The Campus Trilogy (35 page)

With that the Provost stood up. He gestured to
Chantry-Pigg
and Jenny Sloth that they should leave the room with him. Then he turned to Mary and Rosalind. ‘I will be recommending to the Vice-Chancellor that your places here should be
terminated
. You are unworthy to be members of this university,’ he declared and with considerable dignity the three of them left the room.

‘A bloody disgrace!’ Particia snorted. Mary began to cry; Rosalind was furious. ‘I don’t understand it,’ she stormed. ‘I thought the university was supposed to protect its students.’

Patricia shook her head. ‘I will be going to see the
Vice-Chancellor
this afternoon,’ she said. ‘That was a travesty. Don’t worry. We’re not going to allow anything to happen to you two.’

Partially reassured, the two girls set off in the direction of the Student Union as Patricia and I made our way to the Senior Common Room. We were both stunned. There was still a
possibility
that Flanagan might intervene. But the Provost, as Visitor of the University, was technically his boss. Probably the most sensible thing would be to concentrate on damage limitation. At least Mary and Rosalind must be protected.

Afterwards I set off for home. I thought I needed to calm down and I did not want to meet my smug theological colleagues in the Senior Common Room. As I walked down the High Street, I passed the Amalfi, our local Italian restaurant. To my
astonishment
, the Provost, Chantry-Pigg and Jenny Sloth were having lunch at a table in the window. They were laughing and clearly enjoying themselves. Chantry-Pigg was pouring out what looked like a bottle of champagne and the Provost had tucked his napkin into his dog collar and was eating snails. They were too
preoccupied
with their triumph to notice me.

I was outraged. The moment I arrived in the house, I
telephoned
the Vice-Chancellor’s secretary to make an
appointment
. She was out, but I left a message on her answerphone. Later in the day I received an email. Patricia Parham had already been in touch and Flanagan wanted to see us both at half-past ten on the following morning. He was due at a Senate meeting at eleven o’clock, but he was able to fit us in briefly beforehand. I then contacted Mary and Rosalind and asked them to come and meet us outside Flanagan’s office so we could let them know the outcome of our discussion.

The next morning I started off for the university at ten. As I passed through the cloisters, I saw the Provost on his bicycle heading toward town; his cassock flapped in the wind as he passed through Trinity Gate. He looked as if he did not have a care in the world. I felt murderous, but I tried to remind myself that not all clergy were as appalling as Chantry-Pigg and the Provost. Harry Gilbert was ordained and several of the school chaplains at Westminster had been good, kind men.

I collected my post from my pigeonhole in the Arts Block, and
crossed the street. Several of my theology colleagues were standing chatting outside the Old Building; they looked in my direction but made no gesture of recognition. As the cathedral struck the half hour I knocked on the Vice-Chancellor’s door. From inside Flanagan shouted: ‘Come in Felix.’ Patricia was already sitting on the sofa and Flanagan was at his desk playing with his roulette wheel. He gestured for me to sit in the arm-chair.

‘I received a note from the Provost,’ he said. ‘He told me the case was dismissed.’

I nodded. ‘It was a disgrace. The Provost refused to hear the tape. He said it was inadmissable evidence. Then he insisted that it be given to him and destroyed. He just wouldn’t listen to reason.’

Flanagan nodded. ‘Patricia has just told me.’ He was icy calm. It was as if he were keeping himself tightly in check. In many ways it was even more disconcerting than when he had lost his temper.

‘Look, Vice-Chancellor,’ I said, ‘there’s no way I can accept the result. Nor can Patricia. It’s against natural justice. You can’t just dismiss evidence. I can’t imagine what the Provost was thinking.’

‘What exactly did he say?’

‘He stated that tape recordings were notoriously unreliable. They could be falsified. He insisted that it probably wasn’t even Chantry-Pigg’s voice on the tape.’

The Vice-Chancellor snorted. Patricia was pink in the face. ‘When I tried to demand that we heard it, he accused me of being prurient.’

‘He said that it was a priori impossible that the dear Archbishop could have recommended someone who would behave like that …’

‘And he called those nice young women evil-minded little Jezebels …’

‘And he told them that he was going to recommend that they be sent down from the university,’ I concluded.

Flanagan stood up. He walked over to the window and looked out in the direction of the cathedral. I could see he was trembling. ‘I blame myself.’ It was as if he were talking to himself. ‘I should have known what would happen. Why didn’t I see it?’ He turned
around and spoke directly to us. ‘It was just like that with the Brothers of Gentleness. You could never win against them. Whatever the evidence, the authorities refused to believe it. Even today the Church always protects itself.’

As he spoke the colour suffused his face. He was flushed with anger. ‘I’m sorry, both of you,’ he said. ‘But there’s nothing we can do. The Provost is the Visitor of the University and the
decision
of the panel is final.’

‘I just don’t believe it.’ Patricia was determined not to let the matter go. ‘Surely there can be an appeal?’

Flanagan shook his head. ‘Not if the Visitor is involved.’

‘But what about Mary and Rosalind? Surely you’re not going to send them down? It would a travesty of justice.’

The Vice-Chancellor seemed to relax. He took a deep breath. ‘No,’ he said. ‘They were never on trial so they cannot be found guilty. If they have not been found guilty, I cannot expel them and that’s the end of the matter. You can tell them from me that they are safe. Also warn them to keep out of the Reverend Friar’s way. In my experience people like him are extrememly vengeful, but the whole thing will die down in a few days.’

‘It’s appalling!’ Patricia was still incenced.

