Matricide at St. Martha's (7 page)

Amiss felt a momentary flash of resentment on Plutarch’s behalf; a cat of such determined fighting spirit and ferocity of temperament should not be thus slandered. As he strove to make some appropriate rejoinder, the Mistress came downstairs, looking trim in a maroon gymslip.

She stood with her back to her followers and went instantly into action, swinging her arms forwards and backwards in a warming-up exercise which the others followed faithfully. Within a minute and with no warning she swung into the in-out jump. Amiss had not participated in an exercise class since school but he had once observed one in action on civil service premises. On that occasion, half a dozen or so women dressed in leotards had been leaping about aerobically to a frightful din of hard rock interspersed with screamed instructions from a tarty-looking, over-made-up blonde. He was not enjoying himself, but he was grateful that at least the Virgins did it quietly.

His ruminations were shattered by a swift and extremely painful blow to the back of his neck, which turned out to be the Bursar’s delicate way of indicating that the assembled company had now moved on to toe-touching. Out of the corner of his eye he observed with pleasure that this exercise was giving her a little trouble. Even with the greatest exertion she could reach only as far as mid-calf. He was doing only slightly better, but the others – to a Virgin – appeared to be effortlessly hitting the spot.

The Mistress took them through four or five more movements and at 7.30 said, ‘Thank you, ladies, and Mr Amiss,’ and took the stairs at commendable speed. All followed save the Bursar and Amiss, both of whom were short of breath.

‘I shall probably be unable to walk tomorrow,’ groaned Amiss.

‘That’s all right,’ she responded cheerfully. ‘You’re supposed to be a cripple.’

‘No thanks to you I’m not dead; you nearly broke my neck.’

‘All you youngsters nowadays seem to want to be treated like Dresden,’ she said contemptuously.

‘Well, you are certainly putting up a pretty good imitation of Bomber Command.’ He stopped for a moment to catch his breath. ‘Now what was I supposed to have got out of this new unpleasant experience? Oh, yes, I remember, snuggling up closer to the Virgins.’

The Bursar began to climb the stairs. ‘What did you notice?’

‘That they seem to be a united and happy team.’

‘That’s correct. Except for that old cow Deborah Windlesham…’

‘Who?’

‘The one who looks as if she’s just sucked on a lemon.’

‘Ah, and reads at meals.’

‘That’s her. But Maud keeps her in her place, so mostly she’s perforce a team player. What you saw there was the quintessential spirit of the college – enjoying duty and accepting leadership gratefully. That’s what I expect of you.’ Smiting him on the back from a sheer excess of good spirits she turned down her own corridor. ‘Breakfast at 8.00 sharp. Later, if it’s dry, we’ll see about the cat.’

When he entered the dining hall, Amiss decided to sit with the students rather the Fellows. Recognizing a prettyish face from the previous night’s fiasco, he sat beside it. He introduced himself as unthreateningly as possible. She said ‘Hello’ in a more or less civil way but did not give her name.

He helped her solicitously to cornflakes and milk and she appeared to thaw.

‘What’s your favourite course?’

‘Bridget Holdness’s Special: “Matriarchy meets Patriarchy; the fight for visibility”.’

‘Interesting?’

‘It’s not just interesting, it’s empowering. Once the scales have fallen from your eyes, everything becomes clear and you feel you can fulfil your potential and share in releasing the spirit of the sisterhood.’ Her eyes radiated devotion in a manner reminiscent of Sandra; it made her look rather attractive. ‘Otherwise… ’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t like the rest of what I’m doing. It has nothing to do with me or my experience.’

‘What’s your subject?’

‘History.’

‘What? You mean you don’t like any of the other courses?’

‘Most of them are given by men, for heaven’s sake.’

‘Well, you must have known before you came here that the university teaching staff is predominantly male.’

‘I didn’t realize what that meant, then. That was before I understood. I was brainwashed at school. Can you believe that I chose St Martha’s because it was particularly strong in constitutional history.’ She snorted.

‘Isn’t it?’

‘That’s not the point. It’s all right for what it is but it’s irrelevant. Why should I waste myself on the study of male political ideology?’

‘Know your enemy?’

