The Campus Trilogy

by AnonYMous

  “You think I might get a warning?”

  “Could be worse than that. Sexual harassment is gross misconduct. You could be fired on the spot … but there’s no proof. It’s just that girl’s word against yours. Do you think she’s done this before?”

  “Don’t know. She’s new here. Maybe she did the same thing at her previous university and that’s why she transferred. Perhaps she’s a nymphomaniac.”

  “Lucky you,” Magnus grinned. “Sorry, couldn’t resist. Really, I am sorry. This is unlucky. But not a tragedy.”

  “No? …”

  “Well, there’s no evidence. So there’s not much the university can do about it. There’s no proof unless you recorded the whole thing. You didn’t did you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “What a pity. I would have enjoyed hearing it. No doubt Victoria would have been interested too. Oh well. I wouldn’t worry about it too much. You’ll just have an unpleasant interview, and that’ll be it.” Magnus paused. “Maybe in future, you ought to have someone in the room with you if you’re talking to an attractive girl. You can’t be too careful around here,” Magnus sighed as he began the Times crossword. “You don’t know a synonym for crooked?” he asked.

  “Try Barraclough,” I replied.

  When I got back to my room, I looked up Provision 24 in the Staff Handbook. Magnus was right. Pilkington was referring to the formal disciplinary procedure. Any complaint, it read, should first be investigated informally by the Head of Department. If there is a prima facie case, then there should be a meeting with the person against whom the complaint has been made. He or she has the right to bring either a union representative or a friend.

  Pilkington had clearly skipped the first stage. For years I had been a member of the UCU (the University and College Union). Hesitantly I rang the local president, a Senior Lecturer in Women’s Studies. She wasn’t in, but I left a message on her answerphone. Later in the afternoon, she called back. I asked if I could come and see her.

  Penelope Ransome’s room was on the ground floor of the Humanities building. Her door was covered with posters defending gay and lesbian rights. I knocked, but there was no answer. Down the hall I heard Penelope talking to her department administrator. Several minutes later she emerged wearing jeans and a multicoloured jumper. Her hair had been streaked green since I last saw her. She wore dangling silver earrings with a cross.

  We sat in her small office. Essays and papers were piled high on the floor. The air was thick with cigarette smoke. I explained what had happened and showed her Pilkington’s letter. “Look,” she said. “I’ve had a lot of experience with these cases. It’s her word against yours. She won’t be able to prove a thing. But you did say she would make bending the rules worth your while?”

  “Yes, but I firmly ignored that part of the conversation,” I said sheepishly. “I just warned her of the dangers of plagiarism, and she flounced out of the room.”

  “You didn’t kiss her?”

  “Certainly not!”

  Penelope took out a packet of cigarettes and offered me one. I refused. She lit up and took several puffs. “Well,” she reflected, “you’ll simply have to explain and in the end, nothing will come of it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “You’re a professor. The university may want to get rid of you, but they don’t want a scandal. You won’t enjoy the interview, that’s for certain. You say Pilkington isn’t much of a friend?”

  “I don’t think he’s an enemy.”

  Penelope stood up. “I’ll be there on Monday.”

  “Thanks,” I said. I got up and left. On the way out, I saw a group of students huddled together talking in hushed tones. When they saw me, they looked away. I wondered if they had already heard about the complaint against me.

  On Monday I put on my best suit. I found that the waist was even tighter than when I had last worn it and resolved for the hundredth time that I really had to do something about my weight. I arrived at the university a few minutes before the meeting with Pilkington. Penelope came up looking agitated. Over the weekend, she told me, there had been a union rally about part-time employment in London; she was one of the speakers and was exhausted. I was a bit disappointed to see that she had made no special efforts to dress for the occasion: she was wearing an old leather jacket with a hole in one sleeve and a bright green jumper. Her earrings were pink and black with dangling silver bells. Surprisingly, she had the latest sleek mobile telephone which she placed on the table. “Just in case I get a call,” she announced. Pilkington was late. He was wearing a brown suit with a wide polyester striped blue tie. I noticed that his socks were sludge green. He was accompanied by Wanda who was wearing a mauve two piece suit and a cream blouse, offset by a paisley silk scarf. Her lipstick was a strange shade of mauve which made her seem paler than normal. Neither looked friendly.

