by Ruth Edwards
‘How did that happen?’
‘Don’t know, except that there was a crush of students when I was leaving.’ She showed Marjorie her bag. ‘You see, it doesn’t have a zip, so you wouldn’t need to be one of Fagin’s finest to nick the wallet.’
‘What was in it?’
‘Nothing important. Just one credit card. And only fifty dollars or so. It was mainly some cards and phone numbers people have given me. That kind of thing. Stefano’s reported it to the cops.’
‘Do you think it was an act of vengeance?’
‘Probably just petty thieving.’
In response to the sound of shouting outside, Marjorie jumped up and went to the window. ‘Well, Jack, come and look at what’s goin’ on outside. That’s vengeance.’
‘It’s not much of a demo,’ said the baroness with a note of disappointment as she stared out of the window. Trailing through the campus after Jimmy Rawlings was a small line of young people, mostly brown or black, but a few white, many bearded and some carrying crudely made placards.
The baroness squinted. ‘Can you see what’s on the placards, Marjorie? I can only make out the word “insult.”’
‘I think it’s “insults.” TROUTBECK INSULTS ALLAH.’
‘That’s quite mild. No death threats?’
‘Not that I can see. In fact the others seem to be about reparations. WE SLAVED YOU’LL PAY.’
‘That’s quite good.’
‘And there’s something about Freeman. Do you think it’s about the name-change Rawlings was demanding?’
‘Maybe.’
The telephone rang. ‘Yes, yes, yes….How many?…That was quick….What are the details….Is that so?…Thanks.’
Marjorie put the phone down. ‘That was a friend in the Provost’s office, Jack. Three formal separate complaints were lodged against you just now alleging harassment—one racial, one religious, and the other sexual. You’ll be getting a letter from the Provost about them any time now. She’s anxious to proceed against you as soon as possible. And the Goon wants to interview you.’
‘What fun! What exactly are they complaining about?’
‘Your line about blacks needing to get over slavery and everything you said about Islam.’
‘Oh, good. And the sexual one?’
‘You touched someone inappropriately. Apparently you put your hand on a girl’s arm.’
‘Wow! Wait till I really make a pass. When did I do this?’
‘A student tried to remonstrate with you yesterday evening and you touched her.’
‘If she was the boring little creep who came up to me afterwards and went on and on about the insensitivity of what I’d said about sodding diversity, it’s true that I touched her in trying to get her out of my way.’
‘In this university, if they don’t like you, that will count as a prima facie case of sexual harassment.’
‘It’s a good thing they don’t like me, then. I wouldn’t want to miss this.’
***
‘It’s Betsy, Lady Troutbeck. Can I see you?’
‘Certainly. I’m free for the rest of the day. When? Where?’
‘If it’s OK with you, I’ll come by soon.’
‘Come to the hotel. I’ll feed you. And I’ll leave Horace in the office so we can have some peace. He’s been alternating between ‘Whoo! Whoo!’ and ‘Beverages!’ all morning, and it’s beginning to drive me mad.’
***
Two hours later, the baroness was back in her room jabbing her finger at the antipasti. ‘Have some of that salami. And a piece of the bruschetta. Paola made it and it’s very very good. Come on, Betsy. You’re looking peaky. You must eat up. Are you working too hard?’
‘It’s a lot easier driving people around than like…sorry…cheerleading,’ said Betsy, reaching for some more salami. ‘Though I hate being with that awful Professor Rawlings. His limo had an accident this morning and they called on me to take him to an appointment.’
‘Doesn’t he demand that you call him Professor Mujaahid?’
Betsy giggled and then reverted to looking anxious. ‘He hardly talks to me at all. When I picked him up at the airport that time he told me to cover myself up cos I dressed like a slut.’
‘And did you cover up?’
‘I couldn’t that time. But after that I wore long sleeves and jeans when I had to see him. But then I was replaced and this morning I didn’t have enough notice to change so I had to go as I was and this time he said I looked like a ho.’
‘You should tell him to go to hell.’
