrendered completely. The two old people sat down together and Victoria went out and asked one of the carers to bring everyone coffee.

‘Do you play cards, madam?’ asked Sir William.

‘Oh yes,’ fluttered Mrs Mackenzie. ‘We’re always looking for someone for our canasta group and my friend Mrs Germaney is a bridge fiend.’

‘Yes, yes! Very good! But what about blackjack? Do you play blackjack?’

Mrs Mackenzie looked nervous. ‘Isn’t that a gambling game? I’m not sure my dear father would have approved of that!’

‘No, no!’ said Sir William. ‘You can always play with
matchsticks
. It makes it more interesting if there’s something to play for. I’ll demonstrate.’ He dug into his pocket and produced a pack of playing cards. ‘Now madam,’ he said, as he happily started dealing out the cards, ‘Let me show you. You’ll soon get the hang of it!’

We settled down to our life in the precincts. Victoria was very preoccupied with her father, but things seemed to be going well at the Priory. Sir William had established a good rapport with the matron. Bess had become a general favourite and now
understood
that, despite all appearances, Pookie was a dog like herself. The rules of blackjack had been taught to several old ladies and was widely established as the game of the moment. Sir William, to his great satisfaction, had also demonstrated that he was the best Scrabble-player in the home.

On our third Sunday, Victoria invited Magnus to lunch
following
the cathedral service. It was a damp day and there was a slight mist over the Green Court as I made my way to the West Front. Despite the inclement weather, there were still a great many tourists in the precincts. The doorway into the cathedral was blocked by a large group of Japanese visitors all taking
photographs
. I wondered if it was the same delegation that I had met at the university. Perhaps unsurprisingly, they showed no sign of wanting to join us for prayer.

When I finally arrived in the vestry, I found the rest of the
Chapter waiting for me. Hurriedly, I put on the Provost's Cope. This was one of the treasures of the cathedral. It was extremely heavy and it was covered with magnificent hand embroidery in gold, red and white. When I was a professor at the university, I had always admired it. I did not realise how hot and
uncomfortable
it was to wear. Just before we were due to begin, choir and clergy came together and I recited a brief prayer. Then, as the organ struck up the first hymn, led by the choir, we all filed into the nave. I brought up the end of the procession.

The service followed its usual course. I was somewhat
disconcerted
to discover that the choir was to sing yet another anthem by Handel. I made a mental note to myself that I must defend the Precentor's choice of music against the assaults of Canon Blenkensop. Nothing else untoward happened until we were on the third hymn. I was due to be led by the Verger into the pulpit for my sermon, when I saw Marmaduke sauntering up the cathedral aisle. He turned this way and that as he walked, much as a royal personage graciously greets his subjects who have been standing all night in the rain to catch a glimpse of him. Then, to my horror, he sprang up onto the altar which stood at the top of the nave. Waving his tail, he sharpened his claws on the white linen cloth. Then he walked across it leaving a line of muddy footprints. They would have delighted the forensic department of Scotland Yard. Turning himself round several times, he stretched himself out and settled for sleep in the warmth of the candle flames.

I was horrifed and thought about sending the Verger to turn him off. But, having confronted him several times in my own
garden
, I knew he would spit and struggle. In all likelihood there would be an unseemly scene and probably the Verger would end up wounded and in need of immediate first aid. Therefore,
coward
that I am, I pretended not to notice and started to deliver my sermon. Marmaduke did not seem to feel any obligation to listen. He slept soundly, snoring slightly until I finished. Then he leapt down, waited until I had been led back into my seat and
proceeded
back down the aisle with exactly the same aplomb as before.

‘Is this normal?' I whispered to the Precenter under cover of the final hymn.

‘That damn cat does it whenever it rains. He sits, terrorising
everyone in the precincts on fine days and then he comes into the cathedral to throw his weight about whenever it's wet,' he said.

‘But that's outrageous. We can't have a cat disrupt the service like that. Look at the state of the altar cloth.'

The Precentor shrugged his shoulders and started singing the last verse of ‘Praise to the Holiest in the Height' very loudly in his fine deep baritone.

Back in the vestry, we all disrobed. Before he could leave, I tapped Canon Blenkensop on the shoulder. ‘Can I have a word?' I said.

