The Campus Trilogy (59 page)

For the next fortnight, Reg Blenkensop served as
Canon-in-Residence
. The practice at St Sebastian's Cathedral was that each residential Canon led the services for two weeks at a time. As Provost, I was not part of this rota, though of course I attended the cathedral whenever I could. Blenkensop's stall was next to mine in the choir. Every day I attempted to make pleasant conversation, but it was to no avail. Before the services, Blenkensop robed himself in sulky silence and would only speak to me if he was compelled to discuss details of the liturgy. When any other canon was present, he would have long
animated
chats with them. Generally, he reminisced about the good old days of the previous Provost or he talked of his time as a rugby blue when the Oxford University team was so
exceptionally
well-managed.

I have to confess that during this period I did become very tired of dischordant modern music. I had told the printer only to accept the order of cathedral services from me or from the Precentor. This meant that there was no possibility of Blenkensop sabotaging the Precentor's choices. As a result, we had a plethora
of difficult anthems. However, I told myself that this was better in the long run than allowing a bully to prosper.

Unfortunately I was not so successful in improving Marmaduke's behaviour. He continued to stalk around the cathedral whenever he felt like it and he systematically decimated the unfortunate small fauna of the precincts. He also took to
spitting
at me whenever I was anywhere near him. This did not improve the atmosphere in the Green Court. However, the other Canons and the Precentor did their best to be friendly to both sides. Altogether it was all very awkward and embarrassing.

At the next meeting of the Chapter, young Derek Trend,
keeping
his eyes firmly on his papers, hesitantly reported that he had been in contact with a number of cathedrals. He gave a very diplomatic account of the advantages and disadvantages of introducing formal charges. By the end of his exposition, we were no nearer reaching a decision.

Blenkensop remained adamant in his championship of the cause and was supported more mildly by the Archdeacon. Old Canon Sinclair, trembling and with much lamentation over any possible unpleasantness, came out against the motion and was whole-heartedly supported by the Precentor. Trend refused to declare his colours. He was a young man who knew the
unwisdom
of offending any of his elders and, as a result, succeeded in pleasing none of them. So it all came down to me and I said that I wanted to discuss it with the Archbishop. Therefore, to Blenkensop's fury, it was agreed that no formal decision would be made until after Christmas.

We were worried about the cats. There was already a cat-flap cut into the scullery door which led out to the Green Court. Victoria tried very hard to persuade Brutus and Cleo to go
outside
and enjoy the fresh air. They would have none of it. They spent most of the time on my study window-sill peering out in terror in case Marmaduke was in the vicinity. On one appalling occasion, Marmaduke actually marched into the scullery and proceeded to consume two large saucers of food which we had just put down. Mercifully, our two were sitting with me in the study and Victoria managed to chase the ginger intruder out before there was an almighty cat fight. However, the two Siamese knew from the smell what had happened and for two days they
were both off their food. After that we had to keep the cat-flap locked.

Even though the weather was becoming colder, Marmaduke did not moderate his activities. Every day I saw him out pacing about, hunting some wretched creature or preening himself for tourists' photographs. The peaceful ambiance of the cathedral was frequently disturbed by his appalling caterwaulings. It sounded as if someone were being murdered and probably
someone
was.

On my way to and from services, I often came across Mrs Blenkensop. She was a mousey, little woman. In contrast to her husband, she always smiled and said ‘Good Morning!' She was invariably burdened with large numbers of shopping bags. On a couple of occasions I offered to carry them over to her house, but she refused. She said she was used to heavy shopping. I could not help but notice that the bags seemed equally divided between numerous tins of cat food and large quantities of expensive cuts of meat. Clearly both Reg Blenkensop and Marmaduke were fond of their food.

At the beginning of November, I was invited to preach at Cannonbury Cathedral. I thought it would be a pleasant
interlude
and I drove down to the beautiful mediaeval city thirty miles away. I was particularly anxious to learn about their Dean and Chapter's experience with admission charges.

I had been at theological seminary in Cambridge with the
current
Archdeacon, and he invited me to lunch after the service. Sitting in the splendid Archdeaconry overlooking the
magnificent
cloisters, we drank sherry as my old friend told me about the disagreements that existed within the Chapter. ‘They forced the charges through, Harry,' he said. ‘I have always been opposed to admission fees, but the Dean was determined. He had just been on a management course for clergy and he persuaded the entire Chapter.'

‘Couldn't you stand against it?' I asked.

‘There was nothing I could do. As you know, we've had
problems
with the roof. We've tried to raise enough money for repairs, but it's been quite hopeless. We've been running at a deficit for years and we can't let the cathedral actually fall down.
The projections of future income were very pessimistic and the Chapter was convinced that charging was the only answer.'

He took a deep breath, before he started again. ‘To tell you the truth, I hate it. You saw the barriers just outside at the entrance to the cloisters. Nobody can come in without paying. We lock the doors of the precincts at night and God's glorious church is only open between the hours of nine and seven to those who can afford to pay. Even those who live in the town have to make a token yearly subscription for the priviledge of walking around. It's unchristian and dreadful, but there was really very little
alternative
.'

‘And has it worked?' I asked.

The Archdeacon nodded ruefully. ‘Amazingly well. Last year we had over fifty thousand tourists all paying ten pounds each. And of course the relative quiet in the precincts is blissful. All the social problems are left firmly in the town.'

‘That sounds very much in accord with the teachings of the Gospel,' I said.

‘It's dreadful, isn't it?' he agreed. ‘What it all comes down to in the end is money. It governs everything. The Church seems to think of nothing else. Well … when they're not cowering at the thought that a woman might become a bishop or wondering how much of a witch-hunt they should have against gay priests … As if half the clergy aren't gay anyway! Honestly … You were
sensible
to choose the academic life, Harry.'

