The Campus Trilogy (51 page)

‘You haven't heard the end,' she continued. ‘When she left the hospital, Helga took half the money from their joint account. That's what she's been living on – happily there was quite a lot there. Anyway, in retaliation Flanagan cancelled their joint credit cards. But yesterday she found another card. It was one they only used for holidays and they'd both forgotten about it. She came across it in the back of the silver cupboard. She wasn't sure it would work, but she tried it out by filling up the Mercedes with petrol on the way back to the Refuge. It was fine!'

I was not sure I was going to approve of the end of this story. ‘So what did she do with it?'

‘She thought everyone in the Refuge deserved a treat. So she booked a table at the Amalfi Restaurant for six o'clock. There were twenty of us. The two paid helpers Liz and Jan, five resident women, eight children, Patricia and Judith, Danielle Bousset who has been very helpful, me and Helga herself.'

‘What about Helmut?' asked Emma.

‘No … he had to stay at home on her bed. Anyway we had a private room. Danielle, who knows about these things, chose the champagne. The children had some form of pasta and salad and ice cream and the rest of us had slap-up dinners. I had mussels followed by veal cooked in a wonderful cream and mushroom sauce. Then I had zabaglione with fresh mangos and a selection of Italian cheeses. It was yummy!'

‘How much was it?' Emma could not decide whether to be amused or horrified. ‘The Amalfi isn't cheap.'

‘The bill was over seven hundred pounds. We had a lovely time!' Imogen grinned.

I felt uneasy. ‘Perhaps I should tell the Vice-Chancellor that I'll pay Imogen's share …' I suggested to Emma.

‘Don't be ridiculous, Felix.' My wife was having none of it. ‘It's the least that man can do to contribute to the situation.'

All too soon the novel was finished. I tried to delay the moment of separation by fiddling about and rewriting the odd paragraph. But I couldn't deceive myself. The book was done. I took a deep breath, put the manuscript into a large envelope and sent it to the publisher. He telephoned back within forty-eight hours,
bubbling
over with enthusiasm. He was anxious that I should deal with the proofs as soon as possible. Almost before I knew it, press releases were being issued. An advance copy was sent to a prominent politician. To my amazement, he not only read it, but described it as a ‘rattling good read.'

Several newspapers were intrigued by the idea of an
anonymous
author. Then we ran into a problem. We needed someone to talk to journalists. Eventually we decided that Emma would do the public relations for the book. She was a professional media person and would know how to cope with the press. She did a wonderful job. As a result of her efforts, there was a
double-page
article in the
Times Higher Educational Supplement
conjecturing
who had written such a scandalous volume. The piece was illustrated by a montage of a bald-headed white male, a gorilla and a busty blond. The headline was ‘Anon Brings Campus to Book.'

She also persuaded the education editor of one of the quality newspapers to take it on. In a major article, the correspondent discussed the contemporary relevance of the book. Under the headline ‘In the Footsteps of Lucky Jim', it emphasised the poor standard of university management, the absurdity of the Research Assessment Exercise and the dangers of dependence on outside funding. There were also several reviews in the literary pages of the other serious newspapers.

I had never experienced anything like it. Sadly
Kant's
Critiques Revisited
was still waiting for its first notice in an
academic
journal. In contrast, everyone seemed eager to voice an
opinion about
A Campus Conspiracy
. The editor of the local paper, the
St Sebastian's Gazette
was not to be outdone. He had used Emma frequently on his cookery and leisure pages and he wanted to have an interview with her. He sent along a young reporter and she told him that an option on the book had been sold to a major American film company. The next week, a front page story appeared entitled ‘Unknown Takes Book to Hollywood.' There was a nice photograph of Emma, but the young journalist had written that she did not know who the author was. We were unhappy about this and I encouraged Emma to write a letter to the editor saying that although the book was anonymous, she did, in fact, know the name of the writer. ‘Oh what a tangled web we weave …' said Imogen when she heard the story.