‘Yes it is. If I had my way I’d get rid of that wretched man today, if not yesterday. But I can’t, dammit. We must just hope that there are enough other complaints that I can write to the Archbishop some time in the future. Anyway, about those nice little girls, I’ll give Pilkington a ring, as head of their department. He must be told that no action can be taken against them
whatever
the Provost says.’ Flanagan sat down at his desk and shoved the roulette wheel to one side – it fell off into his wastebasket and cracked in two. ‘Damn,’ he said picking up the pieces. ‘Damn, damn …’

‘Perhaps you can glue it back together,’ I volunteered.

The Vice-Chancellor picked up the telephone and gestured for us to go. Outside Mary and Rosalind were waiting. Patricia and I took them down to the Junior Common Room, bought them some coffee and explained that they were in no danger. Mary began to cry. Rosalind put her arm round her and made a vow. ‘I’ll get even with that Chantry-Pigg,’ she said, ‘if it’s the last thing I ever do!’ Patricia and I left them there.

Several days later I was working at home; Emma was in the kitchen trying out a new receipe for whisky-baked alaska. The post arrived and she came into my study. ‘Look at this,’ she said.

It was an invitation from Pilkington to an end-of-term Christmas party. On the front was a nativity scene with glitter. Inside was a pious Christmas greeting and a hand-written note about the date and time of the party. ‘Really, Felix,’ Emma said passing over the card, ‘your colleagues have no taste.’

‘Well, I’m not going,’ I announced.

‘I think you must.’

‘But why? After Pilkington’s comments about my Jewish background, I really don’t see why I should.’

‘These are your new colleagues, Felix,’ said Emma gently. ‘You’ve got to try to be friendly.’

‘It’ll be ghastly. I’m telling you.’

‘Well, at least Magnus will be going. You can talk to him.’

I picked up the telephone to offer Magnus a lift to the Pilkingtons. He sounded amused. ‘Sorry Felix,’ he said. ‘You and Emma are on your own. I’m just going out to deliver Pushkin to his catsitter.’ Pushkin was Magnus’s cat. He was famous throughout the university for only eating the most expensive cat food and refusing to use all but the most rarified cat litter.

‘I’m off on my cruise in a couple of days’ time,’ he continued, ‘And I have to make sure Pushkin is settled in before I set off. Then it’s lobster all the way for me while you’ll be getting tinned pineapple and plastic vol-au-vents from Maureen Pilkington!’

Emma was horrified to hear about the food. ‘It can’t really be like that,’ she said, but she cheered up at the thought of Magnus as a gentleman-host on the Queen Christina.

‘It’s hard to imagine,’ she said.

‘I understand from Harry and Victoria that he’s a fantastic dancer. He’s pursued by all the old ladies who want a partner. So he won’t be at the party and I won’t have anyone to talk to. As a matter of principle, none of the theologians want to have
anything
to do with me now that I’ve taken over the casino project and anyway they’re furious that they have to do some of my teaching.’

‘You can always talk to me.’ Emma was comforting. ‘Anyway
I’m curious to meet your new colleagues and their wives. So, you’ll just have to put up with it.’

‘Please, Emma …’

‘No, Felix,’ Emma was unusually firm. ‘We’re going. After all, you’ll have to work with these people in the future.’

I could see there was no escape, so I wrote a note to Pilkington to let him know we were delighted to accept his kind invitation …

In the meantime I heard from my publisher that advanced copies of my new book were due. At the beginning of December, six shiny volumes arrived in a large parcel in the post. They looked very nice. The cover was blue with
Kant’s Critiques
Revisited
in large gold letters. I had been told that only a
hardback
would appear in the first instance, but no one had
mentioned
the price. I was astounded to see that the book cost sixty pounds. Who, I wondered, would ever pay that amount? When I phoned my editor to ask about this, he tried to be reassuring. As a scholarly monograph, it was aimed initially for a library sale. If it did well, then they would consider a paperback edition.

I thought Flanagan might like to see my work even though it had nothing to do with casino management and I put a copy in the internal post for him. I also sent one to Pilkington as Head of my department. The Vice-Chancellor’s secretary sent me a brief note saying that Flanagan appreciated my kind thought and that he hoped he’d have a chance to read the book during the Christmas holiday. There was no response from Pilkington. In class I mentioned that my latest work had just appeared and that I had given a copy to the library. The students looked pleased, but I doubted if anyone would peruse it.

I knew it was not the kind of volume to appear in an ordinary neighbourhood bookshop. It was not even the kind of work to provoke a reaction in the upmarket Sunday papers. I had been told by the
Journal of Philosophical Studies
that although they intended to cover it, they were at present two years behind with their reviews. There was such complete silence that I felt as if I had spent three years of my life on a project only to have the
manuscript
dropped in the deepest and remotest area of the Pacific Ocean. It was not an encouraging thought.

Then, just before Pilkington’s party, I received an email from Magnus with a photograph. He had gone to Southampton to
begin his cruise and he was already sailing the ocean waves In the picture, he was seated in the first-class dining room surrounded by a group of elderly women in glittery costumes. Magnus
himself
was wearing a dinner jacket with a red bow tie and was slightly out of focus. Accompanying the photograph was a message:

On the afternoon of Pilkington’s party I went to pick Imogen up from the station. She had permission to leave two days before the
end of term to do some research at the Women’s Refuge. I was delighted to see her. She was carrying two suitcases, both filled with books; they were so heavy I had difficulty lifting them into the boot.