Betsy said nothing.
‘You’re afraid to because you’d lose your job.’
Betsy nodded.
‘Presumably a white male wouldn’t get away with that?’
‘A professor was disciplined last year just for saying something about skimpy clothing that a student took as an insult.’
‘The double standards in this place are truly impressive. Now, finish that salami and tell me why you wanted to see me.’
Betsy put her fork down and gazed at the baroness. ‘I wanted to tell you I think you’re, like…sorry, I’m getting better but the likes slip in sometimes…I think you’re awesome.’
‘Is that good?’
‘Oh, it’s really really good. I’ve never met anyone like you.’
‘Some would think you’d been fortunate heretofore.’
‘I couldn’t believe what you said yesterday. You’re so brave standing up to all those bullies.’
‘Thank you, Betsy. I’m glad you approve.’
‘You’re a real inspiration. And not just to me.’
‘Are we talking VRC?’
Betsy nodded.
The baroness’s phone rang. ‘Yes…yes…no, I’m busy….If you want to see me, ring me at the office later and I’ll arrange a time when you can come and see me….Impertinence will get you nowhere, young man.’ She rang off. ‘Ridiculous.’
Betsy looked enquiring.
‘That was that frightful Gonzales person, demanding I come and see him.’
Betsy dropped her fork. ‘You talked like that to him?’
‘Why not?’
‘Because…because…because….’
‘Come on, Betsy, spit it out.’
‘We think he does bad things.’
‘How bad?’
Betsy instinctively looked over her shoulder and then back at the baroness and grabbed her hand. ‘Some people had accidents.’
‘Who? When? How?’
‘The VRC know about them.’
‘Were the VRC there last night, Betsy?’
She nodded. ‘Some of them anyway.’
‘You are one of them, aren’t you?’
Betsy looked petrified. ‘Sort of. But I only like help them a bit. I’m not like at the centre.’
‘What does VRC stand for?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Honestly.’
‘Honestly.’
‘And the sword?’
‘Oh, I know about that, but don’t tell anyone I told you. You could pretend to have guessed. It’s the Sword of Truth, from a sci-fi series by Terry Goodkind.’
‘Tell me about the books.’
‘I haven’t read them. I just haven’t had time.’
‘Did you really come here to tell me I was awesome? Or has someone sent you?’
‘Both. Someone asked me to ask you if you’ll help.’
‘How?’
‘I don’t know. They’ll have to tell you that.’
‘This gets more Enid Blyton by the minute.’ She saw Betsy’s expression. ‘You’ve never heard of Enid Blyton, of course. I don’t suppose there’s any reason why you should have, but for future reference, she’s a dead, white, politically incorrect English writer for children. When do they want to see me?’
‘If you agree to a meeting, someone will call you.’
‘Tell them they need not hesitate to consult the Oracle. I may not be in Delphi, but I’m still the Oracle.’<
br />
Betsy gazed at her in incomprehension.
‘I’ll explain that another time, Betsy. Just tell them I agree.’
‘I’ll tell them. But I wanted to tell you how I felt even before I was asked to carry a message.’ Betsy’s eyes widened and she put her hand on the baroness’s arm. ‘Oh, Lady Troutbeck, I’ve got such feelings for you.’
Chapter Nine
‘Do you want the cage and case in the trunk, ma’am?’
‘I certainly do,’ said the baroness, sinking thankfully into the taxi and placing Horace’s crate beside her. Although she had been waiting only a couple of minutes, she had to mop the perspiration off her face.
‘So what goes on here?’ she asked, as they drove through Jackson.
He shrugged. ‘Not a lot. Moistly moider.’
‘Moider?’
‘Yeh, lady. Moider. You know, guns and knives and dat. We got way more moiders here dan where I come from.’
‘Your accent is familiar. You can’t be from Mississippi. Where are you from?’
‘The Bronx, lady. You bin there?’
‘No. I just recently met someone from there. My parrot does an impression of her. What brings you to Jackson?’
‘My wife thought it would be safer than the Bronx. What a ditz.’
