The Campus Trilogy

by AnonYMous

  ‘Well actually,’ I said, anxious to pass the buck, ‘I do know someone who is an expert on blackjack. You may have heard of Harry Gilbert – he was the Professor of Christian Ethics here until about two years ago. Well, he’s now a Distinguished Professor at Sweetpea College in Virgina. Anyway, his father-in-law, Sir William Dormouse, is very knowledgable about card games. He won a fortune in Las Vegas. I met him several weeks ago when I visited Harry and his wife. Sir William was there too, but his own house is on the Welsh borders.’

  ‘A Sir, eh …’ Flanagan was impressed.

  ‘He’s a baronet. It was one of his ancestors who did something distinguished …’

  One of the waitresses came over and refilled the Vice-Chancellor’s glass as I told him about Sir Willliam’s methods and successes. ‘You might want to talk to him,’ I continued. ‘I doubt if he knows anything about the philosophy of chance, but he’s certainly quite an expert at card-counting. He’d also give you an interesting insight as to what the customers in a casino want. I’m afraid I’ve never even been inside one.’

  ‘We must change that,’ boomed Flanagan. He took a pen out of his inside pocket and wrote down Harry’s email number on a napkin. I told him that I had Sir William’s home address and would send it to him, if he thought it would be useful. I warned him, however, that Sir William, although very spry, was well over eighty.

  ‘I’ll be in touch. Thanks for this,’ the Vice-Chancellor said as he stood up, accidently scattering drops of wine all over my trousers. As it fizzed, he took a large, white handkerchief out of his pocket, and handed it to me. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I get over-excited.’ And he strode off to speak to Joy Pickles and the Registrar who were standing hand-in-hand next to a grand piano near the French windows.

  The following Monday, I received an email from the Vice-Chancellor summoning me to a meeting in his office. He said that he had been in touch with Sir William. He wanted to speak to me about arranging a visit to the castle in Shropshire. Pilkington would also be present, he wrote, since the new plans involved the Theology department. I could not imagine what Flanagan had in mind.

  On the day of the meeting, I arrived in the department early. In addition to several letters in my pigeonhole, there was a daunting pile of essays from my first-year philosophy students. I went to my office and made a cup of coffee in the kitchen nearby. It appeared that I was the first member of the academic staff to arrive, but I heard Wendy Morehouse in the corridor talking to the cleaner.

  Mrs Brush was initially complaining about the mess that had been left in the kitchen. Wendy was trying to soothe her. She promised she would send out an email, reminding everyone that they should wash up their own coffee mugs. Then the subject of the Sloth–Pickles household was raised. Apparently Mrs Brush used to ‘do’ for the Registrar and Mrs Sloth. That had been bad enough. Mrs Sloth left everything everywhere, but at least the mess could be dusted around. However, the new house was something else. ‘I’ve never seen anything like that, Joy!’ came the strident tones of our cleaning lady. ‘Cigarette ends in the face cream, dirty tissues all over the floor and the sink blocked with God-knows-what! Jumped-up little trollop! She needs her bottom smacked!’

  Just before nine I walked over to the Old Building. In the Vice-Chancellor’s parking space there was a vast, silver Mercedes-Benz – presumably a perk from the rich German father-in-law. As I entered the hallway, I almost bumped into Crispin Chantry-Pigg. He was still dressed in his brown habit and was surrounded by his usual entourage of androgynous young men. As I passed, the Reverend Brother let out a braying laugh and his youthful disciples giggled. No one took any notice of me.

  The Vice-Chancellor’s office was on the floor above the chapel. Flanagan’s secretary was sitting at her desk when I arrived. She smiled and told me that the Vice-Chancellor was waiting to see me. Pilkington, she said, had arrived several minutes earlier. Surprisingly the room had not been redecorated for Flanagan. I remembered it from the days of his predecessor. The walls were a pale green, not my favourite colour, and there were acres of emerald green carpet on the floor. In the corner was a Victorian long-case clock. There was also a highly polished reproduction Sheraton table surrounded by dining chairs. However, there was one obvious new addition. Behind the Vice-Chancellor’s Victorian pedestal desk was a large cuckoo clock which struck the hour as I entered.

