The Campus Trilogy (53 page)

But there was worse to come. Apparently, during the course of her duties, Miss Strict had recognised one of her clients as
someone
who held a high position in St Sebastian’s Cathedral. Seizing the chance to make even more money, she had reported the whole story to the
Sunday Enquirer
. As a result the unfortunate cleric had to resign. This was not the end of the story. It turned out that her family were furious that she had given the
Enquirer
her real name. They felt humiliated by the whole affair and there was a sad interview with Miss Strict’s mother who was a clerical officer at a hospital in Wolverhampton. She was mortified and was ready to disown her daughter and her activities altogether. Miss Strict herself was defiant. She told the
Daily Recorder
that she had earned forty thousand pounds from her escapade. As a result, she was now debt-free; she had given in her notice to the agency and she intended to put down a deposit on a small flat in London.

I have to say that I was appalled that a young woman would think of paying for her education in such a way. That, of course, did not excuse the clergyman, who, in its mealy-mouthed way, the
Recorder
had refused to name. The editor of the paper was obviously furious that the
Enquirer
had scooped the story first and its leading article was sanctimonious in its condemnation of Miss Strict’s avarice and lack of charity. It was full of sympathy for the unfortunate clergyman who had been led astray by this bold young bluestocking.

As a supposed expert in Christian ethics, I spent the rest of the journey pondering the rights and wrongs of the situation. Was the
Recorder
right to condemn young Miss Strict? Could Miss Strict’s activities be justified on the grounds of the greatest
happiness
of the greatest number? Should the
Sunday Enquirer
be condemned for pandering to people’s prurient interests or was it to the public good that hypocricy and vice be revealed? And what was the moral status of the
Recorder
in prolonging the story? These were hard questions even for the emeritus holder of the Thomas Jefferson Porpoise Distinguished Chair of Theology and I was still thinking about them when I passed through the noble portals of the Acropolis Club.

I went straight up to the drawing room where the Archbishop was hiding behind a copy of the
Church Times
in a dark corner. In front of him was a plate of half-eaten tea cakes. When I greeted him, he jumped to his feet and shook my hand. ‘Good to see you Harry,’ he said. ‘It’s been too long. I know you and Victoria have just got back from Virginia and I feel bad calling on you so soon, but I really am at the end of my tether.’ He signalled to a waiter to bring over another pot of tea and some more tea cakes and we sat down.

‘You’d better see this,’ he said, as he pulled a newspaper cutting out of his pocket. It came from the
Sunday Enquirer
and it was the whole sad story of Miss Strict and her client. It turned out that the unfortunate St Sebastian’s cleric was no less a person than the cathedral Provost himself.

‘Oh dear!’ I said.

‘Oh dear is right! There’s no choice. I’ve got to discipline him. He’s got to go and I’ve got to find someone to take his place.’ He drew his leather chair nearer mine and lowered his voice. ‘Look, Harry,’ he continued, ‘I know you’ve just arrived back in this country and I’m sure you’re looking forward to retirement. But, you see, now St Sebastian’s Cathedral doesn’t have a Provost and the university doesn’t have a Visitor. And it’s rather a critical time. The university is facing a quality inspection and the gossip is that there may be trouble. The whole cathedral Chapter is very upset what with one thing and another. They didn’t exactly get on with each other even before this crisis. What we need is a steady hand on the tiller. I wondered if you might consider a
little
proposition …’

‘You surely don’t want me to be the Provost, do you?’

The Archbishop hesitated. ‘Well actually Harry, yes I do. At least for a short time, just as a temporary measure. To tide us over the difficulty. Until we can can fill the post in the long term. We really are in a bit of a fix …’

I was flabbergasted. I had never had any ambition to rise in the Church. I was looking forward to retirement. It was time to bow out and cultivate a garden, not to embark on some new
exhausting
post, fraught with conflict and difficulty. But the Archbishop was shrewd. He knew just how to play me.