***
‘Welcome to the Magnolia State, Jack,’ said Edgar Brooks. He wrapped her in his enormous arms and kissed her. She responded enthusiastically. Then he stood back and looked at her critically. ‘That’s a real elegant suit you’re wearing. You look good in white. I’ve always liked linen.’
‘Indeed it is. I call it my Wimbledon suit, because I bring it out only for special occasions. This yellow blouse is its constant companion. I’m amazed they’ve survived this long without acquiring a single red-wine stain.’
They moved from the hotel lobby into the bar and he took her to a table by the window. A barman arrived immediately carrying a tray with two martini glasses and a jug. ‘I had them make up a jug of martinis the way you like them. I hope that’s all right with you.’
‘That’s most thoughtful of you, Edgar.’
‘Bless your heart, you’re the one who’s put herself out, travelling all the way here.’
They toasted each other. ‘Can your little bird still say “Beverages”?’
‘There are days he says little else. I hope he’ll remember it when he meets you again.’
‘It’ll be good to get properly acquainted with him. Now, I’ve been thinking about how we’ll spend this weekend. You don’t know much about the South, do you?’
‘Except that I’ve always wanted a plantation, with a great, airy eighteenth-century house, a drive lined with white oaks, and a softly spoken negro butler.’
‘When did you set your heart on that?’
‘I saw Gone with the Wind several times and was in love with Clark Gable.’
‘I sure regret that I’m no Clark Gable.’
‘That’s OK, Edgar. I’m certainly no Vivien Leigh.’
***
By Sunday morning, the baroness had learned a great deal. She knew that the Civil War had nothing civil about it and was properly called the War of Northern Aggression and that Jackson had been given the nickname ‘Chimneyville’ because when the damn Yankees burned it out in 1863, only the chimneys were left standing. She had discovered that she hated most Southern food, particularly hominy grits in red-eye gravy, which she had tried at breakfast. Having bought a cookbook to investigate Mississippi cuisine, she had been appalled to find not only that the locals were crazy about pies, but that apparently they made them by adding a few dubious ingredients to cake mixes. Even more horrifying was the revelation that canned soup was allegedly a staple ingredient of local casseroles. After listening to a litany of complaints, Brooks took the book from her and threw it away. ‘Tonight,’ he said, ‘you’ll have seafood that even you won’t be able to fault.’ He paused. ‘I think.’
The trip to Natchez to see the glories of antebellum architecture and have a first view of the mighty Mississippi river had been a great success, as had the time they spent in the late afternoon in her bedroom back in Jackson. That evening, the baroness had donned a black cotton velvet dress with flowing sleeves that—although slinky—accentuated her ample curves to good effect. ‘I’m being culturally sensitive,’ she explained to Brooks as the limousine drew up. ‘I’m wearing white and black alternately in deference to the racial mix of Mississippi.’
‘I’m real glad you didn’t know about the Hawaiians,’ he said, as he handed her into the car.
***
The Natchez dinner had been such a triumph that they dispensed with Sunday breakfast apart from having fruit and a pot of coffee on the balcony of the baroness’s suite. Horace sat on her shoulder chewing happily on a piece of cheese. ‘It’s hopeless cheese,’ the baroness had said, ‘but parrots don’t have high standards.’ In a water glass on the table was the magnolia blossom Brooks had plucked for her the night before.
‘I’ve finally managed to dredge up from my memory some of those lines from Hilaire Belloc that I was struggling with yesterday,’ she said.
‘So, recite them.’
‘They feed you till you want to die
On rhubarb pie and pumpkin pie,
And horrible huckleberry pie,
And when you summon strength to cry,
“What is there else that I can try?”
They stare at you in mild surprise
And serve you other kinds of pies.’
Brooks applauded.
‘Mind you, if I remember rightly, they were written about Massachusetts. If Belloc had been introduced to pecan pie he’d have had a stroke.’
