The Campus Trilogy (16 page)

“Look, Harry, I don't care about that. It is imprudent to discuss university policy with outsiders.”

“What are you talking about John? What university policy?”

“It's none of Titus's business what we demand or do not demand from our students. That's our affair. You're the internal examiner. Your job is to make sure that our candidates get through.”

“Wait a minute, John,” I said. “The role of the internal examiner is to make a scholarly judgement about the thesis. That's what the regulations state.”

“I don't care what the regulations state. You're there to make sure external examiners aren't too harsh. You're to be a moderating influence. You shouldn't stir things up. I suppose you brought up the subject of Greek.”

“No. As a matter of fact, he did. But I was equally concerned about it. We were both worried …”

“Look, Harry,” Pilkington interrupted. “I bitterly resent this. Your prime responsibility is to the university. And to your colleagues for that matter.”

“My chief obligation is to scholarship by examining the thesis properly,” I said angrily.

“Not as far as I'm concerned. As a matter of fact, this candidate is dyslexic. It was unrealistic to expect him to learn Greek. And, as an employee of the university, which pays your salary, you must do the very best you can for him.”

“But you can't write a PhD on the text of the New Testament if you can't read the text …” I was aghast.

“Don't be naive, Harry. The university needs the money from postgraduate students and it is our duty to see them through.”

“But you can't write a thesis on
metanoia
in the Greek text if you can't read the Greek. It's nonsense and he's made loads of mistakes. The word ‘repentance' in the English translation is not always a translation of the word
metanoia
, and he doesn't seem to realize that. I don't know why you, as the supervisor, didn't pick it up.”

Pilkington was furious. “Perhaps if you contributed a little more to the administration of the university, I might have more time to give to my research students.”

I wasn't in the mood for a fight. “I just don't know what I'm supposed to do.”

“Well, it's your job to sort the matter out and keep Titus quiet. Make a list of all the mistakes. Then the candidate can correct them, resubmit the thesis and get the degree.”

“This is ridiculous. You mean we have no standards at all?”

“Of course we have standards. But we also have
responsibilities
towards the university and our colleagues. The university will go bankrupt if you go on like this.”

The next day I received an email from Pilkington. It had been sent to everyone in the department. It read:

After reading this missive, I phoned Magnus. “Did you see Pilkington's email?” I asked.

“He's a complete crook. I always knew it,” Magnus said.

I explained about my conversation with Pilkington the
previous
day. “Look, Harry,” Magnus said, “I know all about this. I was supposed to be the supervisor four years ago. But the student is mentally defective …”

“I think he's dyslexic,” I interrupted.

“That's what I said,” retorted Magnus, “mentally defective. He refused to learn Greek. How can you claim to have a PhD on the Greek New Testament when you can't even read the language? I told Pilkington to get stuffed.”

“Well, I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do about this.”

“If you want my advice, you'll pack your bags like me.”

“It seems to me that PhD degrees are no longer worth the paper they're written on. Presumably, they'll soon be scores of people walking around with doctorates who can't even read the text they're supposed to be experts on.”

“It's the same everywhere.” For once, Magnus spoke
seriously
. He sounded weary. “All the universities are desperate for PhD money. No one under the age of fifty has learned the ancient languages properly. You and I have been learning Latin and Greek since we were eight. We were put down to
it when we first went off to prep school. But it's all different now. Nowadays it's all sex education and self-expression in the schools. As a result the children can't even read and write English correctly, let alone Latin or Greek. What it comes down to is the English education system's shot to shit!”

The summer term began in late April. I had just received an advanced copy of my new book. The publishers had sent out press releases, and my editor told me that she had been contacted by the BBC. I was to appear on
Start the Week
on Radio 4. On Wednesday the producer phoned to discuss my views. After a lengthy conversation, she told me that I would need to be at the studio at 8:30 a.m. to meet the other guests – a leading conductor and a well-known playwright. The interview was arranged for next Monday. I told the publicity officer of St Sebastian’s about the programme. When I turned on my computer, the university homepage included a notice about the interview and a description of my new book.