  ‘Come in, Felix,’ the Vice-Chancellor shouted. He was seated in a large green leather armchair; Pilkington was opposite on a matching leather sofa. Flanagan gestured that I should sit on the seat facing him. My Head of Department did not look happy as the Vice-Chancellor explained the purpose of the meeting. ‘I wanted to see you both,’ he began, ‘because I intend to establish a new degree course at St Sebastian’s. As you will both have read in the news, there is a new government initiative to create super-casinos throughout the country. It’s a fair-dinkum opportunity for us. It will renew local economies and create thousands of new jobs.’ Pilkington shifted in his chair. It was clear that he was not in complete agreement with our new boss.

  Flanagan had got himself into gear and was oblivious to the unease. ‘When I heard about these plans,’ he continued, ‘I asked myself: Who will run these casinos? Who will ensure real excellence? The answer is obvious: our graduates. St Sebastian’s will take the lead. Yes, gentlemen, this is our destiny. I have created partnerships throughout the world with many different institutions of higher learning. Your department, John, has been particularly responsive to these initiatives. I am delighted to hear that you have now moved into Korea. It is vital that we plug into these developing Far-Eastern economies. That is where the money in the future will lie!’ Pilkington looked a little mollified.

  Flanagan was in full flow by now. ‘There is no reason why institutes of casino management should be excluded from this glorious spread of knowledge and learning. I have a dream. In casinos throughout the civilised world, the very mention of St Sebastian will bring pride to the hearts of the managers and croupiers alike. They will be our graduates no less than those who have their degrees in the old-fashioned subjects like Mathematics, English, Physics or Theology ….’

  Pilkington looked increasingly uncomfortable as Flanagan outlined his plans. ‘Vice-Chancellor,’ he interrupted. ‘I’m afraid I don’t follow you. Are you suggesting that our university encourages gambling?’

  ‘Come on mate,’ said Flanagan, as he stood up and looked out of the window towards the Cathedral. ‘It is not our place to either encourage or discourage. This is an individual choice, a moral dilemma, a matter of personal ethics. I am a great believer in human freedom. If members of the public choose to spend their money in casinos, that’s their right. Personally, I’ve no time for roulette. The spinning wheel gives me a migraine and the flashing lights of slot machines are worse. I don’t like poker or blackjack. But it’s not for me to make decisions for others. If they wish to spend their hard-earned money in this way, that’s for them to decide. I don’t want to waste my holidays in Blackpool sunning myself on the beach. I’ve no wish to travel to Disneyland Paris. But I fully respect the wishes of others to do so. Indeed …’

  ‘But Vice-Chancellor,’ interrupted Pilkington. There was desperation in his voice. ‘Gambling is an entirely different matter. It is detrimental to society. It is highly addictive. It imprisons souls. It deprives little children of parental nurture and care. Where there are casinos, there are drug dealers, delinquency, prostitutes and vice. We have to protect our students. All the undesirable elements in the town will be attracted up to the campus. You can’t turn a blind eye to these things ….’

  I was rather impressed by this. Pilkington had always struck me as an exceptionally dull person, but here was real passion. Flanagan had a different reaction. He turned from the window and stared at my hapless line-manager. His mood had dramatically altered. ‘Dr Pilkington,’ he snorted. ‘You have not been invited here to give some undergraduate lecture on the evils of gambling. Save that for your students o
r your milk-and-water Methodist friends. I am fully aware that there are certain social complications connected with gambling. We here at St Sebastian’s in no way condone drug-taking or the exploitation of women. But we are a public institution. If the government in its wisdom sees fit to create super-casinos, then it is not for us to make judgements about our elected representatives. Rather, we’re here to cooperate. To set new targets and to meet them. That is why I am proposing we establish a degree course. Even a casino can pursue the ideal of excellence. Let us make sure that our casinos are top-notch in every particular! That’s what the government requires of us and that’s what we’ll deliver!’

  ‘Ah, Vice-Chancellor,’ I was embarrassed. I did not feel it would help my relationship with Pilkington if he were to be humiliated in front of me, ‘I’m not sure how this concerns me …’

  ‘Felix,’ he smiled, ‘it’s you who I want to spearhead this development. That is why I asked you to see me, and Dr Pilkington as your Head of Department. You have connections, and I want to use them.’

  ‘Connections?’

