The Campus Trilogy

by AnonYMous

  The old Provost had sent in a remover’s van and all his possessions had already disappeared from the house. Happily he owned a holiday cottage in Northumberland so he and his wife were not homeless. Meanwhile Victoria was busy looking at pattern books from various grand interior designers while I made arrangments for some of our furniture to be transported from our old house to the Provost’s residence. In fact, the house was already exquisitely equipped. One of its previous occupants had been a bachelor. He had loved pretty things and, when he died at the immense age of ninety-seven (there had been no retirement age for clergy in those days) he had left his collection to the cathedral. Nonetheless, we felt we wanted to have a few of our own treasures around us so I made a list of the things that needed to be collected from our old house.

  On the day of the move, Victoria and I drove to St Sebastian’s. There was a new system of one-way streets past Arrowsmith College, but at last we found ourselves in the cathedral precincts. A group of noisy French students were screaming at each other and dropping litter on the steps of the cathedral. Lugging a heavy cat basket – it is surprising how much two well-fed Siamese weigh – I staggered across the Green Court in the direction of the Provost’s House. As I walked through the front gate, I almost tripped over a vast ginger-and-white creature who was sitting next to the doorstep. He was dismembering and noisily consuming an unfortunate squirrel. As I passed by he stared at me with luminous green eyes. Then, quite deliberately, he spat. Our two cats peered out of the cat basket and immediately became shivering, tremulous wrecks. Victoria followed behind carrying a small bag and a jewel case. The ginger beast pointedly turned his back on her and proceeded with his luncheon.

  Our cats became more and more agitated. We rang the bell and a grey-haired lady carrying a feather duster appeared. I recognised her as the wife of one of the university porters. She used to ‘do’ for me in my study when I taught at St Sebastian’s. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Thomas,’ I said.

  Mrs Thomas beamed, ‘Recognised me you did!’ she said. ‘I told Evan that Professor Gilbert wouldn’t forget a face. And how are you, Sir? And Mrs Gilbert too?’

  Victoria rose to the occasion. She was proud of being Welsh and had learned to speak the language from her nanny when she was a small child. ‘Da iawn, diolch. Hyfryd gwrdd a chi eto! Ydych chi wedi dod ‘n helpu ni heddiw?’ (Very well, thank you! Lovely to meet you again! Have you come to help us today?)

  Mrs Thomas was enchanted, ‘Ydw! Ydw! ‘W i wedi gweithio yn y Ty Provost am sbel.’ (Yes I have. I’ve been working at the Provost’s House for quite a while.) ‘But a long time it is since I’ve spoken the old language, Madam. To tell you the truth, Evan grew up in Pembrokeshire and English always came easier to him. And then when we moved to St Sebastian’s and the children were in school, they didn’t like me to speak Welsh to them. It marked them out, you see. So what with one thing and another, I only ever spoke it to Mam when she came to live with us, her arthritis being so bad, and she’s been gone these ten years.’

  By this time we were all inside the hall and the front door was shut. ‘Who does that large ginger beast belong to, Mrs Thomas?’ I asked.

  ‘He’s Canon Blenkensop’s cat. He’s called Marmaduke. Terrible he is, but the Canon won’t hear a word against him. He’s always catching birds and squirrels. Then he fights with all the other animals in the precincts. I should look out for your two if I were you. Precentor Samuel’s dog had to go to the vet after being bitten and I heard that the bill was more than sixty pound.’

  ‘I don’t think we’ll have to keep them in. It looks like they’ll be too scared to go out. Can’t Canon Blenkensop keep him under control?’ asked Victoria.

  ‘It’s not just his cat, Madam. No one can keep Canon Blenkensop under control either if you’ll pardon my saying so. He didn’t like the last Provost at all. He walked all over him at Chapter meeting so everyone said and the Provost was right scared of him.’

  I felt the conversation was becoming rather too gossipy. ‘Would you mind taking my wife’s bags upstairs, Mrs Thomas?’ I said.

  The hall had a wonderful cornice and was beautifully proportioned, but the paintwork was stained and shabby. I saw what the Archbishop had meant when he said that the house needed Victoria. She would have a wonderful time putting it all to rights. The walls were decorated with imposing gold-framed portraits of my predecessors. It was a daunting thought that my image might be hung here in future years.