Later in the afternoon I went up to the Senior Common Room. Magnus was seated in the corner reading
The Times
. I ordered a cup of tea, resisted a flapjack and joined him. I saw
Pilkington and Wendy Morehouse at another table; Pilkington glanced at me and said something to Wendy. “How’s the dancing?” I asked Magnus.

He looked up and grinned. “Well, well, the radio star has emerged.”

“Very funny, Magnus.”

“Won’t make you popular, you know.”

I showed Magnus my new book. He flipped through the contents page and read the blurb on the back. “
Paradox of
Selfishness?
” he asked.

“The point is that by looking out for oneself, one can in fact be altruistic. That’s the paradox. Of course it’s a bit more complicated than that.”

Magnus looked unconvinced. “Selfishness is selfishness,” he said. “Can’t see what you’re talking about. Think you’re in a bit of a muddle, old chap.” He bit into his flapjack with enthusiasm. It looked delicious. Arguably by being selfish and eating it, he was supporting the factory which made it, was thereby helping the British economy and thus contributing to the social welfare of society. I wasn’t sure I was convinced.

Agnes approached us carrying a cup of coffee. “Can I join you?” she asked. “Nice announcement on the web, Harry,” she said. “May I look at the book?” I passed it to her.

Magnus was absorbed in the Court Circular Page. “Bugger!” he said. “Look at this!” He handed me the newspaper. “I had no idea Anthony Leopold was still alive. Or at least was until last week.” There was a long article about Professor Anthony Leopold, FBA. “We went to the same prep school. He was a sneaky little shit. Raided my tuckbox and stole my aunt’s biscuits. I heard he had a double by-pass operation. Thought he’d popped off years ago.”

Agnes looked horrified. “Really, Magnus. How can you say such things?”

Magnus grinned, “No trouble! Actually, I’m being altruistic. Ask Harry. It’s a paradox.”

To my astonishment on Sunday, there was a lengthy article in
The Observer
about my new book. Titled ‘Greed is Good’, the piece outlined my views, and contained comments by a number
of critics including the Archbishop of Cannonbury. There was a photograph of me taken from the university website.

Victoria’s father phoned in the afternoon to tell us he’d seen the piece. “Daddy doesn’t agree with you,” Victoria announced. “He thinks the problem nowadays is that everyone is too selfish and has no idea of proper responsibility. He’s dedicated his own life to fulfilling his duties as a landowner.”

Our next-door neighbours brought us a copy of the article along with a freshly-made sponge cake. In the evening I had a call from the local radio station. They wanted to interview me the next morning.

When I went into the university the next day, I was greeted by the Head Porter. “Saw your picture in the papers yesterday,” he said. “Jolly good. I agreed, but the wife wasn’t sure if you were right though.”

In my pigeonhole there was a brief note from Pilkington. He wanted me to know that in view of my negative attitudes, it was thought better if there were a different internal examiner for the PhD thesis I had discussed with him. He asked if I could return the thesis and the relevant forms. In addition, he told me that a new supervisor for Ronald Grundy had officially been appointed. Magnus had also scribbled a note on a postcard with a painting of a hissing cat: ‘Saw the article. Many congratulations. Bossyboots and Pilkington will be furious! Happy Days, Magnus.’ Finally there was an official envelope containing the tickets for the OBE ceremony at Buckingham Palace.

Victoria dug out her best garden-party suit for the occasion and found a delightful black hat with a veil at one of the St Sebastian’s charity shops. Even though it was very tight, I had an old morning coat I had bought years ago for weddings at the Oxfam shop which I thought would be suitable. We planned to go to London on the train, have lunch at the Acropolis, and then take a taxi to the Palace. I had sent a note to Barraclough telling him that I was to receive an award; he wrote back a curt note thanking me for letting him know. There was no whisper of congratulation. The event was to take place in two weeks’ time.

