The Campus Trilogy (74 page)

‘You do exaggerate …,’ said Magnus.

‘No I don’t!’ insisted Dorothy. ‘Absolute accuracy is essential in Aramaic …’

‘I’m afraid she’s right …,’ agreed Magnus.

‘And in those days, you have to admit you were a bit sloppy.’

‘But I was younger then,’ Magnus smiled, ‘I didn’t know any better.’

Dorothy looked at him fondly. ‘I will concede that there has been considerable improvement,’ she said crisply.

As Victoria had observed, the cathedral would soon be very short-staffed. Both Derek Trend and Graham Sinclair would have left us by the end of the month. I too was only supposed to be a stop-gap appointment. I let the remaining members of the Chapter know that I would be willing to take my share of weekly duties until at least one new Canon was appointed and I wrote a desperate letter to the Archbishop. We needed more help.

One Friday morning in early May, I was sitting in my study writing my sermon for Sunday Matins. It was the weekend that Reg was to be away at his Oxford reunion and I saw the Blenkensop car leave the precincts. I am ashamed to say that I felt a certain lightness of heart. For at least three days I would not have to cope with his sullen unfriendliness. Cleo and Brutus were waiting at the front door for the letters to arrive. For some reason the process fascinated them. Then I heard various items drop through the post box and a few minutes later I went to retrieve them.

Victoria had got there first. She was sitting in the kitchen with the cats, giggling at a missive in Sir William’s handwriting.
‘Why’s your father sending you letters all of a sudden?’ I asked.

‘It’s a secret,’ said my wife.

‘A secret?’ I was immediately curious. ‘What kind of secret? It’s not my birthday yet …’

‘Daddy said it should only be revealed on a “need to know” basis.’

‘Well I’m sure I need to know. You certainly seem to find it funny …’

Victoria chuckled. ‘Oh all right,’ she said. ‘You’ll find out soon enough, but you’re not to stop us … You must promise …’ and she handed over the piece of paper.

The letter was neatly written:

I read this missive with a degree of suspicion. ‘What’s all this about? Presumably W.D. is your father and V.G. is you. I suppose Mrs B. is old Mrs Blenkensop. Who’s the target? What are you all planning?’

‘It’s nothing to do with you, Harry. Don’t worry about it!’

Then, of course, I saw it. ‘You’re going to castrate Marmaduke!’ I said.

Victoria giggled. ‘I’m certainly not! You can be sure of that. No, the vet is…’

‘But you can’t just kidnap him and take him off without a by-
your-leave
. He’s not your cat!’ I was horrified.

‘No. But the Blenkensops are away for the weekend and old Mrs Blenkensop is his official guardian in their absence. Come on, Harry. That cat is a menace … The greatest good for the greatest number, remember …’

‘But Reg will have a fit …’ I was staggered by the boldness of the enterprise. ‘He’ll never speak to me again.’

‘Well he doesn’t say very much now,’ pointed out Victoria. ‘And anyway it’s nothing to do with you. This is old Mrs Blenkensop’s decision. She’s a game old bird. She knows what has to be done and she’s enlisted Daddy’s help. It’s rather a good plan, don’t you think?’

‘I don’t think this is right,’ I said.

‘Really, Harry,’ argued my wife, ‘I don’t understand your ethical position. I thought you believed in the greatest good for the greatest number. Marmaduke will turn out to be a civilised creature. All the wildlife in the precincts will be happier. That includes the Precentor’s Otto and our Cleo and Brutus, as well as countless mice, birds and squirrels. The wailing and caterwauling which disturbs everyone at night will stop and even the RSPCA say it’s the kindest thing to do. So it’s for everyone’s
benefit. Now what have you got to set against all that happiness? The possible wrath of Reg Blenkensop. It’s obvious that,
according
to your utilitarian criteria, we’re doing the right thing.’

Despite many years’ work on the subject, there were times when my faith in my own ethical position was shaken. ‘You can’t just capture strange cats and haul them off to the vet whenever you feel like it …’ I said feebly.

‘In the first place,’ insisted Victoria, ‘He’s not a strange cat. We all know him and he’s a shocker. Secondly, old Mrs Blenkensop is
in loco parentis
and will sign the proper consent form. No vet would do the operation without that.’

I realised I was defeated. ‘What are you going to use for the heavy object to block the scullery cat-flap?’ I asked.

Victoria laughed. ‘I always knew Magnus’s fertility goddess would come in useful,’ she said.

At two o’clock precisely, old Mrs Blenkensop knocked at our front door. I took her into the study and sat her in an armchair in front of the window. She had an excellent view of the Green Court and had the air of a woman who intended to enjoy herself.

Ten minutes later a taxi drew up. My father-in-law, Steve, Kev and Bess emerged from the depths. I noticed that both boys were wearing thick leather gardening gloves. From my own dealings with Marmaduke, I felt this was a sensible precaution. Victoria ran out to greet them all. She kissed her father, patted Bess and led the two young gardeners through the hall into the scullery. I followed behind.

The two lads were astonished by Magnus’s idol. They had never seen anything like it before. They were not sure whether they should be embarrassed or admiring. In any event it was exactly the right size for the purpose. Victoria unlocked the cat-flap and gave Kev the statue to hold.

‘You’ll see a ginger cat run up the path and into the house from here,’ she pointed to the window over the sink. Then she made sure that there were no avenues of escape. She showed them the cat basket and demonstrated how it fastened and finally she
presented
Steve with the First Aid kit. ‘In the event of emergencies!’ she said. I wished them both good luck. Then we left them to their vigil, carefully closing the door behind us.