  Beyond the hall was a sizeable study where I supposed I was to write my sermons. There was a magnificent old Isfahan carpet on the floor and the furniture looked to be of museum quality, but again, although everything was clean, there was an undefined air of shabbiness and neglect. We shut the doors and opened the cat basket. Slowly and reluctantly Brutus and Cleo emerged from the depths. They crept out, looked about them and promptly retreated under a handsome walnut tallboy.

  Mrs Thomas then showed us the rest of the house. Balancing the study was a magnificent dining room with a long mahogany regency table and twelve William IV dining chairs, all with fine needlepoint seats. Hanging over the table was a huge Venetian chandelier. It was superb, and sparkled in the autumn sunshine.

  ‘That can’t be easy to keep clean …,’ I remarked to Mrs Thomas.

  ‘No,’ she said, pleased that I had noticed. ‘I have to get the men to take it down and then I wash each piece by hand. Two whole days it takes me.’

  ‘It looks beautiful,’ I said.

  The drawing room was situated on the first floor and ran the full length of the house. It was the shape of two symmetrical cubes placed together and with the right paint colours and curtains, it would be the most perfect room for a grand party. Then on the next floor there were six bedrooms and two old-fashioned bathrooms, all overlooking the cathedral. Much needed to be done to make them as pleasant as they could be.

  The inspection took us some time and the cathedral clock was chiming the hour as we descended a small winding staircase, which led to the old servants’ rooms and, finally, to the somewhat primitive kitchen. Victoria made a face when she saw it. ‘What sort of budget will the diocese allow me?’ she asked.

  ‘I have no idea. The Archbishop didn’t mention it. I don’t think you should spend too much, Victoria. The Church of England has more important things to do with its money than lavish it on housing for a couple of already very privileged people.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ said Victoria. ‘You’re doing the Archbishop an enormous favour, putting off your retirement to take on this job. And, in any case, the Church is a steward of this wonderful property and it’s its duty to exercise that stewardship in the best way possible. It shouldn’t just let things rot.’

  I did not want to argue. Having spent the whole of my professional life pondering ethical dilemmas, it was all too easy to see both sides of any problem.

  Finally, at the back of the house was a lovely walled garden. It had been a mild autumn and the traditional English roses still bloomed as they clambered over the mellow brick walls. There was a spacious lawn and old mulberry and quince trees heavy with fruit. The air was sweet with the fragrance of its ripeness.

  ‘“Our lot has been cast in a goodly heritage,”’ I quoted.

  Victoria snorted. ‘Try not to be pompous, darling,’ she said.

  Mrs Thomas brought us coffee in the study while Victoria tried unsuccessfully to entice the cats from under the tallboy. They were completely traumatised by the move and the encounter with Marmaduke had been the last straw. Just as Victoria gave up and started to pour out, there was a huge rat-tat-tat on the front door. I hastened to open it and, to my amazement, there was a rotund figure hidden behind a large bunch of golden chrysanthemums. Although I had never met him, I knew instinctively who it must be … the Vice-Chancellor of St Sebastian’s University.

  ‘G’day, mate,’ he said as he shook my hand. ‘Alf Flanagan, here.’ He could not have been much more than five-foot-two inches high, but he made up for his lack of inches i
n girth and personality. Wearing a grey flannel suit that barely met around his middle, he sported a St Sebastian’s tie while a large maroon handkerchief flowed out of his breast pocket. Before I could get out a word of greeting or welcome, he bounced over the front doorstep and into the hall.

  ‘Good to have you back in St Sebastian’s. I’ve heard all about you from your old friend Magnus Hamilton. Just what we need! A breath of fresh air! Incidentally is that your cat? He’s dispatched that wretched squirrel in a most unchristian fashion.’

  ‘Our cleaner told us it belongs to one of the canons.’

  ‘Rough little bugger! He hissed at me when I went past.’

  I introduced the Vice-Chancellor to Victoria and she asked him if he would like to join us for coffee. Mrs Thomas brought in a tray with a cup and saucer and some home-made shortbread fingers. He was on his feet in an instant.

