The Campus Trilogy (15 page)

Afterwards, Thomas Jefferson led Victoria and me and
several
members of the audience to the dining room where there was a vast mahogany table set with places for twelve. The silver gleamed and again all the servants were black. When everyone had taken their places, Thomas Jefferson asked me to say a prayer. I recited the St Sebastian's grace in Latin. We all sat down and turtle soup was served. I was seated next to Nancy who presided at one end of the table. On my left was an elegant, well-groomed woman who was wearing an enormous emerald necklace. Nancy introduced us: she was the wife of the French Ambassador to Washington. Victoria was seated next to Thomas Jefferson himself at the other end of the table. The Ambassador's wife told me that Victoria's neighbour was the editor of the
Washington
Post
.

A string quartet, who were seated in the shadows, played Schubert. After the first course, tall fluted glasses came round. They were filled with champagne sorbet. This, the Ambassador's wife explained, was to clear the palate. The main course was sea bass served with exquisite vegetables. For pudding there was pecan pie. The dinner did nothing for my diet.

After dinner we adjourned to the library, a circular room lined with leather volumes. Oscar and I sat next to one another in large Queen Anne armchairs which, Thomas Jefferson said, he had purchased in London. Oscar lit up a large cigar and offered me one. A bottle of vintage port had been placed on the table in front of us with a bowl of walnuts. A magnificent Paul Revere silver nut-hammer lay on top.

“I much enjoyed your lecture,” he said. “Now, Harry, there is something I would like to talk to you about. I've had a word with Thomas Jefferson. As you know, he has been a very good friend of the college. It is his intention to establish a Chair here to honour his great-great-great-grandfather: Thomas Jefferson Porpoise I. He has asked me to inquire whether you might be
interested in coming. There would be few duties attached to the position since it would be a Distinguished Professorship. I know this is rather sudden. But we would very much like you to consider the possibility. It would be an honour to have you on the faculty, and to have your wife among us. Think about it. Talk it over with Victoria.”

“That's very kind of you,” I mumbled. I looked at Victoria who was chatting in French to the Ambassador. She looked very elegant in her simple silk dress and was clearly having a lovely time. It was the Cotswolds all over again. She fitted in perfectly. I felt a pang of guilt. Oscar followed my glance and smiled. “She has made a huge hit with Thomas Jefferson,” he smiled. “Let me know what you think,” he said as he stood up to talk to the Ambassador's wife.

After dinner we drove ourselves home. I loved the
Rolls-Royce
. As we undressed for bed, Victoria told me about her conversation with the editor of the
Washington Post
. “You know,” she said. “He's read some of my articles about English antiques. How I can't imagine. Through the internet I suppose. He wants me to meet the antiques editor of the newspaper when we go to Washington. I'm supposed to have lunch with her to discuss the possibility of writing some pieces.”

“That's splendid,” I said. “How are you supposed to get in touch?”

“I'm to ring before we leave and arrange to meet. Really, Harry, this place is astonishing. There seems to be no end to the Porpoise influence.”

I sat on the bed in my striped pyjamas. It was a relief to be out of my tight trousers. “You won't believe this,” I said, “but I think I've been offered a job. They want me to come here as a Distinguished Professor. Thomas Jefferson wants to establish a Chair in honour of one of his relations. Oscar told me.”

“A job? With a salary? Did he really offer it to you just like that?”

“He asked me if I was interested. We didn't discuss any details. But he suggested I talk it over with you. I think they really want me.”

Victoria took off the cameo necklace she had inherited from her grandmother. She put it in its Victorian leather box and
locked it up. “I don't know, Harry. They are very nice. It's a far cry from Little Miss Bossyboots and that awful Barraclough, isn't it? But it is far away. And Daddy wouldn't like it. I don't know anyone in Sweetpea.”

“You know Thomas Jefferson,” I countered.

“Yes. Thomas Jefferson. And the Billstones. And Vanessa's cousin. And we're going to meet Manford Wachman of
Manford
's Motors,” she giggled. Then she looked thoughtful, “I don't know … We'll talk about it tomorrow.”