Soon afterwards, my publisher telephoned me again. He was delighted with the publicity and was still exulting about the film option. By this stage it was becoming clear that the book would be a minor bestseller – Waterstone's had just placed a substantial advance order and other bookshops were following suit. It was felt that we should not let the opportunity pass. What about
producing
a sequel?

This idea had not occurred to me. Although
A Campus
Conspiracy
was written in the first person, it was really the story of a colleague whom I had chosen to call Harry Gilbert. I was not sure that I could make up a novel with no basis in fact. My
publisher
was amused. I had hinted to him on several occasions that my own relationship with the university was not exactly
sweetness
and light. Why shouldn't the next book be centred around me? My wife thought this was a splendid idea. It would be cathartic for me to write out my feelings. I was unsure. It is one thing to write a successful novel about someone else. Could I pull off the same trick for myself? I thought about it for a few
weekdays
. Without any conscious effort, the shape of the new book emerged.

Like Harry's adventures, mine would also have to be
fictionalised
. As in
A Campus Conspiracy
, the novel's university would be called St Sebastian's, but, at the very least, all the characters' identities would have to be changed. This meant I could not use my real name. After a certain amount of discussion within the
family, we settled on the central couple being called Felix and Emma Glass. The perfect title was more elusive, but it came to me in the middle of the night. It would be entitled
Degrees 'R' Us
. It would show the lengths the modern university would go to achieve solvency. In the course of time I did write the sequel and, dear reader, this is the very volume that you are now holding in your hand.

Not suprisingly the university was buzzing with gossip. There were enough people on campus who knew the original story of Harry and Victoria to ensure that St Sebastian's was recognised. But who could have written the novel? Various suggestions were made. Perhaps it was the old Vice-Chancellor who played such a prominent part in the proceedings. Could it have been the Registrar as a therapeutic exercise after he had found himself in a muddle with his ladies? It was even mooted that the original of Wanda Catnip had turned her energies to fiction during her retirement? Magnus, however, was so excited about the
possiblity
of becoming a film star that he let Patricia and Judith into the secret. Soon the word spread. As far as St Sebastian's was
concerned
, I was the likely culprit.

By the first week of June several of my colleagues had
telephoned
asking if the rumour were true. I refused to confirm or deny their conjectures. There was, however, a deathly hush from my Head of Department, who had, after all, taken an important role in Harry's career. John Pilkington, in defiance of all the rules of good management, had had no contact with me since my
accident
. There had been no card, no telephone call and no enquiry. I wondered how he would tackle the statutory Back to Work Interview when the time came.

Then, unexpectedly, I received an email from the
Vice-Chancellor
summoning me to see him. This sounded ominous, and I was reluctant to go. After all, I was on sick leave. I had no real obligation towards him. In the event, however, he did not want to meet in his office. Instead he invited me for lunch one Saturday at the St Sebastian's Golf Club. I did not think even Flanagan could dismiss me from my job amid the bourgeois, golf-playing citizenry of the club dining room.

In any case, I was curious to know what was on his mind. By this stage I had discarded my crutches and was able to drive the
car for a short distance. I still used a stick, but it was wonderful to be able to walk on my own two feet. On the appointed day I set off at noon. The club was two miles outside the town so I took the car and I dropped in to the university on my way. I was
anxious
to keep abreast of my post. I parked the car and slowly mounted the steps of the Old Building. There was a crowd
assembled
just outside the chapel. Clearly a wedding was about to begin.

As I approached I heard shrieks of rather camp laughter. I stopped to watch the procession as it made its way round the quadrangle. First came a handsome, silver-haired clergyman. He was dressed in a white and gold embroidered cope and looked as if he were at least a bishop. He was accompanied by a couple of golden-haired little boys in white lace suplices who were
swinging
incense censers. Then came the two principals. It was a
lesbian
wedding and both brides were tall blondes in magnificent dresses. Never have I seen such glamour! Despite the incense, the scent of lilies from the chapel was overwhelming. The brides themselves were stupendous – wonderful elaborate hair styles piled up on their heads, discreet, elegant make-up, real lace veils, vertiginous six-inch high heels and perfectly manicured long pink finger-nails. This was a ceremony of the highest quality with no expense spared. I wondered what they both did for a living.

