The Campus Trilogy (32 page)

The next few days were largely uneventful. Life was far easier with a more reasonable teaching load, but I was disconcerted when I was talking to my Kant class to find three strange
sixth-formers
knocking on my door. It turned out that they had come for an interview to read Philosophy next year. I couldn’t just send them away so I invited them to join the class and said that this would give them an idea of what philosophy was like. My two clever students, Mary and Rosalind, were at the top of their form and there was no doubt that the three newcomers really enjoyed the experience. I felt sad afterwards telling them that their
journey
was pointless. In fact I was so annoyed with the Admissions’ Office in general and Joy Pickles in particular that I wrote her a very sharp note. After all, this was the fifth time she had arranged interviews for a non-existent degree.

The next day, as arranged, I arrived at Cuckoos’ Roost at two. Mrs Flanagan answered the door wearing an apron and looking subdued. I was surprised that she was again wearing dark glasses. Flanagan came bustling down the stairs carrying a heavy, leather suitcase. I noticed it had his monogram in large letters on the side. He was dressed in a light brown Harris tweed jacket and dark trousers without a tie. I put my small overnight bag in the boot of his magnificent motor car and helped him with his suitcase. Mrs Flanagan waved as we set out. The Vice-Chancellor fiddled with the air conditioner and the radio and handed me a packet of mints.

When I admired the Mercedes, he looked pleased. ‘It’s my
regular
present from Helga’s father,’ he said. ‘He’s very big in the
Mercedes company and he gives me the latest model every two years. This one’s got heated leather seats.’ He turned one of the dials and my seat started to heat up. It was an uncomfortable
sensation
. Flanagan then told me in detail how he had first met his wife when he was on a research assignment in Germany. He was content just to talk away and no response was expected. I had great difficulty in not falling asleep.

Once we drove onto the motorway, he turned to the subject of his future plans. ‘The orphanage is like Eton,’ he said. ‘It has a top-notch old boys’ network. I’ve been in touch with one of my contemporaries who went with me to Australia. He’s a good mate … we worked on the Brothers of Gentleness farm together – slaved would be a better description. Sylvester Mancini wasn’t like me. He never had a chance to go to university – not that he’d have been interested. As soon as he was sixteen, he absconded and worked his way to America. Apparently there were some
distant
cousins in the Bronx who gave him a job in their waste management firm. The family is huge and has various kinds of business interests, including a chain of casinos. Sylvester married within the family and now has kids of his own. About ten years ago he moved to Las Vegas where he works for his wife’s brother. Luigi Mancini is responsible for the Las Vegas branch of the
business
and Sylvester has ended up managing one of the casinos.’

‘What a useful contact!’ I said.

Flanagan frowned. I felt I was reviving bad memories. ‘Oh well, if you grow up in an institution, you rub shoulders with all kinds,’ he said shortly.

I looked out of the window at the changing countryside as the Vice-Chancellor explained his scheme. ‘The Mancinis want to expand into Europe; they’re excited about the British
government
’s initiative to build super-casinos. They already have a small training school in Nevada for croupiers, hoteliers and departmental managers, but their courses are not yet validated. Sylvester told me that they would love to be able to offer their graduates bachelor degrees and a European experience if at all possible. I made it clear that we don’t provide this kind of service for nothing, but he told me that money is no object to the family.’

‘But we don’t know anything about casino management,’ I protested.

‘No problem,’ Flanagan said. ‘We’ll just have to hire some experts. But what we can do is offer official validation. It’ll be just like all our other partnerships.’ Flanagan took a cigar out of his pocket, and pushed in the cigarette lighter. ‘Don’t mind if I smoke, do you?’ he asked.

I did, but I shook my head. Flanagan lit up, turned on the air conditioning and continued. ‘Sylvester talked it over with his brother-in-law. He’s apparently the boss of the whole outfit. They suggested they transfer a large element of their training operation to St Sebastian’s. Each of their staff is to come for a term to receive special instruction. Then, once there are super-casinos in this country, we’ll also be recruiting English students.’

‘But where will they practise?’ My head was spinning. ‘Dealing cards and whatnot is a practical skill. It’s not enough just to learn about theories of chance.’