The next day Manford Wachman took us for an early lunch at the Tam O'Shanter Country Club. Located outside the town, the club was exclusively for Jews. Mr Wachman picked us up in a new black Rolls; on the way he explained that in the past Jews were not allowed to be members of the Sweetpea Country Club. As a result, a group of his wealthy co-religionists had bought a derelict rambling colonial house with one hundred and thirty-six acres of land. They refurbished the property, created one of the best golf courses in the South, and built an Olympic-sized swimming pool and tennis courts. They used the adjoining lake for sailing. We parked in the parking lot which was crowded with Cadillacs, Mercedes, and Jaguars.

Like the Porpoise mansion, which it strongly resembled, the entrance was framed by Corinthian columns. In the lobby there were exotic flowering plants and marble statues of Greek gods. The dining room was lined with Scottish tartan wallpaper. We sat at a small table near the window overlooking the golf course. Again all the serving staff were black, but this time they were dressed in tartan kilts.

“Choose whatever you like,” Manford said, as he got up and went to other tables to greet friends. We were surprised to notice there was ham and shellfish on the menu. It seemed that the Jews who belonged to the Tam O'Shanter Club were not rigorous about the Old Testament dietary laws. The dining room was full of middle-aged men and women dressed in sports clothes. Some of the women were wearing short tennis skirts; children ran back and forth in swimming costume dodging the waiters. Next to us was an elderly couple; the wife, dressed in pink slacks and a pink tee-shirt, was in a wheel chair.

“Not quite the Acropolis,” Victoria commented. ‘How
appalling
that Jews were segregated and had to found their own club. I can't believe it goes on still. I wonder how this establishment survives.”

Manford came back to the table with his blonde
youthful-looking
wife, Sherrie, who had been playing canasta. Dressed in white shorts, she was wearing white socks, and a white top with rhinestones. Her nails were exquisitely manicured and painted a deep pink. I stood up and shook hands. Victoria smiled as we were introduced. The waiter re-emerged and took everyone's order. “I've heard so much about you from Manny's brother. He's just my favourite rabbi!” Sherrie said. “How long are you staying?”

I explained that I had come to give a lecture at the college, and we were leaving later in the day for Washington. “I know, we were there,” she said. “Manny says you're planning to come live here.”

I looked at Victoria. Did Manford's wife know about Oscar's suggestion that I come to Sweetpea as a Distinguished Professor already? Manford leaned over. “Nothing in Sweetpea is a secret,” he said. “I'm one of the trustees of the college, and Thomas Jefferson has already contacted all of us this morning to suggest it. You'd like living in Sweetpea. And if you came, maybe we could do some sort of deal on the Rolls,” he winked. “Just the thing for the Professor of Christian Ethics!”

After lunch we returned to the Sweetpea Inn. I phoned Oscar at the college, and thanked him for his generous hospitality. I told him that Victoria and I had discussed the suggestion about coming to Sweetpea, but had come to no conclusion. He said he would be in touch. Mary-Lou Bradley picked us up at three and drove us to Washington. I had made a reservation at the Union Club, which had reciprocal relations with the Acropolis. We checked in and Victoria phoned the antiques editor of the
Washington Post
. They arranged to meet for lunch the next day at an establishment called the Lazy Daisy Club.

Our room was at the back of the building overlooking a courtyard. We were both exhausted by the events of the last few days and had a nap. At seven we went downstairs for a drink. As we walked to the bar we passed through a room
lined with pictures of Pulitzer Prize winners. “Quite a show!” Victoria was amused. In the Acropolis there was a scrapbook of club members who were Nobel Prize winners, but it was not on public display. “Maybe we ought to do something like this,” I suggested. “Good grief!” Victoria sighed.

The next day after breakfast Victoria and I went to the National Gallery. There was an exhibition of paintings by Chagall. He had painted several oils of the Crucifixion, and I was curious to see them. I stayed for lunch in the gallery while Victoria had her meeting with the antiques editor. We arranged to meet for tea later in the day at the Union Club. At three I took a taxi, ordered tea, and waited for Victoria.