  ‘Yesterday I spoke to Sir William Dormouse. A top bloke if ever there was one! He told me about your recent visit with his daughter and son-in-law. I understand he cleaned up in Atlantic City. Apparently he made enough money to reroof his tenants’ houses.’

  I stammered something about Sir William having a very clever system in blackjack. Pilkington looked aghast. He had always disliked Harry Gilbert and, by extension Victoria and her father.

  ‘Sir William,’ the Vice-Chancellor continued, ‘has invited me to come to see him in his castle in Shropshire. He has very kindly extended the invitation to you. We’ll be going next Tuesday.’

  ‘That’s quite impossible, Vice-Chancellor,’ cut in Pilkington. ‘Felix is very busy with the undergraduates. He’s the only full-time philosophy lecturer we have. And I’m afraid he simply cannot take time off for something unrelated to his work …’

  ‘Time, time!’ Flanagan exploded. ‘Of course he has time. He must make time.’ The Vice-Chancellor began to pace like a caged lion as he cross-examined me. ‘How many hours do you teach?’

  ‘Well, a lot. Seventeen contact hours a week actually. And then I have twelve doctoral students who need quite a bit of attention …’

  ‘Seventeen hours a week!’ Flanagan shouted. ‘This is a disgrace. Nobody should have such a teaching load. Who told you to do this?’

  ‘Actually,’ I said, looking over to Pilkington, ‘he did.’

  The Vice-Chancellor stood over Pilkington who squirmed. ‘You did?’

  My Head of Department cowered as he explained that my other two colleagues were part-time, and that all the undergraduate philosophy courses had to be covered. He began to point out that I was the only person really qualified to teach the subject and that in the view of the Quality Assurance Agency, student satisfaction was very important.’

  Flanagan was having none of it. ‘This is a scandal,’ he exploded. ‘How dare you exploit your colleagues? How many hours do you teach? Come on, tell me that, man, tell me that!’

  Pilkington muttered that he was very busy with his administrative duties, but that he was still teaching four hours a week. The Vice-Chancellor’s face became redder, ‘Four hours a week and you force Felix here to teach seventeen! The sooner you’re relieved from your so-called administrative duties, the better! Felix is to teach no more than eight hours. You will distribute his courses round your colleagues. Even theologians can presumably manage first-year philosophy. And you yourself are to take on at least one of his old courses. Four hours indeed!’

  ‘And to whom can I allocate the other courses?’ pleaded Pilkington.

  ‘Who? Who? I don’t know who. That is your problem. You’re Head of Department. Do a simple work analysis. See who’s teaching the least. Allocate the work around. I’m not to be bothered with nonsense like that and nor is Felix. We have more important things to do.’

  Pilkington was nearly in tears. Wringing his hands, he made one last stand. He cleared his throat, ‘I’m sorry, Vice-Chancellor. But I’m afraid I cannot make these changes. Term has started. I can’t force my staff to teach courses about which they know practically nothing. I really must protest.’

  There was an ominous silence. Flanagan slowly walked round the perimeter of his room and then resumed his place in front of Pilkington. It was the calm before the storm. Suddenly he poked his finger at Pilkington’s chest and the tirade began. ‘You will do as you are told,’ he shouted. ‘Your colleagues in Theology are not YOUR staff. They are MY staff. It is not YOUR department. You are merely a temporary, very temporary, department chairman in one not-very-successful-department in MY university. I am not making a request. I am giving an order. If you cannot obey it, then you’ll step down from your office now, this minute. I mean it!’ The Vice-Chancellor had turned deep purple and a vein throbbed in his temple. Pilkington, on the other hand, had gone deathly pale. He could scarcely clamber to his feet when Flanagan pointed to the door and said ‘Get out of my sight! Now!’

  I remained seated. I did not quite know what to do, but as soon as the door closed behind Pilkington, Flanagan became a changed person. He smiled warmly, shook my hand and put his arm around my shoulder. ‘Now we’re in business,’ he said, as he showed me to the door. ‘I’ll be counting on you Felix. My secretary’ll be in touch about the arrangements for Shropshire. If you have any more trouble with that long-faced puritan, let me know!’

  Dazed I walked back to my office. I had never experienced a scene like that in my whole working life. Emma would be gripped, but how could I possibly justify my new role to her as gambling supremo at St Sebastian’s?