‘Oh we’ve thought of that.’ Flanagan was very confident. ‘The idea is to open a small training casino on campus, which they will bankroll. We’ll have to get a gaming licence of course, but I understand from a bloke I know on the town council that that’ll be no problem. I thought the best place would be the old squash courts. The building needs to be renewed anyway.’

Flanagan waved his free hand expansively, dropping ash as he continued. He was carried away by his own creation. ‘I thought we’d call it “The Golden Arrow” since St Sebastian, our patron saint, was martyred by being shot through with arrows. We could even commission a large picture of his martyrdom. You know how he always stands on a platform being shot at by the heathen. I thought we could get someone to paint the scene, but each arrow should be pinning down a banknote before it goes into Sebastian himself.’

I wanted to laugh, but I managed to hold my voice steady as I said, ‘Sir William is very friendly with an American millionaire whose partner is a young portrait painter. He did a very good
picture
of Victoria Gilbert and I expect he could be commissioned to do something.’

‘Perhaps the old man could be persuaded to pay for it, eh?’

‘Well you never know,’ I said weakly. This was not my area of expertise.

‘Of course,’ the Vice-Chancellor continued, ‘it’ll take time to redo the building, but temporarily we can house the casino in the Great Hall.’

I remained silent. The Great Hall was the best room in the university. It was used for important lectures, formal meetings and university feasts. I could not imagine what Pilkington and my other colleagues in the Theology department would make of such a proposal. Magnus, at least, would find it funny. Flanagan looked over and winked. ‘Pretty good idea, huh?’ he said. ‘And you’re the one who’s going to run it.’

The drive to Shropshire took well over four hours. After Flanagan’s extensive description of his plans, he turned on the radio to Classic FM. The announcer was interviewing a Swedish soprano as I fell asleep. An hour later, I woke with a start as we turned into a long pot-holed drive. We went through large gates adorned with stone dragons and past a series of cottages. In the distance a vast grey castle with turrets loomed through the mist. Flanagan was impressed. I heard him mutter to himself, ‘Not bad for an orphanage brat!’

Sir William was waiting for us. He was standing on the porch wearing a disreputable barbour jacket and looking at his watch. He waved as we pulled up to the door. I dragged our suitcases out of the back, and we followed our host into the hall.

The castle itself was Victorian, but it was built on the remains of a medieval ruin. We walked through a huge room hung with portraits of various ladies and gentlemen, presumably Dormouse ancestors. Over the massive stone fire-place was a particularly large picture. This, Sir William said, was the first baronet. An icy blast straight from the North Pole blew through the windows, which rattled ceaselessly. We were taken down a long corridor where blood-stained Welsh and English flags were suspended high above our heads. Finally we reached a cosy sitting room with a kitchen at one end. There was a large wood burning stove and a mahogany longcase clock with a brass face. One wall was lined with books. In front of the stove was a battered leather armchair and a brown velvet sofa which looked as though it had been
continually
clawed by the family cat since the era of the first baronet.

I put our luggage near the door as Flanagan spread himself on the sofa. Sir William took possession of the armchair and I pulled
up one of the kitchen chairs. ‘This used to be the housekeeper’s room when I was a boy,’ said Sir William, as he poured us each a glass of madeira. ‘Always was the only warm room in the house!’

There was a strong smell of something burning, and Sir William looked agitated. ‘My daughter-in-law and my son Billy are away for the week,’ he explained. ‘Selina left a fish pie in the freezer, but it’s a bit tricky. I trust you like brussel sprouts,’ he said hopefully.

After considerable fussing, Sir William directed us to a small dining table and served us dinner accompanied by a bottle of claret. Although the fish pie was burned on the outside, it remained frozen in the middle. I hoped none of us was going to contract food poisoning. The brussel sprouts apparently had been put on by the cleaning lady a couple of hours before. They were almost soup.

Over dinner Flanagan told Sir William about his project. Sir William looked amused as the Vice-Chancellor drew a grandiose picture of the proposed Golden Arrow Casino. He chortled, ‘We never had anything like that at my college in Cambridge. Would have made the place much more jolly. Where do I fit in with all this?’