‘Well, yes, there is that,’ she said grudgingly. ‘But it’s very hard to get Dr Windlesham to address herself to the centrality of misogyny in the development of constitutional theory. Like, you know, how the Irish constitution encourages women to stay at home and outlaws abortion, and the American constitution, by guaranteeing freedom of speech, deliberately encourages pornography.’

‘Deliberately? I hardly imagine the founding fathers had that in mind.’

‘They were men, weren’t they? And slave owners at that.’ She pushed her cereal plate away savagely, her cheeks pink with outrage.

‘Well, you seem to be enjoying the course anyway, and presumably Dr Windlesham has taken some of your ideas on board.’ He rather doubted it. Remembering that old harridan grimly reading her medieval constitutional documents throughout dinner, he doubted if she was likely to be much affected by changing intellectual fashion. His companion’s snort confirmed his guess. ‘It’ll be different next year when Bridget gets the centre going.’

‘What centre?’

‘The Alice Toon Centre for Women’s and Black Studies.’

Amiss put on his enquiring look. ‘Tell me about it. I’m too new to know anything.’

‘St Martha’s has been left a lot of money and it’s all going to go to that.’

‘Really? I wouldn’t have thought the Mistress would be very keen.’

‘Who cares what she thinks. She and her sort have had their day.’

Amiss repressed the observation that that didn’t sound like a very sisterly pronouncement. ‘But doesn’t she control the way the money is spent?’

‘Bridget’s going to win that battle. She’s got us – Sisters in Love.’

‘In love with…?’

‘Sisterhood of course.’

‘And how do you demonstrate it?’

Her mischievous smile was almost flirtatious. ‘You’ll see.’

There was a general pushing back of chairs and Amiss and his companions stood up along with everyone else. ‘Fancy a drink sometime?’ he asked.

She looked at him dubiously. ‘Maybe.’

‘You didn’t tell me your name.’

‘Pippa.’

‘Nice to meet you,’ he said quickly. ‘See you around.’

‘Was that the date-raped Pippa?’ he asked the Bursar, as they went to converse with Plutarch.

‘The very same. I worried for you when I saw you sitting together. You should have sought the safety of high table. Control your passionate impulses, my lad. Confine them to your cat.’

‘You don’t understand my cat. Plutarch accuses one of date rape if one so much as gives her the time of day, as you will shortly find out if you are intent on this mad scheme of taking her for a walk.’

‘Rubbish, cats are putty in my hands. We got on famously last night. You’ll see. She’ll jump to my word of command.’

Plutarch in fact jumped to the Bursar’s bribe – a large sausage which she extracted from her jacket pocket.

‘That’s a fine red-blooded cat.’ She scooped the animal into her arms, receiving – to Amiss’s chagrin – a loud purr.

‘Open the basket,’ she said, as she tickled Plutarch’s ear: Amiss followed instructions. Stealthily, for a woman of such solidity, the Bursar traversed the room – distracting the cat’s attention awhile with rough endearments – reached the basket, dropped her in and slammed the lid shut.

‘Howzzat?’

‘You do realize you betrayed her trust?’

‘Nonsense, it’s for her own good. She needs a bit of fresh air. Now come along. Buckle up.’

The all too familiar feline yodelling drowned all conversation as they made their way down the back staircase, out of a great oak door and into the open air. Amiss put the basket down and scratched his head. ‘What’s a medieval cloister doing in the middle of a neo-Gothic pile?’

‘An essential part of the vision of old Jeremiah Ridley; contemplation was to be encouraged along with sewing, knitting and daily exercises.’

‘You don’t mean he had anything to do with that carry-on this morning?’

‘Sub-section four of Clause twenty-one if I remember correctly. We have to have a quorum of half the Fellowship every morning or we’re in breach of the trust. Now stop asking tedious questions and get on with releasing that animal. A meditative stroll around the cloister will do wonders for her soul. Besides, she should have some company in a moment.’

As Amiss looked suspiciously at the Bursar, Plutarch leaped out of the basket. Simultaneously the door opened and disgorged Francis Pusey, who was bearing in his arms a white Pekinese sporting a smart Fair Isle jumper. It was out of his arms and after Plutarch the second their eyes met.

‘You planned this,’ hissed Amiss at the Bursar.

‘Shut up and watch the action. Come on Bobsy, faster, faster. Atta girl, Plutarch, go for him Tarzan-style.’

Plutarch accepted her coach’s advice and leaped to the top of the bench past which Bobsy was racing; from that vantage point she emitted howls of derision.