Magnus and I met in the Senior Common Room for lunch. Wanda was ahead of us in the queue. Several members of the
department had gone up to welcome her back. She looked more relaxed, but rather thin. When she walked by us, I smiled. “Welcome back,” I said. Magnus grinned to himself. Wanda nodded and went over to join Pilkington and Wendy
Morehouse
. “Doesn’t look like a happy bunny to me,” Magnus said.

“I wonder if they’ve rescheduled her lecture.”

“No one will go,” Magnus said.

“Not unless the gorilla makes another appearance.
Nid
Pwrpas
,
Heb Primate
!” I said to myself.

“What?”

“Just a private joke. You’re not planning to do it again, I hope?”

Magnus sighed. “Wasn’t it wonderful? Maybe it ought to be a stripogram next time.”

“Come on, Magnus.”

Magnus picked up a copy of
Country Life
. “I say, Harry, have a look at this pile. Can you see me as country squire?”

There was a two-page spread of a Regency country house in Oxfordshire. The price wasn’t mentioned. “You didn’t win that much,” I said.

“Not this time. But I’m still in there with a chance.”

The next few days were uneventful except for my
appearance
on
Start the Week
. I got up at six, and took an early train to London. We assembled at half past eight as planned, and were taken into the bowels of the BBC. Sitting around a small table, the three of us plus the presenter engaged in discussion; I don’t think anyone agreed with my views, but it was a pleasant occasion.

A fortnight later, the award ceremony took place. As planned, Victoria and I travelled up dressed in our uncomfortable clothes. We had lunch at the Acropolis and found a taxi to take us to Buckingham Palace. We showed the guards our pass, walked across a courtyard, and through an archway where we were checked. Victoria and I then separated. She went to the grand ballroom; I followed a group of those who were to receive awards into a separate long room. There we were roped off into groups, Knighthoods (I would have liked one of those!), DBEs, CBEs, OBEs and MBEs were strictly segregated. We
heard music in the distance. I spoke to several others in my gilded compound.

Eventually it was my turn to enter the ballroom. The Queen was standing on a dais on a higher level from where I stopped. The ballroom was crowded with visitors. She looked down and smiled. I bowed. The equerry next to her whispered something. Leaning forward, she asked about my latest book. “I understand you think being selfish is a virtue,” she said.

“Not exactly a virtue,” I stammered.

“But a good thing?”

“Well, sort of … Sometimes.”

The Queen pinned a medal on my jacket. With a tiny pushing hand gesture, she made it clear I was to move on. I walked to the other side of the room. Afterwards, I sat down in the back of the ballroom and watched the other recipients go through the same ceremony. When it was over, I joined Victoria.

“Well, well,” she said taking my photograph with the
disposable
camera she had bought at Boots for the occasion. “An Officer of the British Empire.”

I thought briefly of Lisa and why Charles had got me the award. “I’m exhausted,” I said. I put the medal into its black box. “Let’s go have tea at the club.” We walked down the Mall. Tourists stared at us as we strolled up the Duke of York steps. The porter at the Acropolis smiled as we walked in. We climbed the stairs, and I collapsed in an armchair. The Provost of St Sebastian’s Cathedral was sitting in the corner. He waved and came over. “Mind if I join you?” he said.

We ordered teacakes. Victoria told him where we had been. “Show him your medal,” she said.

I pulled the box out of my pocket and opened it. “Many congratulations,” said the Provost. “How was Her Majesty?”

“I don’t know how she does it,” I replied. “She asked me if selfishness was a virtue.” The Provost looked amused. “The equerry must have told her about my new book.”

“No doubt she has read it,” said Victoria slyly.

“Perhaps not,” said the Provost.

“Anyway, I wasn’t sure what to say.”

“It’s not in the Sermon on the Mount,” Victoria commented. “But it is in Harry’s book.”

“Not exactly the same thing,” I said.

“No indeed,” the Provost looked longingly towards our teacakes. “Those certainly look delicious!” he said.