‘It’d only be for a year or so. Just to sort things out. And, as you know, the Provost’s House is really rather splendid. Pevsner describes it as one of the most beautiful houses in England. Victoria would love it and she is the perfect person to make it as beautiful inside as it is outside, Anyway we need you. You’d be doing me, and more importantly, the dear old Church of England a real favour.’ The Archbishop picked up a tea cake and bit into it. Butter escaped and dripped down his cassock. He looked me straight in the eye. ‘Think about it, Harry,’ he said. ‘I could almost say it’s your duty. Look at it as an act of solid Christian charity.’

The Archbishop could not stay long. He had to go back to the House of Lords to collect a group of visiting bishops. We parted with expressions of mutual esteem and I promised I would
consider his proposal. ‘Please … Please … We need you …,’ he said as he climbed into his chauffeur-driven car.

Somewhat dazed, I rang Victoria. Mobile telephones were banned in the club rooms, so I had to use a grubby little cubicle by the entrance desk. Despite the smoking ban, there was still a ghostly smell of stale tobacco. Inevitably, Victoria had not yet arrived back at the castle, so I left a message on her voicemail. But I needed to talk to somebody so I telephoned my old friend Magnus Hamilton.

Several years ago, Magnus and I had been colleagues at St Sebastian’s University where he taught Hebrew and Old Testament. Although he had come to the university with
superlative
references from Oxford, his research had dried up and over the space of nearly thirty years he had published little except acerbic reviews of other scholars’ work. At the same time, he was a very brilliant teacher; he was adored by his students who
imitated
his mannerisms and adopted his catch-phrases. It was hard to believe, but under his tuition, Hebrew was the most popular undergraduate course in the whole Theology department. Sadly his abilities were not recognised by the university authorities. As far as they were concerned, research was the only thing that counted and Magnus had remained a junior lecturer for his entire career.

Then, to everyone’s amazement, he won an indecently large sum of money on the premium bonds. He promptly decided to retire from full-time work. He booked himself on a round-
the-world
cruise and Victoria had taught him ballroom dancing before he left. He had found his vocation. He was a huge hit with the elderly ladies on board and was in constant demand as an escort and dancing partner. Unlike the University of St Sebastian’s, the Trans-World Shipping Company recognised
talent
when it saw it. As soon as the voyage was finished, he was offered a regular job as a gentleman host.

Since then, he had been employed on several different cruise ships. He complained constantly about being pursued by the octogenarians, but when another summons from the Company came, he could not resist. After packing his dinner jacket in his leather suitcase, and checking that his shoes were still
comfortable
, he would set off. Invariably, he returned laden with a
selection of elegant little souvenirs from his admirers – gold
cigarette
cases, thin platinum watches, a rainbow of thick silk ties and elaborate sets of silver hairbrushes in pigskin cases.

I knew that he had been away. When we arrived at the castle, there was a postcard waiting for us from Turkey. It was a mounted photograph and it showed Magnus in the loud orange and green shirt he had bought in the West Indies. He was
standing
in front of a ruined temple, surrounded by a troupe of
grey-haired
ladies. Everyone was smiling at the camera except Magnus who looked exhausted.

I worked out that he must be back by now and I rang him at his flat in St Sebastian’s. He picked up the receiver on the second ring and I could hear mournful Mediterranean music playing behind him. ‘Welcome back, Magnus,’ I said.

‘Ah, it’s you Harry. God it’s been a nightmare! Worse even than usual! Never again! Just a minute. I’ve got to turn the music down. I can’t hear myself think.’

‘What on earth is that ghastly noise?’ I asked.

‘Terrific stuff. Purchased it in Athens. It’s a group of Greek Orthodox monks chanting. Do you know they go up in baskets to their monasteries and never come down again? After dealing with all my old ladies, I knew just how they felt. In fact, I thought I’d try it out for myself when we went to Mount Athos.’

‘You weren’t really going to enrol as a monk?’

‘Believe me, by that stage on the cruise I’d have done anything to escape. Somewhere where no women were allowed under any circumstances sounded very attractive. But when it came to the point they wouldn’t have me. There was some stupid business of not being properly baptised. Apparently a nice C of E christening in the parish church when you’re a baby doesn’t count, Anyway, how are you? Back for good now I hope. Is Victoria well?’