Francis Pusey stopped squeaking and rushed over to the bench. He bent down, frantically trying to get hold of Bobsy, who was working himself into a fearful state of frustration over the inability of his tiny legs to make the necessary vault. Plutarch allowed herself to get distracted from her primary prey and leaped on Pusey’s back, digging her claws in so thoroughly that when he leaped upwards, emitting cries of pain, she was able to hold on grimly. Bobsy, seeing a trailing tail, launched himself the necessary twelve inches in the air and sank his teeth into the ginger fur. The combination of the cat’s and Pusey’s howls of pain brought the additional noise of windows being pulled up and a babble of protesting female voices filled the air.

The Bursar shook her head. ‘Stupid cat. She had him on the run. All she had to do was wear him out and then swoop.’

Emitting a gusty sigh of disappointment, she picked up a bucket from behind a nearby pillar, strode across the grass and emptied its contents over the three protagonists. The animals let go, Plutarch soared back to the top of the bench, Pusey grabbed his dog and dripped grimly back to where Amiss was standing helplessly. ‘Is that thing yours?’

‘ ’Fraid so, terribly sorry. I didn’t realize…’

‘I may have to sue. My jacket is irreplaceable, made for me by the only tailor who ever understood me. My shirt, my beautiful silk batik shirt, that my friend brought me from Malaysia… ’ He seemed on the verge of tears. ‘And that is even before we begin to count the cost of the damage to my psyche and my body.’ As he turned towards the door with as much dignity as he could muster, the Pekinese, now filled with blood lust, broke free and the whole pantomime started all over again.

Amiss walked over to the Bursar. ‘I’m going in now, you old ruffian, and I may be some little time.’

8

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‘How could you?’ he asked as she entered his bedroom ten minutes later bearing the cat basket.

‘How could I what? Pack this animal up by myself, you mean? Easy. She’s a pushover. You make so much fuss.’

‘How could you engineer a cat and dog fight? They might have killed each other.’

‘Rubbish. I never thought there’d be any danger of anything worse than a scratch on the nose and there wasn’t. Besides, I had thoughtfully provided that bucket of water for emergencies. She isn’t a bit hurt.’

The Bursar appeared to be right. Plutarch showed no signs of any ailment other than the lassitude one might expect after such vigorous exercise. She headed straight for the bed and began a perfunctory wash and brush up.

‘What were you trying to achieve?’

‘Not sure really. It just seemed a good idea at the time. Besides, I’m generally in favour of stirring things up a bit. It does old Francis good to have his routine interrupted. And I found the whole episode diverting.’

‘Did she inflict any damage on that wretched excuse for a dog?’

‘Alas no, it was a draw.’

‘But she did pretty well with Pusey.’

‘That was an unexpected bonus. I don’t suppose you’d be prepared to bring her along to the Council meeting this morning?’

‘Bursar, I’m going straight to the telephone to locate a cattery. I’m not going to have this animal embroiled in your amoral activities any further.’

‘You haven’t time,’ she said smugly. ‘The meeting’s in five minutes.’

‘Do I have to be there?’

‘Of course you have to be there. You’re a Fellow, aren’t you?’

‘Why does nobody ever tell me anything?’

‘Keeps you on your toes. Now stop lazing about and come on. “It’s mainsail haul, my bully boys all”. We’ve got man’s work to do.’

‘Are you going to tell me anything about what to expect?’

‘Certainly not. You’ll pick it up as you go along. I hope you’ve been reading your Clausewitz.’

‘Didn’t he go on about war being only an extension of diplomacy.’

‘Bugger the philosophy, it’s his military tips I’m interested in. He said we should keep in mind three main targets: the enemies’ forces, resources and will to fight. I’m particularly concentrating on undermining the last.’

‘Well, I hope it will cheer you up if I assure you that like the Duke of Wellington, although I don’t know what effect you have on the enemy, my God, you frighten me.’

She simpered. ‘You mustn’t turn my head. Now come along, it’s time we went and stirred the shit.’

As he left the room, Amiss observed that Plutarch had fallen into an exhausted sleep. He rather wished he could join her.

Accelerating down the corridor after the Bursar, Amiss wondered why he was always chasing after her. She was more than thirty years his senior, was four inches shorter than him and two stone heavier.