by AnonYMous
Magnus was not interested, “And you told the VC you aren’t planning to retire. Well, well. Perhaps the administration’s sagging spirits could be lifted by a visit to Mr Gold’s factory.”
Later in the afternoon I phoned Penelope to tell her about my discussion with Barraclough and Sloth. She was appalled. “You mean they actually suggested you take early retirement because this girl’s father offered to give the university a donation?”
“The VC didn’t put it quite so baldly,” I said. “But that was the gist. The Registrar simply sighed every time Barraclough mentioned the loss of money. But this Gold character didn’t actually promise he would make a contribution. He simply said he didn’t think he would in light of his daughter’s allegation.”
“That’s blackmail.”
“It’s certainly a threat with menaces. I guess that’s what blackmail is.”
“And the VC fell for it?”
“He did.”
Penelope groaned. “What’s the university come to?” she asked. “This simply won’t do. I’d better contact our regional union rep to tell him about this.”
“Will it do any good?”
“Possibly not. But I’m duty bound to keep him informed. By the way,” she asked, “what does Lisa’s father do for a living?”
“He’s a bra manufacturer. Actually, according to the VC, the biggest in Europe.”
Penelope giggled. “No kidding! Well, that’s a switch. I wonder if business is holding up.”
“Very funny, Penelope,” I said. “First it’s Magnus; now it’s you making jokes. Don’t you see it’s all very distressing ….”
“Of course it is. Sorry, Harry. But you’ve got to admit, this is rather amusing: a bra manufacturer with a busty daughter who accuses the Professor of Christian Ethics of making a pass at her. Wait until I tell the committee.”
“Do you have to?” I asked.
“Not if you don’t want me to. But, the thing is, Harry, if we are to confront university management, we’ve got to have a clear case of misconduct. It seems to me that you’ve got one. Barraclough can’t go around suggesting to professors that they give up their jobs just because some stupid undergraduate makes damaging, unfounded charges about her teachers. It’s a question of fairness. The union has got to stand up to management. Let me speak to our regional rep, Morris O’Murphy. He doesn’t care what he says to people.”
Over the weekend Victoria and I went to London. My father-in-law had come down from Wales to attend an old regimental dinner at his club. We stayed at the Acropolis, and the next day he took me to lunch while Victoria went shopping at Peter Jones. The Burlington Club was located near Sloane Square in a small Victorian building with pillars at the entrance. When I arrived, Sir William was standing in the hallway talking to an upright white-haired gentleman wearing a red carnation in his button-hole. As we climbed the stairs to the dining room, he told me about the dinner the night before. “Glorious food,” he announced. “I hope lunch won’t disappoint.” We sat at a table overlooking Sloane Street.
“So,” he asked, “how’s the RIP going?”
“No, William, it’s not RIP, it’s RAE.”
As the waiter took our orders, I explained that we hadn’t yet been told the criteria against which publications would be measured. He looked confused. “What do you mean they haven’t told you how all that stuff will be evaluated?”
“Well, they just haven’t,” I said. “I know it’s stupid.”
“And when is the judging going to take place?” he asked. He spoke of it as if it were some kind of agricultural show.
“In about two years’ time. But it can include anything published in the last five years.”
Sir William looked out the window for about a minute without speaking. “By Jove,” he eventually blurted out, “it’s just like the Caucus Race!”
“The Caucus Race?”
“In Alice in Wonderland,” he said. “There was no fixed course. Everyone ran in whatever direction they liked. And they went on running until the Dodo said, ‘Stop!’ Then the question arose, who won? The Dodo declared: ‘Everyone has won, and all must have prizes.’ Your RAE seems to work in exactly the same way. I hope the judges are equally generous!”
I was amused, “If I remember rightly everyone got a sugar comfit from Alice’s pocket and Alice’s prize was her own thimble!”
At that point the wine waiter arrived with a bottle of claret and poured some into Sir William’s glass. “So,” he said, as he tasted the wine, “everyone must have prizes! Why don’t you tell whoever is in charge that’s the only solution?”
I heard no more from the Vice-Chancellor about Mr Gold; it appeared that the issue of Lisa’s complaint had been dropped. Lisa did not reappear in my class, which had nearly tripled in size. I ordered more copies of my textbook for the library, and informed the University bookshop that they should stock my book as well. However, after several days a number of students complained that the books had not arrived in the library. I checked the library holdings. They were right: there were only four copies, and all had been checked out. I wrote a note to Jenny Sloth, the Registrar’s wife, who was in charge of ordering books at St Sebastian’s. A couple of weeks later one of my students came up after class. “Professor,” he said, “there’s still only four copies of your book in the library.”
I did a library search on my computer. He was correct. I then sent an email to Jenny asking if the books had been ordered. I asked her to email me back. There was silence. I sent her another email. Again silence. Yet again students complained about the situation. I sent another email. There was no response. In desperation, I wrote Jenny a letter. I emphasized that I had contacted her several times and that she had failed to respond. Although the book was available in the bookshop, I didn’t want students to feel they had to buy it. It was her job, I stated, to ensure that orders were filled promptly. The situation, I concluded, was becoming intolerable.