  When I arrived home that evening, I found a note from Emma in the hall. She had gone to a meeting of the St Sebastian’s Garden Club and had left a small, exquisite pigeon pie for me in the oven. I got out a tray and dishes, poured myself a glass of Burgundy, and went upstairs to the bedroom to watch television. At nine I heard Emma’s car in the drive. She came upstairs clutching a box of Alpine plants. ‘We had the most fascinating lecture about Switzerland,’ she said as she put her burden down.

  ‘Emma, I’ve got to talk to you,’ I interrupted. ‘I’ve got a problem with the new Vice-Chancellor.’

  ‘He wants to sack you …’ She was alarmed.

  ‘No. Nothing like that. It’s weird. He wants me to be in charge of a new degree in Casino Management.’

  Emma laughed. ‘Casino Management? Don’t be absurd! There couldn’t be a degree in Casino Management! Anyway why you?’

  ‘Well, he seems to think I know something about gambling. We talked about it at his party and I mentioned the name of Harry Gilbert’s father-in-law.’

  ‘What does Harry Gilbert’s father-in-law know about casinos?’ Emma had not heard the story of Sir William’s adventures in Las Vegas.

  ‘He’s a real card-shark and he has an infallible system for blackjack apparently. Anyway the old boy has invited Flanagan up to his castle in Wales and he wants me to go too.’

  ‘Well you might enjoy a trip visiting the aristocracy.’ Emma was a natural optimist. ‘What about your teaching?’

  ‘That’s just the trouble. The meeting with Flanagan was appalling. Pilkington was there and the Vice-Chancellor insisted that my teaching load be reduced to a reasonable level to accommodate my new duties to the gambling industry.’

  ‘I don’t see anything wrong with that,’ said Emma stoutly. ‘You were teaching many too many hours this term. It can’t have done the students any good.’

  ‘Yes, but Flanagan completely humiliated Pilkington. He yelled and screamed and even threatened to demote him from being Chairman.’

  Emma was mystified. ‘Why did he criticise Pilkington?’

  ‘Pilks is a Methodist and doesn’t approve of gambling. He tried to argue his case, but Flanagan went purple in the face with fury. I thought he was going to have a stroke. He raged at him and wouldn’t stop. He was like a bulldozer. Pilki
ngton was as white as a sheet by the end. I don’t know how I’m ever going to face him again …’

  Emma smiled. ‘I wouldn’t worry too much about that. Everyone knows Pilks is a stuffed shirt. And you really have no choice. It’s deplorable that the university substitutes Casino Management for Philosophy, but at least it means you’ll still have a job when the philosophy students run out in a couple of years’ time. And if it’s a success, you might even get a chair. Just think: Professor of Casino Management!’

  ‘Very funny.’ I was too upset to see the joke. ‘But Emma, the Vice-Chancellor was out of control. I thought he might hit Pilkington he was so upset.’

  Emma looked thoughtful. ‘Well, I’m not entirely surprised. Flanagan was an orphan. He grew up in a Brothers of Gentleness home in Australia. Do you have any idea what they were like? The Vice-Chancellor was probably always a fat, little kid who was bullied and teased by the other children and beaten and sexually molested by the Roman Catholic priests. I read an article about those homes. There was a real scandal about them.’

  ‘But what has that to do with him losing his temper with Pilkington?’

  ‘Oh, for heavens’ sake Felix! You must know about this.’ My wife grew impatient. ‘Violence breeds violence. It’s battered children who become batterers themselves. It’s said to be very common in army families; the cycle of violence goes down the generations. And it was rife in children’s homes forty years ago.’

  ‘What do you think I should do then?’

  Emma sighed. ‘I don’t think you have much choice. At least you won’t have to teach so many classes.’

  Later in the week I received an email from Flanagan’s secretary. She said that I was to arrive at Flanagan’s house after lunch on Tuesday, and he would drive us both to Shropshire. We were to stay overnight at the castle, and I was instructed to cancel my classes. I then emailed Harry Gilbert telling him what had happened and asking for advice. He was hugely amused by the idea of a degree in Casino Management. He suggested I take at least two hot water bottles on the trip as it would be bitterly cold and he warned me against betting any real money if his father-in-law insisted on playing cards.