‘Pies are the smallest of your problems, Jack,’ said Brooks, suddenly turning serious. ‘I’ve been thinking about what you told me about what you’ve gotten yourself into in Freeman. I know you’d have the stomach and brains for the fight, my little Steel Magnolia, but do you really want to bother?’
‘Duty calls.’
‘Duty to whom? Marjorie and Betsy?’
‘Yes, but also to the students and all those unfortunate parents who have to find thirty grand a year to finance a worthless education.’
‘I guess the parents would riot if they knew what their children are fed these days under the guise of humanities.’
‘Something much worse than hominy grits.’
‘Even with gravy.’
The baroness sighed. ‘And, though this sounds pompous, I have an even greater duty to academic integrity.’
‘Not to speak of the dead Provost.’
‘Indeed. He deserves a posthumous break.’
‘So what’s your game plan?’
‘Game plan? I don’t have one yet. That’s one of the reasons I rang you. I needed to get away and talk to a sensible outsider.’
‘So are you any clearer now?’
‘I’m still at a loss. Even though I’m sure Mike and Vera will turn up some stuff, there’s an enormous amount I don’t know, and I feel at a disadvantage. I’m seeing the VRC crowd—well, that’s to say I’m seeing someone who claims to be their leader—on Tuesday evening, and feel at a disadvantage knowing so little about them. I wish that at least I knew what VRC stood for.’
‘VRC. VRC. VRC. Dammit. I can’t think of anything that makes any sense. You don’t get secret societies called visual resource centres.’
‘Marjorie’s already tried the internet and got nowhere.’
‘We’ll think about that by and by. One thing strikes me is they’re ineffectual. Except for giving stuff to that newspaper, what have they done except leave silly messages?’
‘Not much. I wondered if they wanted me involved because I might give them some ideas.’
‘Well, here’s an idea. From what you’ve picked up, it sounds as if they’re terrified of confronting the authorities openly.’
‘Marjorie told me the two kids who were chucked out—Brendan Something and Lindy Something—
were treated really brutally. Not as in the sense of being beaten up or anything, but nasty threats. As I told you, according to Mike, Gonzales has form on the thug front and Betsy mentioned rumours about people having accidents.’
‘Have you heard any more from Mike since the other night?’
‘No. But he doesn’t like to ring till he’s got something.’
Brooks shrugged. ‘For now, it sounds like there’s nothing much you can do till you’ve met the VRC leaders. Then maybe you can coordinate some action. But it seems to me that what you need most are lawyers.’
‘What a ghastly thought.’
‘We’re not all bad, Jack.’
‘You’re a lawyer? You’ve been hiding this dark secret from me. You alleged you were a businessman.’
‘A businessman and a lawyer. I don’t do much in the law department these days, but I’m still connected with the law firm my son took over from me. Edgar Junior’s a good fella. He’ll help out. We’ll start by fighting your case. Give me the Provost’s letter again and I’ll get a copy for him.’
‘And then?’
‘Get your VRCs to turn the table on the authorities by collecting evidence for a raft of complaints to hit the Provost’s office as fast as possible and simultaneously.’
‘Strength in numbers.’
‘Exactly. I’ll give you Edgar Junior’s phone number so they can keep him informed. If they hit trouble, he’ll intervene. Tell these kids not to be picky. With that Goon in the Provost’s office, you don’t want a revolver. This is an occasion for a Howitzer.’
‘Or the elephant gun I’ve got at home. Family heirloom.’
‘You’ve got the idea. You’ll have to go after them with both barrels. Mind you, I’d be happier if I had a better idea of what these kids think they’re up to. VRC. VRC. VRC. Darn it. It should be obvious.’ He scratched his head. ‘You said you weren’t able to get hold of the sci-fi novels Betsy mentioned? We’ll get some tomorrow before you go and you can do some homework on the plane. Maybe you’ll find it revolves around a conspiracy called VRC.’
‘If it were, that would have been public knowledge by now.’
Horace finished his cheese, put his head on one side and produced a short, sharp baroness-type bark. ‘Rubbish,’ he said. ‘Rubbish. That’s right. That’s right.’