  Before we began the meeting, Pilkington announced that he had spoken to the Vice-Chancellor about the accusation we were to discuss; he had been instructed to tell us that the university was taking the matter very seriously and that the Student Union would be informed of the outcome. Wanda took some papers out of her black leather briefcase as Pilkington continued. The meeting was to be an informal discussion, he explained. Although Provision 24 was being invoked, this did not mean that disciplinary action would necessarily follow. On the contrary, he went on, it was his intention to see if the matter could be resolved without recourse to formal action.

  He then read out a statement from Lisa in which she alleged that I had fondled her breasts and kissed her. This, she stated, was clearly sexual harassment which, according to university regulations, was a grave offence and should result in dismissal. Pilkington then turned to Wanda.

  “I am most perturbed by this situation,” she announced. “As Dean, it is my responsibility to ensure that students are not subjected to irresponsible action on the part of staff.” So, she said, she felt it necessary to sit in as the Head of Department’s representative. Although she did not intend to contribute very much to the discussion, she wished to make notes of what was said.

  I hoped that Penelope would respond, but she remained silent. I realized I would need to defend myself.

  “So Harry,” Pilkington began, “can you tell us what you think happened?”

  This was all most embarrassing, but I tried to respond calmly. “Nothing happened,” I said. “The whole thing is a pack of lies. She asked if she could see me about the course I am teaching. She wanted to get credit for it on the basis of a single essay she wrote at her previous university. Then she said, whatever that meant, that she would make it worth my while.”

  “What do you think she meant?” asked Wanda.

  “I didn’t know, and I didn’t want to know. I told her I would read the essay and see her about it later. When I examined it, I realized that she had almost certainly copied it off the internet. So when I saw her again I told her she would have to fulfil the obligations of this university to get credit for the course, and I warned her of the dangers of plagiarism. She stamped out of the room slamming the door and that was the end of it. I in no way harassed her sexually. If anything, she harassed me.”

  “So it’s not true that you kissed her and touched her breasts?” Pilkington asked.

  “Certainly not!” I said

  “Then why did she say she would make it worth your while?”

  “I have no idea!”

  “You don’t think you encouraged her to think you were attracted to her?” Pilkington could be very persistent.

  I felt myself go red, but I was determined to give no quarter. “Certainly not!” I said again.

  “So,” Pilkington continued, “This whole thing is a complete fantasy on Miss Gold’s part?”

  “That,” I said, “or a malicious lie!”

  At this point Penelope interceded. “Look,” she said. “I think my colleague has made it clear that he had no intention of trying to seduce this undergraduate. It’s her word a
gainst his. And since there’s no evidence one way or another, you’ll have to leave it. Natural justice demands that Harry is deemed innocent of these charges. That is, unless the girl has got concrete evidence which demonstrates Harry’s guilt.”

  Wanda made notes while Pilkington looked on as Penelope stressed my innocence. It all seemed so unfair. There was no substance to these damaging charges, and yet I was compelled to endure this ordeal. My truthfulness was being challenged. Both Pilkington and Bossyboots were junior colleagues. I was senior to them in the university hierarchy. This seemed to make no difference. They sat in judgment because they were my line managers. Penelope was right. There was simply no proof to support Lisa’s claim. Without witnesses, she would fail. But it was unpleasant and I felt that I should not have to endure it. After all I was Professor of Christian Ethics and a clergyman. Presumably I had some integrity.