A few days later Magnus and I were having lunch in the Senior Common Room. Penelope joined us, looking irate. She had brought her lunch in a large purple handbag. She took a cheese sandwich and a pack of cheese and onion crisps out of a plastic container and poured a cup of coffee out of a thermos.

“Harry,” she fumed, “you won’t believe what happened. That girl Lisa – the one that caused you so much trouble – is a little sneak. She handed in an essay about three weeks ago for my Women and Literature course that was copied from the web. I was suspicious and found it using the new plagiarism detection software. When I confronted her, she denied it flatly and said she’d written the essay entirely herself. Honestly, it was practically word for word off the web. So I went to Wanda and told her all about it. The next week I got a note saying that Lisa’s father was intending to sue the university for defamation of character, slander, libel, hurt feelings and I don’t know what else!”

“But if you found the essay …”

“I did,” Penelope interrupted. “But it wasn’t absolutely identical. She had made a few changes, all of which, I may add, made the essay worse rather than better. But nonetheless there was no doubt that the lazy little toad had just lifted it.”

“I wish we had had the benefit of the world wide web when we were students,” said Magnus. “It would have saved a lot of bother …”

“Anyway,” continued Penelope, “I went to see Wanda. She knew perfectly well what Lisa had done, but she said that Mr Gold was an important parent. There was the possibility of a donation or something. And since the essay wasn’t absolutely word for word, she would be grateful if I would ignore the matter. I would get no support from the administration if I proceeded.”

I had a queasy feeling at the thought that Wanda still expected an endowment from Mr Gold. “So what did you do?” I asked.

“What could I do? I had to drop the charge. And because it was a very good essay, I had to give it a first-class mark.”

“Sickening,” I said

“You haven’t heard the worst.” Penelope became positively shrill in her fury. “What’s happened now is that little bitch is asking for a concession on the basis of stress. She says that the incident caused her so much anxiety that she has been unable to concentrate on her work. She has a doctor’s note from some quack in Harley Street to say she can’t take the exam and must have a concession instead. Well, you know the rules as well as I do. If students can’t take the exam, they get the mark for the essay as their final course assessment. So that little cheat is going to get a first for my course. She’s done no work at all; she blatantly cheated and she’s going to get away with it because she can hide behind her odious rich daddy and his slimey doctor.”

“Was the essay really that good?”

“The bits she didn’t write were superlative. That’s why I knew immediately she hadn’t written it. It was full of quotations from Levinas, Derrida and Kristeva. One of the best pieces of work I’ve had in years.”

Magnus put down
Private Eye
. He looked amused. “You know,” he said, “when I was at Oxford, nobody had heard of concessions. Now everybody wants them. Last year there were more concessions than students taking the exams.”

Penelope looked dumbfounded. “But how could that be?”

“Some students wanted more than one concession. Their granny has a hernia; their guinea pig has just died; they’re recovering from an abortion; they’ve just fallen off their bicycle and, in any case, they have serious learning difficulties. That makes a total of five concessions … You see how it works,” Magnus smiled. “It’s a complete racket.”

Magnus got up and went over to the servery. He returned carrying another mug of coffee and three sugar doughnuts and handed one to each of us. “You know,” Magnus said, “I tried to get a concession last year just like the students. I claimed I was under such stress that I couldn’t concentrate on marking essays.”

“Did it work?” Penelope asked.

“They were completely unsympathetic. Threatened to take disciplinary action if I didn’t mark them. Made me quite cross. Why can’t I have a concession if the students can?”

“Stress for what?” Penelope asked.

“General stress. No specific reason. Never got promoted. Made to teach too many students. Too many classes. Too many essays. Not enough money. Lousy colleagues…”

“You don’t look particularly stressed, Magnus,” Penelope observed.

“‘Not now,” Magnus laughed, “I’m off on a world cruise.’

“During term?” Penelope asked.

“Starts this summer. I’ve got a year’s sabbatical. Sailing on the
Queen Christina.
And then I quit.”

Penelope was wide-eyed. “Gosh,” she said. “How did you ever get a whole year’s sabbatical?”