‘Well,’ said Flanagan, ‘We were hoping you’d be our patron. I understand you have contact with a portrait painter in the United States and it would be fair-dinkum if he could do a picture of St Sebastian pierced full of arrows.’

‘Like a pin-cushion, eh?’ chuckled Sir William. ‘I suppose I could get in touch with Thomas Jefferson Porpoise. He’s always keen for young Bosie to get commissions. Well as long as I can defeat ’em all at blackjack afterwards, I’m happy … what about a little game after dinner?’

Flanagan and I demurred, but Sir William persisted. ‘No blackjack? Well, what about a round of Scrabble, then?’

We both felt we could manage this and we reapplied ourselves to the food. Sir William refilled our glasses and produced a rice pudding. In contrast to the pie, this was burned all the way through. It also tasted decidedly of the fish with which it had shared the oven. However, it was helped a little by a generous blob of strawberry jam which Sir William put on top of each gooey mess. We did our best to eat what was put in front of us,
but we both became more cheerful when Sir William concluded proceedings by producing a whole stilton accompanied by water biscuits in a silver bowl.

After we finished dinner, Sir William cleared the table, dumped the dishes in the sink, and spread out the Scrabble board. Both Flanagan and I were completely routed. Aided by several glasses of excellent claret, Sir William made double our combined score. He was thrilled. Before we were shown to our rooms, Flanagan returned to the subject of the casino. It was his intention, he said, to invite Luigi and Sylvester Mancini to the St Sebastian’s University Feast in the second term. This would be a major event in the university calendar and would require an after-dinner speech. ‘We’d be honoured if you’d do it,’ he said to Sir William.

‘Delighted!’ said Sir William sweeping up the Scrabble letters. ‘Now, let me show you to your rooms.’

I asked if I could borrow Sir William’s famous book on
card-counting
to read in bed. Our host very generously gave it to me. He said he’d already mastered the technique and I was welcome to it. I had a brief fantasy of becoming a brilliant blackjack player and breaking the bank at Monte Carlo. Somehow I felt it would be unlikely.

Then Flanagan and I followed Sir William up a flight of stairs and down a long corrider which led to the other end of the castle. We mounted a futher stone circular staircase up to a landing at the top. The wind continued to whistle and rattle the
window-frames
. Our rooms were adjoining and looked across open fields. The moon was full and light flooded in. There were no curtains. The bathroom was down the hall.

Sir William gave us instructions how to find our way back to his room for breakfast at eight o’clock sharp. He then said
good-night
. As I turned on an overhead light, I heard Flanagan curse as he bumped into something. Later, on the way to the bathroom, I ran into him wearing striped red pyjamas and a maroon dressing gown. ‘Bloody cold in there,’ he said. ‘There doesn’t seem to be any hot water at all.’

As Harry Gilbert had predicted, the room was bitter, but I filled my two hot water bottles using the electric kettle provided. Once I had got into bed and hugged the bottles for a bit, I felt
almost warm enough to sleep. I was just dozing off when there was a knock on my door. Flanagan came in looking dazed. ‘I’m sorry Felix mate. I’ve never been so cold in my life. I’ve put
everything
I can on my bed, even the hearth rug, but I think I’m going to die of exposure. D’you think we could wake Sir William and ask for an electric heater or something?’

‘You’d probably blow all the castle electrics!’ I said. ‘Look, Vice-Chancellor,’ I said sitting up and pulling one of my hot
bottles
out from under the covers. ‘Perhaps you might like this.’

Flanagan was amazed. ‘Where did you find it?’ he asked. ‘There wasn’t one in my room.’

‘I’ve got two. Harry told me to bring them.’

The Vice-Chancellor took a hip-flask out of the pocket of his dressing gown. ‘Do you have a tooth glass?’ he asked. I gestured towards the bed-side table and he poured me a large measure of whisky. Silently we drank – I from my glass, he directly from the bottle.

Then Flanagan got up to go. ‘Thanks, mate,’ he said as he stumbled off to his room. ‘I won’t forget this.’

The day after I arrived back from Shropshire, there was a letter waiting for me in my pigeonhole from the Registrar. It was marked Private and Confidential and it looked sinister.