As they glided past, one bride turned to the other. She put her arm round her fiancée and said in a deep, masculine voice, ‘Come on old dear, here we go!' They smiled at each other and the two of them disappeared into the chapel. There was a burst of clapping from the assembled congregation. ‘Well!' I thought to myself. ‘A drag wedding! I wonder what the founding fathers of St Sebastian's missionary college would have thought of that?'

After collecting a pile of letters, I limped back to the car and drove through the suburbs in the direction of the Golf Club. Perched on a hill surrounded by a magnificent golf course stretching across green fields, the Club House was an Edwardian red brick mansion with marble pillars. I caught sight of a sizeable outside swimming pool and an archery range in the distance. I had never been before. It was not the usual haunt of my colleagues – university salaries do not stretch that far.

I parked my old Volkswagen in the car park. It looked shabby beside the glossy Audis, Volvos and Saabs. However, I did notice that there was no outsize Mercedes-Benz. Clearly Helga had won her point over the Flanagan family motor-car. I went directly to the club house and was greeted in the hall by a porter. He was expecting me and led me into a vast Victorian conservatory filled with lush green plants. It had a very good view of the ninth hole. Seated in a large wicker armchair was Flanagan wearing his golf hat. Next to him was a white-haired gentleman with a pink face and slightly trembly hands. Both were drinking large pink gins.

‘Come in, Felix, come in'. The Vice-Chancellor made me
welcome
and, without even asking my preference, demanded another pink gin for me. I was not used to spirits and was very aware that I was driving. I resolved to make the drink last.

‘This,' declared the Vice-Chancellor, ‘is Jimmy Brewster. He's the owner of Brewsters' Brewery. Brewster by name and Brewer by nature.' Mr Brewster must have heard that joke a thousand times before, but he still seemed to be amused by it. ‘Now, Felix,' Flanagan began, ‘how are you?'

‘Much better,' I said. ‘I don't need the crutches any more. And I'm feeling fine.'

‘Good to hear it,' Flanagan said, clicking his fingers for the waiter. He ordered two more pink gins.

‘Now,' Flanagan began, ‘I've something to tell you. Jimmy here is about to retire. Tired of brewing beer, aren't you Jimmy?'

‘I never liked the stuff anyway,' said Mr Brewster. His ‘s' sounds were very slightly slurred.

‘I've just got a good slug of money from the European Union,' continued my boss. ‘The university is going to take over the brewery premises and it's going to become a centre for our new degree programme in Brewing Technology!'

‘Brewing Technology?' I asked. I was not sure that I had heard correctly.

‘That's what I said.' Flanagan was a man in a hurry. ‘As you know I got rid of that boring bloke Ralph Randolph, but I was stuck with his two remaining chemists. They both have old-style tenure and I couldn't just give them the push. I was at my wits' end. But Jimmy here came up with this brilliant idea. The chemists will continue the brewing operation and we'll keep
most of the old brewery staff. That's what the European Commission cares about. Keeping jobs!'

‘You can call the beer “Flanagan's Finest”.' Mr Brewster wheezed with laughter at his little joke.

Flanagan was rather taken with this suggestion. ‘Good idea!' he said. ‘We were going to introduce Travel and Tourism
anyway
next year and the brewery can be the centre for all that. We'll move the Union Bar over there as well. It can be staffed by the students as part of their work experience which'll save on the salary bill. And we'll make sure it only stocks our own particular beer. It'll make a fortune! Can't lose!'

‘Are you going to rechristen the bar Flanagan's?' I asked slyly.

The Vice-Chancellor paused to consider this idea. ‘Well it would bring the whole thing together …,' he said.

Mr Brewster heaved himself up from his seat. ‘Gotta go, Alf. The little woman creates merry hell if I'm not in for lunch. Good to meet you, Freddie.' He nodded at me and made his slow way to the door.