She came in carrying a stack of magazines looking excited. “It was wonderful,” she said putting the magazines on a chair. “The Lazy Daisy Club is charming. It's in a narrow town house in Georgetown. Lovely Sheraton chairs and they have the most exquisite collection of Georgian teapots.”

“Who did you have lunch with?”

“A lady called Elizabeth Lizard. And you couldn't call it having lunch. She was incredibly thin, like an X-ray. We both ordered Caesar salad, and if she ate a single mouthful, well I didn't see it. She just pushed it around on her plate. I ate the lot. And was longing to have pudding. They advertised the most elaborate ice-creams. Sundays I think they're called. But after Elizabeth's performance, I felt it would be too greedy. I'm ravenous, how many of those muffins do you want to eat?”

“So what happened?”

Victoria piled both buttered muffins onto her plate. “Why don't you order some more?” she said. “Anyway, I think I've been offered a job,” she continued. “They want me to do a regular column on English antique furniture and porcelain.”

“A column?”

“Well, a feature for their magazine every month. I'm to write about the major antique fairs in the States. They're prepared to cover my costs which include plane fares and accommodation and they'll pay two thousand dollars an article.”

“That's tremendous,” I said. “You were right. The Porpoise millions do extend far and wide!”

“
Heb Porpoise, Nid Pwrpas
!” declared Victoria solemnly. “They all seem to have the impression we really are coming to live here.”

“Even Ms. Lizard the X-ray?”

“Oh yes … She knew all about it. Apparently your lecture was a great success!”

“Did you tell them nothing's certain?”

“I wasn't sure what to say.”

“Well, I haven't even been formally offered a job. And we haven't decided anything.”

“True,” said Victoria, “And I can't imagine how I would break the news to Daddy.”

In the evening we set off for London, arrived the next morning, and then took the train back to St Sebastian's. I didn't sleep much that night and the next day I was jet-lagged. I went to the college earlier than usual, collected my post, and retreated to my office. I had left behind a massive PhD thesis which I should have read weeks ago. It was entitled
Metanoia in the
text of the Synoptic Gospels and the Acts of the Apostles
. It had been supervised by Pilkington, and I had agreed to be the internal examiner. Presumably as an expert on Christian ethics, I was supposed to know something about repentance.

I stretched out on the sofa, made a cup of coffee, picked up the thesis and immediately went to sleep. A couple of hours later I woke up. I made another cup of coffee, blacker and stronger this time, and turned over a few pages. I scanned through the thesis. There was no Greek at all in the text. How, I wondered, could the candidate write a scholarly thesis on the concept of ‘metanoia' without using any Greek?

At that moment the telephone rang. It was my
fellow-examiner
. Professor Timothy Titus was a Professor of Biblical Exegesis at the University of Blenheim and the current President of the Association of New Testament Scholars. We had been ordained from the same theological college at Cambridge and occasionally we met at conferences. He said he had been
desperate
to reach me. I explained I had been giving a lecture in Sweetpea, Virginia.

“I can't understand this thesis,” he said. “Despite the title, it's clear he has no idea of the Greek text. He's missed numerous
references to
metanoia
and some of what he says only makes sense if you are reading the English translation. Sometimes he even talks about repentance when a Greek word other than
metanoia
is being used. It's nonsense once you look at the original text. I don't know what his supervisor was thinking of. Presumably your university demands a knowledge of Greek if candidates intend to write a thesis on the New Testament?”

I explained that biblical studies was not my area, but that I was sure we did. Anyway I would check what was going on with the supervisor. Later in the day I phoned Pilkington. I told him that I had just returned from the States and that I was reading his candidate's PhD thesis. Both the external examiner and I were concerned that the candidate seemed to have no knowledge of Greek.

“But that can't be right,” I insisted. “Timothy Titus wants to know if we demand a knowledge of Greek for students writing theses on the New Testament text and of course I said we had the same standards as everyone else.”

There was silence. “You discussed this with Titus?” he asked angrily.

“Of course I did. We're the two examiners of the thesis.”