Sloth wrote that it had come to his attention that I had written a highly offensive letter to Joy Pickles about philosophy admissions. He admitted that there had been an oversight. It was regrettable that candidates had had a wasted journey to the university. Nonetheless there was no excuse for the
hectoring
tone of my letter. Miss Pickles had been extremely upset and had been unable to work for the rest of the day. She was very busy and, as a valuable member of the university administration, she deserved every consideration. If such a letter were ever sent again, I would be facing disciplinary proceedings.

After I received this missive, I went to see Magnus in his room in the Old College. He read the letter and looked concerned. ‘You’ve got to watch out for Sloth,’ he cautioned. ‘The same thing happened to Harry. Jenny Sloth kept forgetting to order books for the library, so Harry repeatedly contacted her. In the
end, she accused him of harrassment and filed a formal
grievance
; that was the beginning of his troubles.’

I was not pleased. ‘So what it comes down to is that Registrar Sloth’s paramours are immune from criticism, however
incompetent
.’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Perhaps I should apologise and send her a bunch of flowers.’

Magnus was nothing if not realistic. ‘I wouldn’t think it would do much good. It would confirm her untouchability and I very much doubt if she’d even bother to thank you.’

‘Oh surely,’ I said. ‘I cannot imagine Emma or Imogen being sent flowers, whatever the circumstances, and not writing a nice thank-you letter.’

‘Emma’s entirely different,’ Magnus pointed out dryly. ‘She’s always charming. Joy comes from a different stable. My Aunt Ursula would say, she has no breeding. Instead of admitting she’s incompetent and trying to do better, she’ll just say that flowers are patronising.’

‘You’re probably right,’ I said, ‘but it can’t do any harm.’ I took out my mobile telephone, called the florist, and dictated a friendly apologetic note. Then as Magnus made me a cup of
coffee
, I recounted the events of my visit to the castle. He roared with laughter at my tale of the dinner and the sleeping
accommodation
. At the same time he was appalled by Flanagan’s resolve to have Casino Management in the university.

‘It’s grotesque!’ he said.

I agreed and confessed that I knew nothing about any form of gambling. I was meant to be the director of this absurd
enterprise
, but I had never even been inside a bingo hall, let alone a proper casino. Magnus was ahead of me. As a passenger on the
Queen Christina
he was very familiar with blackjack and roulette, but he admitted that, although there were occasional sessions on the ship, he had never tried bingo.

‘Why don’t we all go to the St Sebastian’s bingo hall this Saturday?’ he suggested. ‘That’s the nearest thing this town has to a gambling den and Emma might enjoy it.’

I promised that I would suggest it at home, but as it happened, Emma was busy finishing the script of a programme about Christmas cakes from around the world. She was delighted with
the idea of having the house to herself and she encouraged me to go on the expedition without her.

That Saturday I picked up Magnus from his flat at six and drove into the town. We got lost several times, but eventually we found what we were looking for. Located at the end of a dark lane in the industrial area, Bishop’s Bingo and Amusements Casino was a two-story building with crude red, yellow and green neon lights. In large letters the words ‘! Win! Win! Win!’ flashed unceasingly. I had some difficulty in finding a place to park and I was convinced that we would be mugged before the end of the evening, but in the event we arrived inside safely.

In the entrance hall was a row of multi-coloured slot machines with more flashing lights. Several elderly women sat on red
velvet
stools pushing coins into them. There seemed to be no skill involved. They just kept feeding the money in; they scarcely looked at the dials and they pushed a button mechanically. Then occasionally there was a loud rattle and a cascade of coins came out. I thought that that would be the moment to get up and walk away with the winnings, but I noticed no one did this. They just had more coins to put into the slot.

Behind the reception desk was a white-haired woman in a red velvet uniform with a picture of a Bishop’s mitre on the pocket.

‘Are you here for the first time?’ she asked.

We both nodded sheepishly. ‘I’m afraid we don’t know what to do,’ I confessed.

‘You’ll need to be members,’ she announced taking a wad of papers from under the counter. ‘Fill in your names and addresses,’ she said. ‘And then we’ll send you out membership cards.’ I had not realised that we were going to have to join a club, but apparently there was nothing to fear. Membership was not selective. There was no nominating, seconding, voting or blackballing. Magnus grinned as he completed his application. ‘Perhaps we ought to make Harry a member too,’ he suggested. ‘Could we have another form please?’