  When Penelope finished, Pilkington put his papers into his briefcase and adjourned the meeting. Before we left, he announced that he would discuss the matter with the Vice-Chancellor and report back to me in the next few days. He stressed the confidentially of our discussion. He and Wanda remained behind; Penelope and I walked to the Senior Common Room for coffee.

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  “It was OK. I think they got the point that there is no evidence to support your student’s claim. There is the unfortunate aspect of her propositioning you. I wonder if you should have left that bit out.”

  “But she did try to make a pass at me.”

  “‘I know. But they wouldn’t know. You could have simply said she made the whole thing up. I know you’re an expert on morality. You probably don’t think you should tell lies. But sometimes it’s necessary. After all, no one saw anything. You’re a senior member of the university and they’d be more likely to believe you than a second-year undergraduate. My point is that it would have looked better.”

  Standing outside the Old College, Penelope took out a packet of cigarettes and her lighter. “Got to have a smoke before we go in,” she said. “Damn university won’t let anyone smoke inside. The entire place is littered with these ’No Smoking’ notices. Want one?”

  “No thanks,” I said. “You’re sure it’s going to be OK?” I asked.

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “You’ll be all right. Barraclough knows the rules. He won’t want a strike on his hands. And he hates bad publicity. But, I have to tell you Harry, I feel instinctively that the Dean and your department head have got it in for you. If I were you, I’d look out.”

  Magnus was in his usual place drinking coffee and reading The Times. I ordered coffee and a blueberry muffin and joined him. “Well, how did it go?” he asked.

  “Could have been worse,” I said. “I probably shouldn’t have mentioned that she propositioned me.”

  Magnus looked amused. “How did Wanda take that?”

  “Not well, I thought. Pilkington was very inquisitorial …”

  “He must have loved it.”

  “Penelope was silent until the end. But then she told them there was no substance to the case, no evidence. I think they got the point. She thinks both Bossyboots and Pilkington have some kind of grudge against me. Do you think she’s right?”

  “Of course she is. You’re a professor. They know you’ve got a private income. Your room is full of antiques. You live in a country house. You’re married to a baronet’s daughter. Come on, Harry, be realistic.”

  “This makes a difference?”

  Magnus shook his head. “Pilks lives in a suburban bungalow with his dowdy wife. Bossyboots never married. What do you expect?”

  “Are you sure, Magnus? Victoria always tries to be nice to them.”

  “You may be an expert on ethics,” he said, “but you really don’t know anything about people.”

  The next evening I went to the Acropolis, my club in London. My father had persuaded some friends to propose me while I was still a young lecturer. The price of the subscription was monstrous, but, as I tried to justify it to Victoria, she belonged to the Women’s Institute and it was my only real extravagance.

  I was there to attend the monthly meeting of a small discussion group. The members all belonged to the club and we gathered together first for dinner and then went up to the library where one of us read a paper. That evening the topic was: Astrophysics and the Beginning of the Universe. Most of those who belonged to this venerable group were retired; I was one of the younger members. The speaker, Sir Robert Manson, was the Emeritus Professor of Astronomy at Oxford who had won the Nobel Prize over twenty years ago. After about thirty minutes most were asleep – some snored loudly. By the end I was the only one awake. After our meeting, I went to the drawing room with the Bishop of Bosworth who also belonged to the group. More than thirty years ago we had been postgraduate students together. I had never expected him to rise to such a lofty position in the Church – at Cambridge we had rowed in the same boat, and he had been a jolly, beer-drinking sportsman.

  “Charles,” I said, as we sat down in green leather armchairs, “I’ve got a problem.”

  “What about a drink?” he asked.

  “Not for me,” I said. “But go ahead.”

  Charles walked over to the bar and ordered a double whiskey. He returned carrying a dish of olives. “This is rather embarrassing,” I said. “I’ve been accused of sexual harassment by a student …”

  “Oh dear,” he said.

  “Well, it is bad. But there’s nothing to it. One of my students propositioned me and I ignored her.”