The next day I saw Pilkington in the departmental office collecting his post. He looked grave when he saw me. “Harry,” he said, “are you free to come up to my room?” We walked up the stairs in silence. This was ominous. I wondered if Mr Gold was continuing his campaign. Pilkington hung up his coat on the back of his door. He sat down at his desk and gestured that I should sit opposite. He took a letter out of a folder on his desk and handed it to me. “I got this yesterday,” he said. It read:
Dear Dr Pilkington,
I have had a most upsetting letter from Professor Harry Gilbert. As you know, the library has been extremely busy. We have just completed a major recataloguing of the books which took over three months of labour. The reading room was painted over the summer, and we had to remove all the books in the reference section. It is only now that we have been able to put them back on shelves. Five library staff were on leave for the summer, so we have had a particularly hectic time. Several weeks before the beginning of term, we ordered books for the new students. As you know, academic staff were asked over the summer if they would supply us with details of what would be needed.
I had a recent request from Professor Gilbert to order copies of his introductory textbook on ethics. This order should have been sent in months ago when we sent out order forms to each teacher. Since I received his order, he has been sending me continual emails demanding a response. As I said, all the librarians are extremely busy at this time of the year, and we cannot be expected to jump to attention whenever an academic sends in an order, particularly when it is late. I regard his behaviour in this matter as both irritating and insensitive. Such an attitude is particularly unwelcome from someone who professes to be an expert on Christian ethics. When I received the enclosed letter, I was upset for nearly two hours. Professor Gilbert must understand that he cannot treat staff in such a fashion. Therefore I would like to make a formal complaint to you as his line manager.
Yours sincerely,
Jenny Sloth
“I don’t understand what’s going on, Harry,
” Pilkington said. “First it’s a student. Now, an assistant librarian. And she is the wife of the Registrar. The VC’s bound to hear about this.”
“This is ridiculous, John,” I replied. “My student enrolment tripled in the first week of term, and I had to order more books for my class. It’s Jenny’s job to get them. I’m sure she’s very busy. But so am I. So is everybody. What was I supposed to do? The students were beginning to get upset. After all, you yourself are always talking about the importance of student satisfaction.”
“That’s as may be,” said Pilkington magisterially, “but it doesn’t alter Jenny’s feelings. I cannot understand why you can’t be more tactful.”
“There’s nothing to be tactful about. The books didn’t arrive, and that’s that. Jenny should have ordered them. That’s her responsibility. I can’t order them.”
“Well, whatever the case, I now have to deal with this matter as a grievance. This morning I looked up the statutes. Staff grievances are dealt with under Provision l4. There will have to be a preliminary informal meeting, and you can bring a representative.”
Once again, discipline was being invoked. Would this ever stop?
Later in the afternoon I phoned Penelope to tell her about Jenny’s letter. She was in the middle of a tutorial and told me to ring later. When I eventually reached her, she was rushing off to a lecture. “Look,” I said. “This is urgent. Can you come to see me when you finish? I’ve had a disturbing letter from Jenny Sloth.”
“The Registrar’s wife?”
I explained briefly that she was making a formal complaint. “I’ll show you the letter when you come,” I said.
At a quarter past four, Penelope knocked on my door. She was carrying a bright purple bag full of books and student essays. She sat on my sofa looking exhausted. “Would you like some coffee?” I asked.
She looked at my decanter. “I think I’d really like some of what’s in that,” she said.
I poured her a large glass of sherry. “So,” she said, “what’s this about the letter?”
I showed it to her. She sipped her sherry and looked perturbed. “Bloody hell,” she muttered. “This is ridiculous. There’s nothing here. You asked her to order books for your students, and she’s making a formal complaint. Everyone knows the woman’s a lazy cow. But what do you expect, married to that dozy imbecile?”
“So, you think there’s nothing to worry about?”
Penelope hesitated. “There shouldn’t be. But she is the Registrar’s wife. Sloth knows about the affair with the student and that girl’s father. Jenny must also know that Lisa’s father had planned to give the university some kind of donation.”
“Do you think this is a conspiracy?”
Penelope took a mobile phone out of her bag. “I think I’d better check with the regional officer,” she said. She dialled his number and left a message for him to ring her back. Picking up her bag of books, she walked to the door. “I’ll get back to you as soon as I hear from Morris,” she said looking over her shoulder. “I’ll send you an email. Don’t worry too much. You’ve got the union on your side.”
After she left, I phoned Magnus. “You won’t believe this,” Isaid.
“The girl has reappeared?”
“No, it’s worse. Sloth’s wife is now complaining about a book order. I had a meeting with Pilkington.”
“Sloth’s wife? You mean that little rodent who works in the library. I’ve had a run in with her before.”
“Well, she’s written a formal complaint.”
“I’ll be straight over,” he said.
As the cathedral bell struck five, Magnus knocked on my door. He was wearing ear muffs and a large scarf wrapped around his duffle coat. His nose was bright red. “I’ve got an awful cold,” he sniffled as he sat on the sofa. He picked up Penelope’s empty glass and looked at it. “I see you’ve had a visitor.”