The woman looked at Magnus quizzically and handed over a third form. ‘Is your friend coming tonight?’ she asked.

‘No,’ Magnus said. ‘But I’m sure he’ll want to play some time in the future.’

I was mystified. I thought it highly improbable that Harry Gilbert, Distinguished Professor of Christian Ethics at Sweetpea College, Virginia, would ever voluntarily visit such an
establishment
. ‘It’s for his
Who’s Who
entry,’ said Magnus. ‘You list what clubs you belong to at the bottom and you must admit that “Bishop’s Bingo, St Sebastians” would look terrific besides the “Acropolis, London”.’

I saw his point. ‘Now what do we have to do?’ I asked the cashier.

She produced two books of tickets with numbers on them. ‘Now these are the local bingos,’ she said. Then she took out another long strip of paper out of the drawer. ‘This one is for the National. That’s the really big prize.’ She greeted an old lady with dyed golden hair who had just come up to the counter. ‘This is Betty,’ she said. ‘She won a share of the National last week – thirty five thousand pounds it was.’

Betty grinned at us. She purchased a book of tickets and went off humming.

‘Bloody Hell,’ Magnus mumbled. ‘We’ve got to come here more often. There’s a fortune to be made.’

‘I should think the odds are heavily stacked against winning a big prize,’ I said. ‘And, after all, the tickets aren’t cheap.’ Between us we had parted with more than sixteen pounds to acquire all our pieces of paper.

Then we went into the main hall which was plush with red velvet. The room was divided into small tables at which the players sat and there was a food counter in the corner. The
manager
wore an ill-fitting dinner jacket and had a gold earring in one ear. He seemed a jolly fellow. We were clearly early and he was preparing plates of rather tired looking salad for his staff.

Magnus and I looked at the tickets with boxes and had no idea what to do. We discussed the various possibilities, but even though we had had thirteen years of higher education between us we could come to no firm conclusion. Mercifully one of the staff saw our bewilderment. She handed us two fibre tip pens, and explained the rules. Magnus got into a muddle over the
difference
between a Line and a House, but once this difficulty was sorted out, we both felt fairly confident.

We decided we should sample the food. At the sandwich counter an elderly waitress with only two bottom teeth served us very cheap, very nasty, cheese and onions rolls and crisps. The accompanying weak tea was free. ‘It’s not quite like the casinos in the James Bond films,’ remarked Magnus. ‘There doesn’t seem much chance of a dry martini, stirred, but not shaken.’

Then we had a surprise. At one of the tables in the corner, we saw two familiar figures. ‘That’s Mrs Brush, the Theology department cleaner,’ I said. ‘And isn’t that other lady old Mrs Catnip, Wanda’s mother? She was at the chapel service,
remember
.’

Mrs Brush smiled and waved for us to join them. We picked up our food and made our way between the tables. ‘I’ve never seen you here before, Dr Glass,’ she said.

‘We’ve never been before,’ I explained. ‘This is our first time.’

‘Well, well! This is Mrs Elsa Catnip. Professor Catnip’s mother.’

Elsa Catnip wore a purple woolly hat and a hand-knitted mauve cardigan. She smiled when I said that I thought she had spoken to my daughter Imogen after the chapel service. ‘Oh yes,’ she said, ‘a very nice young lady.’

I said that Imogen was disappointed that the conversation had ended so quickly, but that I understood Wanda had wanted to go home. Old Mrs Catnip suddenly looked tired. ‘Wanda’s very clever, you know, like her father was. She does get a bit
impatient
.’ Then she got up from her seat. ‘Before we start,’ she said, ‘I like to have a look at the blackjack table.’

Gesturing to a corridor alongside the stage, she told us that it was next door and she slowly made her way through the little tables.

When she was out of earshot, Mrs Brush told us about her new friend. ‘Poor dear,’ she began. ‘She does miss Leeds. But that Professor Catnip insisted she come live with her. She can’t really do for herself any more – she’s eighty-five you know.’ I realised this must be about right. If Wanda Catnip was nearly sixty, it was likely that her mother would be in her mid-eighties.