The Canon looked at his watch. ‘I've only got a minute,' he said. ‘I've an important luncheon engagement.'

I took a deep breath. ‘It's about your cat,' I began.

Canon Blenkensop frowned. ‘Marmaduke? What about him?'

I realised that this was not going to be an easy conversation. ‘As you know, Reg, I'm a cat-lover myself, but we really can't have Marmaduke wandering all over the cathedral during the services. It's distracting for the congregation and really, it's not very suitable in the house of God.'

‘Why not? As our Lord said ‘Suffer the little children to come unto me.' Surely that includes all God's creatures.'

‘I think there is a difference between children and animals,' I said mildly. ‘And anyway I wouldn't allow a child to march all over the altar and leave his footprints everywhere. It's not reverent.'

‘I think you're making a fuss about nothing. He doesn't do any harm.'

‘I'm sorry Reg,' I tried to sound firm. ‘Marmaduke really
cannot
come into the cathedral in future. You must keep him under better control.'

The Canon looked at his watch again. ‘I'm sorry Provost,' he said, ‘I really must go to my lunch. All I can say is that no one has ever complained before … Splendid anthem wasn't it?' And with that he turned on his heel and strode out of the vestry.

Although Magnus had been at the service, we had agreed to meet back at the Provost's House. I found him sitting in my study drinking sherry while Victoria was on the telephone in the kitchen. I helped myself to a drink and sat down opposite. ‘Well … what did you think?' I asked.

‘Very jolly! I particularly liked the anthem,' he said. I sighed inwardly. The problem was that Canon Blenkensop's musical tastes, in contrast to those of the Precentor, probably did match those of the general public. ‘And I loved that Cope of yours,' he continued. ‘Very stylish! Almost worth being Provost for!'

‘It's very uncomfortable to wear and I don't get to keep it,' I said. ‘It's over a hundred years old and it belongs to the cathedral.'

‘And that cat was quite an addition. He looks a tough
customer
!'

‘He is. He terrorises Cleo and Brutus. They don't dare go
outside
and we've had to organise indoor sanitation for them. They haven't had that since they were kittens, but they're too
frightened
to face that ginger beast who dominates the whole precincts.'

Magnus laughed. He knew what it was to be bullied by a cat. His tabby was called Pushkin. He was known to insist on an indoor lavatory and the most expensive cat litter. ‘I can't
understand
it,' I continued, ‘Marmaduke seems to run the place.'

‘I thought that was your job, Harry.'

‘Well perhaps the Almighty has put that cat here to keep me humble …'

At that moment Victoria came into the room and poured
herself
a large glass of sherry. She looked flushed.

I felt a chill of foreboding. ‘What's the matter?' I asked.

‘That was the Matron of the Priory on the telephone. She's been trying to get hold of me since Friday. The gardeners have complained.'

‘How has your father managed to upset the gardeners?' Magnus was amused. He always found it difficult to take
domestic
crises seriously.

‘He ticked them off. He told them that the herbacious borders hadn't been properly weeded and that several of the perennial clumps should have been lifted and divided a couple of months ago. Then he rang Billy to send some cuttings from the castle grounds and he is demanding that the gardeners plant them.'

‘What's wrong with that?'

‘They say it's against union rules. They're only prepared to take their orders from Matron. And apparently Daddy walks
about the garden like a fieldmarshal, looking down his nose and pointing his stick at everything he disapproves of.'

‘He's behaving like Marmaduke! And how do the gardeners show their displeasure?' I asked.

‘Well they're scarcely gardeners. They're a couple of youths on some ex-delinquent employment programme and Matron says they don't react well to authority figures. They went to see her insisting on their rights. They told her that if she didn't keep the old bugger under control, they'd give in their notice.'

‘It sounds as if the Priory would be better off without them if that's their attitude.'

‘Well I made that point, but apparently labour is almost impossible to find in St Sebastian's. You have to take whatever you can get.'

‘Perhaps Sir William could organise a volunteer corps of
gardeners
from among the old ladies. Probably several of them are veterans of the Second World War Land Army and he could be their commander-in-chief,' suggested Magnus helpfully.