“Penelope – the union president,” I said.
“Isn’t she involved in some campaign about gay rights? I’ve seen some startling posters on her door.”
“I think so. But you’d better read this,” I said, handing him Jenny’s letter.
“Can’t concentrate without a drink. Can I have a new glass?”
Magnus shook his head as he read the letter. “Incredible. She’s too busy to order books! How long does it take, for heaven’s sake? This doesn’t look right.”
“No?”
“No doubt Sloth has something to do with this. He knows about Lisa’s father. Probably you’re being ganged up on by the VC and the Registrar. Maybe Sloth got his wife to write the letter. Looks like a conspiracy to me.”
“I did wonder.”
“Well, no doubt she’s offended. Must hate criticism. And she knows her husband will defend her.” Magnus scratched his head. “Maybe she’s a bit deranged… but on the other hand, the VC does want you to take early retirement. They probably want to put you under pressure to leave.”
“But I don’t want to go. I like it here.”
Magnus finished his sherry. I refilled his glass. “A tricky business,” he ruminated. Then he looked up, “You may like it now,” he said. “But you might not in a few months time.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The Vice-Chancellor Looks Guilty
Over the weekend we had a large party in our house for over fifty friends and neighbours as well as some academics from the university. This was our annual ‘at home’, catered by a local firm. Victoria ordered invitations. I made arrangements with the caterer and purchased three cases of non-vintage champagne from the wine merchant. Normally the Vice-Chancellor, the Sloths, the Pilkingtons and Wanda came, but this year they all sent apologies. We rearranged the furniture so that we could put glasses and drink in the dining room, and have sufficient space in the drawing room. When the guests arrived they parked their cars down the drive. By six there was also a long line of cars along the country lane leading to our house.
Very quickly the house was full of people eating and drinking. Victoria and I took plates of canapés around; we were also busy introducing guests to one another. Our two cats hid under the bed upstairs, waiting for everyone to leave. Usually, Victoria and I enjoyed the evening, but this year I was less enthusiastic. With a formal complaint pending, I was in no mood for a celebration. After the last guest left, we washed the dishes, hoovered the rooms, and put rubbish bags at the end of the drive for collection.
“Why didn’t the VC come?” Victoria asked. “He normally does, and gets rather drunk. It’s the only time he ever seems to be human. And what about that dreary little Miss Catnip? I don’t think she’s ever missed before? What’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” I replied. “It doesn’t look good. Magnus thinks there’s a conspiracy against me. Penelope from the union is suspicious too. She’s consulting the regional officer.”
“Oh God,” Victoria said. “These academics – do they have nothing else to do?”
Eventually we collapsed in bed. I turned on the television. “Harry,” Victoria said, “you aren’t in very good spirits tonight.”
“Do you think anyone could tell?” I asked.
“No. But I know you. Are you very bothered?”
“I suppose so.”
“Look, Harry. You don’t have to continue in this job if you don’t want to. You inherited loads of money. Daddy won’t live forever, and even though Billy will inherit the Castle, there’s a trust for each one of us.”
“I know,” I said. “And I’ll get a good pension. But I like my job; I’ve got friends at the university; I like my students; I enjoy teaching; I like doing research. Why should I give it all up, just because a student’s father blackmails the university, and the wife of the Registrar is too lazy to do her job?”
“We could travel …” Victoria continued, “though I hate leaving the cats.”
“We can travel anyway. There’s nothing to do outside term except deal with graduate students. Where do you want to go?”
; “I don’t know, Harry. But we could go abroad if you retired.”
We had recently purchased a satellite dish which enabled us to watch the channel which specialized in repeats of popular programmes. My favourite American detective offering, ‘Homicide Life on the Street’, had just started. This episode was about a college professor who had murdered one of his colleagues.
“I’ll think about it,” I said, as I turned up the volume.
“Do we have to watch this?” Victoria asked.
“Shhh,” I said. “This is important – it’s research. You never know when it might come in handy.”
During the weekend I had an email from one of my postgraduates. Ronald Grundy was a third-year PhD student who had previously been an undergraduate at the university. After he got his first, I had worked hard to make sure he had received an Arts and Humanities grant to work on the current Anglican debate about homosexuality. The present Archbishop of Cannonbury had been an undergraduate when I was a postgraduate at Cambridge and we had kept up contact. I bumped into him fairly regularly and we exchanged Christmas cards. When Ronald began his research, I had contacted the Archbishop and asked if they could have a session together. It was subsequently arranged that Ronald could use restricted archives.
Ronald said he wanted to see me to discuss his latest chapter. I emailed him back saying that I would be free on Monday morning at eleven o’clock. As I was driving into the parking lot on Monday, I saw Ronald talking to Wanda. They were in animated conversation standing on the steps of the Old College. When they saw me, Wanda headed off in the direction of the Vice-Chancellor’s office. Ronald waited for me on the steps. He followed me to my room. I sat behind my desk and he spread out papers on the sofa. He showed me his notes, and asked for suggestions on how he should structure the chapter. After an hour’s supervision, he left.