Mrs Brush was relishing the chance for a gossip. ‘What Elsa really wanted was to sell her house in Leeds and move into a local old people’s home. She had several friends there already and was
looking forward to a nice rest. But that daughter of hers wasn’t having it.’

‘Why would she be against her mother moving into a
residential
home?’ I asked. My mother would have been only too
thankful
if her parents-in-law had made a similar decision. Instead they had insisted on remaining in the flat in Battersea which brought all sorts of complications of nurses and care arrangements.

‘I don’t know,’ Mrs Brush shook her head. ‘Elsa won’t say, but I think it’s because Professor Catnip doesn’t want to lose that house. It’s worth a small fortune now and of course it would have to be sold to pay for the home. Well, you know how bossy Professor Catnip is. She likes her own way. She insisted that the house was closed up and that Elsa came to live with her. Between you and me, she treats her like dirt. Elsa has quite a good little pension – but now she gives it all to her daughter. The Professor gives her mother twenty pounds a week for a night out at the bingo, but that’s the only treat she has. It’s a shame!’

Mrs Brush stopped for a moment and then she took another breath. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘when she was Dean at the
university
, I had to clean her room. She was a real tartar, always
complaining
about this or that. One time she even went to the Registrar to say that I skimped my work. Me! I’d never had a complaint before in twenty years! I’m really sorry for Elsa. I met her at bingo and when she let slip who she was, I’ve tried to be her friend.’

‘It sounds as if she needs one,’ said Magnus.

Mrs Brush smiled and then looked at her watch. The bingo was about to start. She made as if she were about to go next door to fetch Mrs Catnip, but I volunteered. I was eager to see the casino part of the establishment.

The room was much the same size as the bingo hall and was decorated in the same red velvet. The walls were lined with a series of multi-coloured slot machines. At the far end there was a large roulette wheel operated by a skimpily-dressed blond. Nearby were two blackjack tables. I expected to find Mrs Catnip by the slot machines, but she was standing behind a seedy-
looking
middle-aged man who was the only blackjack player. In front of him were three stacks of chips in different colours. Mrs Catnip was watching intently and shaking her head. I told her that bingo
was due to start. She heaved a sigh and followed me back into the main hall. ‘You know, dear,’ she said as we passed through the corridor, ‘blackjack is far more interesting than bingo. It’s not just luck – there’s skill in it. That poor man didn’t have a clue. I often think I could do very well at it myself … I’ve always had a good memory …’ and she pottered back to her seat next to Mrs Brush.

Once we understood the rules, neither Magnus nor I found bingo very challenging as a game. But I could understand its appeal. The hall was warm and cosy and everyone was friendly and welcoming. A lonely old age pensioner might well find the atmosphere comforting and there was always the possibility of winning something. Having said that, I was astonished at how much some of the old dears were spending. Many were doing twelve lines of numbers at every game (neither Magnus nor I felt equal to more than six). They participated in every bingo of the evening. Many also smoked fairly continuously and drank
several
pints of beer. Still it was not for me to judge. I asked Mrs Brush how much an evening could cost a couple and she thought for some of them there would be no change from fifty pounds. Initially I was shocked by this, but as Magnus pointed out, Emma and I would certainly spend that amount if we went to the theatre in London.

For all our efforts, neither Magnus nor I won anything, but old Mrs Catnip did win a line in one of the games and pocketed forty pounds. She, for one, had made a profit from the evening. She was pleased with her win, but was a little anxious I would tell Wanda. I promised faithfully that I would do no such thing. In fact I was not sure that I would confess to any of my colleagues how I had spent my evening.

The next couple of weeks were uneventful. Mrs Brush was
particularly
chatty whenever we met in the corridor. Bingo had formed a bond. My remaining philosophy classes were going very well and I was reluctantly setting up the new programme in Casino Management. The first necessity was obtaining planning permission to demolish the old squash courts and build a
training
casino. I had several sessions with the council planning
officer
, who was already on drinking terms with Flanagan. I did not
need to point out that the new venture would provide jobs for local people and inject more cash into the economy – he informed me of these points himself. I felt fairly confident that there would be no objections to our plans.