I sighed. ‘But I'm a Provost now.'

‘Indeed, so you are. And how is it going?'

I told him about my problems with Blenkensop and hinted about the difficulties at the university. ‘The Archbishop just wanted me to fill in,' I explained. ‘I knew there were one or two problems, but I thought it was basically a caretaking job in a beautiful house. But unfortunately it isn't.'

As the Archdeacon's wife went off to look after lunch, my mobile telephone rang. It was Victoria. Her father had been coaching the other Priory residents at croquet. He had not been looking where he was going and he had tripped over his mallet. The gardeners called an ambulance and he had been taken to hospital. Victoria was sitting with him in the X-ray department.

I asked how Sir William was. Not surprisingly, he was very
shaken, but he could still walk and nothing appeared to be broken. They wanted to X-ray his ankle as it was possible that he might have a fracture in one of the small bones.

‘He's as stubborn as always,' pronounced my wife. ‘His foot has swollen up like a ballon, but he was furious that the ladies insisted on stopping the game and calling Matron. He wanted to carry on regardless. He was way ahead of everyone else and you know how he likes to win.'

‘Will the hospital want to keep him in overnight?' I asked ‘After all he is in his late eighties. He was lucky not to break a hip.'

‘They don't seem too worried. I think he'll be sent back to the Priory, but I'll stay with him until he gets the final “all-clear”,' she said. ‘You know, Harry,' she went on, ‘one of the old dears he was playing with was Canon Blenkensop's mother. Did you have any idea she was another resident of the Priory?'

‘No. No one told me. What's she like?'

‘Rather a nice old biddy. She's built on a large scale like her son and she can never have been pretty. Also she's not helped now by the fact that her false teeth don't fit very well. Daddy says he finds it difficult to hear what she says because she mumbles. But she's a game old bird. She's one of the group Daddy's teaching
blackjack
to and she says it's a nice change from canasta. Actually, it was she who insisted on summoning the gardeners and calling the ambulance.'

‘Well we owe her a debt of gratitude then …'

‘Yes I agree … I thought I'd take her some flowers when I next call in to see Daddy. It would be nice to get to know her. She might have a story or two to tell me about her loathsome son!'

‘She probably thinks he's wonderful in every particular. Mothers are often unrealistic,' I pointed out.

‘Yes …,' remarked Victoria dryly, ‘if I remember rightly, your mother had some very peculiar illusions about you!'

As the nights drew in, it was the custom for the cathedral to turn on its floodlights. The great building was lit from six o'clock until midnight. I have always thought that floodlighting was the great twentieth-century contribution to architecture. High above the
town, the towers of the cathedral looked magnificent floating in a golden glow against the blackness of the night. Close to, the play of light and shadows was overpowering and I loved to see the
illuminated
cathedral from the windows of the Provost's House. However, during the last week of November, for no reason that I could discover, the lights were turned off at ten o'clock. Puzzled by this change, I went over to the office of the Clerk of Works.

‘What happened to the floodlights, George?' I asked. ‘Why are they suddenly being turned off at ten o'clock?'

‘It's Canon Blenkensop's orders, Sir,' the Clerk of Works responded. ‘He came into the office last week and told me that from now on the lights must be out by ten. I thought it was a
decision
of the Chapter. Didn't you know about it?'

‘I did not,' I replied, trying not to sound tetchy, ‘and it hasn't been discussed in a Chapter meeting either …'

‘Well what am I to do?' George Carpenter was understandably upset. He was a young man and had not held his post long.

‘Did Canon Blenkensop give you any idea why he wanted the change?' I asked.

Carpenter shook his head. ‘No! It was just an order and I thought it came from you.'

‘But is there a reason why he might want to turn off the lights so early?'

The young man shrugged. ‘Well the only thing I can think … I did hear that he and Mrs Blenkensop have changed their
bedroom
. They now sleep at the front of the house. Perhaps the floodlighting kept them awake at night …'

I was astounded. ‘But we can't deprive the whole town of the beauty of the lighted cathedral just to suit one middle-aged
couple
. It can't be that …'

The Clerk of Works shrugged again. ‘I'm sorry, Sir. I really don't know. I just do what I'm told,' he said.

There was nothing for it. I had to go and tackle Blenkensop himself. Full of righteous indignation. I went over to the Diocesan Office next to the Trinity Gate. Marmaduke was
sitting
on the doorstep washing himself and I had to step around him to get through the door. A secretary told me that Canon Blenkensop was in and suggested that I go straight up. His office was on the second floor.

When I knocked on his door, the Canon was standing looking out of the window smoking a pipe. As I entered the room, I was overwhelmed by the view of the west front of the cathedral. The office itself was comfortable, furnished with solid Victorian mahogany furniture from another age. On the walls were engravings in gold frames as well as several photographs of old rugby teams. I did not look at them closely, but no doubt they represented Reg Blenkensop's moments of glory when he was part of the Oxford University Rugby squad.

‘Oh, it's you Provost,' Blenkensop's greeting was not exactly welcoming. He did not invite me to sit down, but I made my way over to the nearest armchair anyway. I was determined that this should be a civilised conversation.

‘Sorry to bother you, Reg. But I did want to speak to you about an important matter.' Blenkensop made no response and
continued
to loom over me. ‘It's about the floodlighting,' I said.

‘What's wrong with it?' he asked truculently.

‘Nothing's wrong with it. It works excellently and adds immeasurably to the beauty of the precincts at night. That's just the point. I understand from the Clerk of Works that you've given instructions for it to be turned off two hours earlier than usual and I've come to ask the reason why.'

‘Four hours is quite long enough.'

‘But I understand that they have always been on from six to twelve. You can't just make a unilateral decision like this. It must be discussed in Chapter and there must be a proper vote.'