  “Dear, oh dear,” Charles said, shaking his head. “It could happen to any of us.”

  “Anyway, she said I kissed her and tried to fondle her breasts. It’s a complete lie, but of course the university had to have an inquisition about it.”

  “And what happened?”

  “Well, it’s my word against hers, so there’s nothing they can do, but I’m really upset by it.”

  “And this happened while other people were looking on?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. It was in my office. No one was there except us.”

  “Not even the cleaner?”

  “No, Charles. Please be serious. I’ve had a meeting with the Dean and my Head of Department. They want to investigate.”

  “Nothing to worry about there,” Charles said as he ate his olives. “Similar thing happened to me once. I was a curate. One of my parishioners did much the same. She said she needed pastoral help. Actually what she wanted was an affair. I told her no. She was furious and went to the Bishop. There was an official interview. But there wasn’t any proof. So the whole thing was dropped. But I did get a warning: the Bishop told me never to interview a woman on my own. Rather good advice. I’ve always followed it.”

  “So you don’t think anything will happen?”

  “Not in the end … I say, George,” Charles called out to the waiter who was hovering nearby, “can I have another one of these? Sure you won’t join me?” he asked. “That talk rather stultified the brain. I’ve got a meeting of the Mothers’ Union tomorrow, and I’ve got to have a clear head.”

  On the way home from London, I sat near two students from St Sebastian’s – they were wearing university scarves. One had curly brown hair and wore an earring in her nose. The other had a shaved head with about four silver earrings in one ear. I had never seen them before, and they didn’t pay any attention to me. They were slightly drunk and were shrieking about something that had happened to one of the new students. I was curious to hear what they were saying. “So she took off her sweater,” the brunette exclaimed, “and he just stood there. But then he jumped on her and grabbed her tits.”

  They roared with laughter. Could they be talking about Lisa and me? This was horrifying. “Anyway,” she continued, “this old guy tried to seduce her, and she complained to the Student Union President. So there’s going to be some kind of trial.” I got up from my seat, went to another carriage, and opened The Spectator. I couldn�
��t concentrate. Clearly news of this disaster had circulated amongst the undergraduates. Perhaps my students had already heard.

  The next morning I received a summons from Pilkington, inviting me to come to his office. I phoned Penelope to ask if she could come as well, but she wasn’t in. When I arrived, Pilkington was already behind his desk; Wanda arrived several minutes later looking flustered. We both sat in armchairs as Pilkington began. He was more informally dressed than at the previous meeting on Monday: he was wearing a grey sports jacket and a red tie with green spots. Wanda took paper out of her handbag and began making notes.

  “I’ve just been with the Vice-Chancellor,” Pilkington began, “and we have come to the view that it is best if this student complaint goes no further. There is no evidence, and it’s simply your word against hers.” I sighed. Magnus and Penelope were right. This was a relief. “But,” Pilkington went on, “we’re very perturbed by the situation. It’s vitally important that students are happy here, and student complaints like this are harmful.”

  “But,” I interjected, “I didn’t do anything wrong …”

  “That’s not the point, Harry,” Pilkington interrupted. “Accusations like this get around, and it does no one any good. The VC was adamant about this. We must be careful not to alienate student opinion. I understand he has been on the phone several times with the Student Union President; he has had to reassure him that this allegation will be investigated properly. Students are now asked to fill out Student Satisfaction Surveys, and this case may do us a lot of harm. The Times Higher Educational Supplement is going to rank universities on the basis of student satisfaction, and we want to do as well as we can.”

  “Look, Harry,” Wanda said, her Northern accent was very pronounced. “As Dean I want to protect all the departments from any kind of criticism. We’ve all got to be careful. In the future, you should make sure that you don’t see any female undergraduate or postgraduate on her own. Take someone with you. Take John if you need to. But don’t do this alone. We can’t afford to have another incident like this.”