By the time we joined Mrs Blenkensop in the study, the action was well under way. Marmaduke was scratching himself in the middle of the Green Court. Then he started stalking a sparrow who was pecking at a worm about thirty feet away. Sir William, standing by the front door, blew a sharp blast on a silver whistle. Bess, who had dropped down by his feet, was off.

She shot out in the direction of the cat. Marmaduke, who looked up as Bess charged, realised that this was perhaps not the best day for hunting. He ran as I had never seen him run before, but it was not for nothing that Bess had spent her working life rounding up errant sheep. There was no escape. Directed by Sir William’s whistle, they did a lap round the Green Court. Then the pair of them shot into our front garden. Somehow Bess had got him at exactly the right angle for the scullery door. He caught sight of the cat-flap and saw it as his salvation. There was a huge clatter as he hurled himself through into the scullery. Sir William immediately called Bess to heel, put her on her lead and the two of them went to join Mrs Blenkensop in the study.

From outside the scullery door, we could hear some terrific spitting and the sound of chairs crashing over. Then there was a long heart-broken wail and the click of a cat-basket being closed. Victoria and I gave the boys a couple of minutes to fasten it before we knocked.

‘Is the prisoner secured?’ asked Victoria.

‘Yeah!’ came Kev’s voice. ‘E’s quite a fighter, ain’t ’e?’ We both went in to see what was going on. There were no casualties. The boys were looking admiringly at their handiwork. Marmaduke was shut in the basket and was bellowing that his feline rights were being infringed. I had some sympathy with his position. Victoria congratulated the two young lieutenants and I went to fetch their commanding officer.

Sir William was immensely pleased with his troops. ‘Good work, lads! Well done!’ he said and he led the procession out to the car. With many commendations, the young gardeners and Bess were sent back to the Priory. Old Mrs Blenkensop was
levered
into the front of the volvo. Sir William took possession of the back and Marmaduke was consigned to the boot.

‘I told that judge fella that Kev is a useful young man! Damned good show!’ were Sir William’s last words as the car turned into
the Green Court. As they left, I looked at my watch. It was
half-past
two precisely.

When Victoria arrived home, she was full of triumph. ‘Didn’t it go well!’ she said. ‘Everything was like clockwork. The cat’s fine. Mrs Blenkensop signed the consent form on behalf of her son. There was no trouble. The operation went without a hitch. Apparently Marmaduke’s got to be on a light diet for the next few days. That’ll be a shock to his system. When it was all over, I delivered him and Mrs Blenkensop back to the Blenkensops’ house and I had to take Daddy back to the Priory. He’s cock-
a-hoop
! Really, he’s very good at strategy. I always said he should have been a General!’

‘I can’t imagine what Reg will say!’ I responded.

Blenkensop was to return from Oxford late on Sunday
afternoon
. I was fearful that he would immediately storm round to the house and berate us for our part in the emasculation. Indeed, I rather expected that he would threaten legal action. However, the precincts remained quiet throughout the evening. There was not even a telephone call. I rose early next morning. I thought there might be a poisonous letter on the door-mat. There was nothing. Monday morning proceeded as usual and my first glimpse of the Canon was at Evensong.

He was a little late and as soon as he had robed, it was time to process into the cathedral. Afterwards, he was delayed by one of the vergers. I deliberately lingered in the vestry. I thought it
better
to give him the chance to vent his fury. I did not feel it was healthy for him to bottle it up. Yet, in the event, nothing
happened
. He mumbled something about his stay in Oxford, divested himself of his surplice and disappeared.

When I arrived home, Victoria was in high spirits. She had just bumped into Reg’s wife near the Monks’ Gate. Henrietta had been very reassuring and had expressed the opinion that Marmaduke should have been neutered years ago. She was thankful it had been done. Victoria had been bold enough to describe her father’s campaign. Mrs Blenkensop had laughed immoderately and had said that she wished that she had seen it. They had parted with expressions of mutual esteem. ‘So you see utilitarianism is right, after all!’ concluded Victoria.

The next day I received a surprising email from the Chief Executive of the University Funding Council. It was marked Urgent and Confidential and was addressed to me as ‘The Very Reverend Professor Harry Gilbert, Visitor of St Sebastian’s University.’ It read as follows:

Since I was due to go to London for a meeting of the Church of England Consultancy Committee on Medical Ethics on Friday, I asked my secretary to arrange the meeting for that afternoon. It was a sunny summer day when I took the train from St Sebastian’s and arrived in London within the hour.

The committee meeting took place in Church House in Westminster. Afterwards, I crossed the river to go to the Funding Council’s headquarters on the South Bank. The offices were on the twelfth and thirteenth floors of a tall plate-glass building overlooking the Thames. I took the glass lift and much enjoyed the view.

Seated in the reception area and managing the switchboard was an efficient Indian lady in a sari. She asked me to take a seat. I leafed through brochures about the work of the Funding
Council while I waited to be summoned. Several minutes later, Sir Roy emerged. Over six feet tall and stout with it, he was
wearing
a grey pin-striped suit and had a military moustache. ‘Thank you for coming, Provost,’ he said. ‘It’s very good of you to give us your time.’

I was then led into a large office with another superb waterside vista. Already seated at a round table was a diminutive woman wearing a red tight-fitting dress. She was introduced as Mrs Morganstern. Although she looked about eighteen, she turned out to be the Chief Accountant. Coffee was available and she poured it out for all three of us. I noticed that her fingernails exactly matched the colour of her dress.