We all giggled. Then Victoria became serious. ‘I'll have to go and see him after lunch and talk to him. I'm sorry to send you off before tea, Magnus, but we must calm him down a bit before there's real trouble.'

There were further difficulties later in the afternoon. Victoria did manage to persuade her father that he was no longer the lord of the manor and that he could not go about giving orders to the gardeners, however inadequate. She had just arrived home and was looking forward to a quick glance at the Sunday newspaper when there was a knock on the front door. We really did not want to be disturbed, but I knew my duty. I rose from my chair and opened the door. Outside, looking as if he were about to burst into tears, was the Precentor. ‘Provost,' he said, ‘I feel dreadful disturbing your Sunday evening, but I just don't know what to do. Could I have a minute of your time?'

I gathered him up and led him into the study while Victoria tactfully melted away into the kitchen. ‘Sit here,' I said pointing at an armchair beside the fire. ‘Let me pour you a drink. You look a bit as if you need one. What would you like? How about a little whisky?'

The Precentor huddled into himself, but cheered up a little when I suggested a large gin and tonic instead.

With trembling hands he told me that he had just had another argument with Reg Blenkensop. Apparently, earlier in the
afternoon
, the Canon had marched over to the Precentor's house uninvited and had insisted that the matter of cathedral music be sorted out once and for all.

‘He had heard that I was planning a special service for the Bishop of Tuckenham's visit in a fortnight's time,' the Precentor told me. ‘I don't know how he found out. He always seems to know the coming anthems almost before I do. I think Mrs Blenkensop has struck up a friendship with the girlfriend of one of the lay-clerks and that's how he gets all his inside information.'

‘Anyway, I know the Bishop is one of the more musical
members
of the bench so I was planning to have a treat for him, a
special
arrangement of extracts from the Schoenberg Mass in F.' I tried to look as if I were familiar with the work. The Precentor continued, ‘Canon Blenkensop stormed around my study and said it was a totally unsuitable choice and no wonder people stayed away from church if they had to listen to that sort of
rubbish
. Rubbish … that's what he said!' The Precentor's voice became higher and higher in indignation. ‘Schoenberg was one of the finest composers of the twentieth century. His work may not have the immediate appeal of Ralph Vaughan Williams or Arthur Sullivan which is the limit of Reg Blenkensop's taste, but it's infinitely more subtle …'

‘I'm sure you're right,' I tried to soothe my agitated colleague. ‘What did Reg want in place of the Schoenberg?'

‘He suggested that if I wanted something special for the Bishop, we could have Bach's ‘Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring'
cantata
, but really one of Elgar's anthems would be more suitable. How dare the man interfere! He's a complete Philistine! He's almost tone deaf and he's had no musical education at all! The only thing he ever did when he was at Oxford, besides scraping a third in theology, was play rugby for the university …'

‘Was he really a rugby blue when he was an undergraduate?' I was impressed.

‘Oh yes … he boasts about it all the time. But that doesn't give
him the right to lay down the law about cathedral music. I just can't bear it any longer …'

‘Oh dear!' I said rather inadequately.

The Precentor was not to be halted. ‘He just wants to control everything, every detail. I'm the Precentor and the responsibility for cathedral music is part of my job description. I tried to tell him so, but he wouldn't let me speak. He just cut across me. He accused me of being a modernist and having no respect for the traditions of the Church of England. And then he told me that he had told the printer after the morning service to change the
proposed
service sheet and put Bach's ‘Jesu, Joy' as the anthem rather than the Schoenberg. The printer always prints it out before lunch on Sunday so it can't be changed now. It's too bad! When I tried to protest he told me to attend to my duties and he went out and slammed the door. His horrible cat was waiting for him, eating a pigeon in my garden, and the two of them went off together leaving a mangled corpse in my rose bed.'

‘Oh dear!' I said again.

‘And that's not all, Provost.' There was no way the Precentor's indignation could be assuaged. ‘I think you ought to know that he wants to introduce a scheme so that visitors will have to pay to come into the cathedral in the future. It's an outrage! Our cathedral is a house of God. It belongs to all faithful people and its doors should be open to anyone whatever their financial circumstances.'