‘She’s fine. But, look Magnus, I need to talk to you. The Archbishop of Cannonbury summoned me to the club out of the blue. And he made me a job offer. You won’t believe what he wants me to do!’

‘He wants you to be Bishop of BongoBongoLand to drive some sense into his fellow-bishops in preparation for the next Lambeth Conference.’ Magnus had always had an inventive imagination.

I laughed. ‘Well … not quite as daunting as that! No. He’s invited me to become the next Provost of St Sebastian’s Cathedral.’

‘No! …’ said Magnus. And there was a long pause while he thought about it.

‘Well, Well!’ He came back. ‘Does he indeed! It’s because the present Provost is in hot water, isn’t it? I would have thought he’d been caned enough for his misdemeanours! Doesn’t the Archbishop believe in Christian forgiveness?’

‘Magnus! Really! How do you know about it anyway?’

My friend chuckled. ‘I saw the
Sunday Enquirer
when I caught the train back from Southampton. It’s not my normal choice of Sunday reading, but I was so exhausted after my labours on the ship, that I thought I should read something
completely
untaxing. In fact I got a winner. There are few more
pleasant
spectacles than a member of the established Church on the hop.’

‘Was he a nice man? He was appointed after I left St Sebastian’s. His predecessor was ghastly as I remember.’

‘A real creep!’ agreed Magnus. ‘He became Suffragan Bishop of Puddlethorp you know. I only ever met this one a couple of times. He seemed all right. The usual Church of England
ineffective
ass if you know what I mean.’

I tried to sound offended. ‘Magnus, I am an ordained
clergyman
of the Anglican Church. Am I the usual ineffective ass?’

‘Only sometimes,’ pronounced Magnus. ‘Even after all these years you still believe the best of people instead of really taking on board the eminently sensible doctrine of original sin. In my experience, the vast majority of the human race is uniformly ghastly as you’ll very quickly discover if you’re foolish enough to take on the provostship. You’re not really going to say yes are you?’

‘I don’t know what to do. The Archbishop put on a lot of
pressure
. I’ll have to talk about it with Victoria, but perhaps it really is my duty …’

‘Victoria’s the last person you should consult. You know she’s a complete sucker for beautiful architecture and even I accept that the Provost’s House in the Cathedral Close is one of the most pleasing buildings in England. No … you need someone
objective to talk some sense into you. Why don’t you invite me to dinner at the club? I’ve got nothing decent to eat in the flat and I could be with you in an hour if I catch the six o’clock train.’

I realised that that was exactly what was going to happen. After we had said goodbye, I booked a table for two in the club dining room and left another message for Victoria telling her that I would not be home until well after midnight. Then I went back up to the drawing room and immersed myself in the Archbishop’s discarded
Church Times.

Just before seven, Magnus arrived clutching a gigantic
package
. Deeply tanned, he was wearing a khaki suit with a floppy red and white bow tie. The porter looked suspicious as he ushered him into the lobby. He was only partially reassured when Magnus insisted that his parcel was not a bomb, but an
important
Greek antiquity.

He then shoved the parcel into my arms. It weighed a ton. ‘Here, Harry,’ he said. ‘Found this on Crete and couldn’t resist.’

‘Do you want me to unwrap it now?’

‘Why not? It’s just the thing for the Acropolis.’

Inside I discovered a very battered two-foot-high female stone figure. She had enormous breasts and a very round stomach. I was a little taken aback. ‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘It’s a female pre-Minoan fertility goddess. I found her in a
little
shop on a back street in Knossos and couldn’t resist her. I thought she would make a nice pair with my African god that I keep in my room at the university.’

I remembered the African statue. Indeed it was notorious throughout St Sebastian’s. It stood at least three feet high. Magnus put it on a table and used its enormous phallus as a peg for his coat.

‘Didn’t they go?’

Magnus shook his head. ‘They’re really rather incompatible. Too much of a good thing, if you know what I mean. And then I realised that she was just the present for my friends the Gilberts. It will challenge Victoria’s interior decorating skills to the utmost. Particularly in the Provost’s House. I would recommend putting her in the dining room. It’ll put the entire cathedral
chapter
off its pudding! And anyway I must pay you back for the nice dinner I am about to eat.’