  ‘Well hullo, Mrs Thomas, and how are you? I was saying to Evan just the other morning that it’s been too long since we saw each other. And how are young Bronwen and Huw getting along?’

  Clearly Flanagan was superbly good at people-management. Mrs Thomas was thrilled by the encounter with her husband’s boss and disappeared down to the kitchen smiling. The Vice-Chancellor then turned to Victoria and asked all about her father. He had met him previously more than a year earlier. He had even stayed overnight at the castle to discuss some university business while Victoria and I had been in Virginia.

  ‘A real top bloke! A bonzo sportsman and a gentleman if ever I met one. Eighty-eight is he now? It’s a great age!’ I could see Victoria melting. Anyone who liked her father could do no wrong in her eyes. I made a little promise to myself that I would not allow myself to be manipulated by his bluff Australian charm.

  Alf Flanagan spread himself on the sofa and dunked his biscuits into his coffee.

  ‘When d’you plan to start at the cathedral?’ he asked.

  ‘Actually,’ I said, ‘I’m supposed to begin straightaway. The last Provost has already moved out all his things and our furniture is due to arrive tomorrow.’

  ‘Poor sod!’ he said. ‘Cyril Woodcock was an idiot in many ways, but he was an improvement on his predecessor and it could’ve happened to any of us.’

  ‘How is his wife?’ Victoria asked. ‘It can’t have been much fun for her.’

  ‘Well she was half the trouble. Double gussetted if you know what I mean! Anyway she gave him hell about it all. And to make her feelings clear, when they left she drove the car straight across the Green Court. The gardeners were not pleased. You can see the tyre tracks by the Monks’ Gate.’ Turning to me, he smiled. ‘Let’s talk of more pleasant things. I want you both to come to Flanagan’s for lunch on Monday.’

  ‘Flanagan’s?’ Victoria looked puzzled.

  ‘The new university restaurant. A fair-dinkum place even if I say so myself. You’ll remember it as Brewster’s Brewery just behind the university.’

  I did remember it. Brewster’s Brewery was an old St Sebastian’s business. In my years at the university it had been very run down and the managing director, the last scion of the original family, was said to have a serious drink problem. The Vice-Chancellor continued his explanation, ‘We’ve taken over the building. I got a nice lump of European money to keep the operation going. I’d just closed the Chemistry department, which was a waste of space if ever there was one. I’d managed to get rid of the professor, but I was stuck with some of his underlings. So I set them to organise a department of Brewing Technology. It’s been a top enterprise. We make all our own beer: Flanagan’s Finest, it’s called. Place is booming! We’ve got outlets all over the country and we’re planning to export to Europe this year. That’s organised by the Business Studies department. It gives them something useful to do …’

  ‘But what about the restaurant?’ asked Victoria.

  ‘Well it’s all part of the enterprise. The Travel and Tourism department train the waiters and waitresses as part of their hospitality course and we use the old brewery offices as a small catering department to produce the food. It’s a thoroughly professional enterprise.’

  ‘It must cost a fortune,’ my wife observed. ‘Presumably you have to pay all the cooks and waitresses the government minimum wage even if the beer comes very cheaply.’

  Alf Flanagan roared with amusement. ‘Pay them? … I’ve never heard such nonsense! They pay us! They’re students! This is all part of their course! St Sebastian’s University is famous throughout the United Kingdom for providing the very best work experience for its undergraduates. You should just see their curriculum vitaes when they leave us!’

  ‘So Brewing Technology and Travel and Tourism and Catering are all academic disciplines now? Is that right, Vice-Chancellor?’ I always like to get things clear in my own mind.

  ‘You bettcha! They’re some of the most successful departments in the university. Now you must call me Alf,’ he said. ‘We’re going to see a lot of each other in the future.’ He glanced at his watch and heaved himself off the sofa. Then he turned to Victoria and smiled. I could sense another blast of Australian charm coming through.

  ‘You’re obviously your father’s daughter,’ he said, ‘and I want to make you a sporting proposition. I’ve got a cracker of an idea … I know you’re quite an expert on art and antiques and suchlike. I’ve seen your pieces in Country Life. As part of our programme of continuing education, we’re planning to run a series of talks for the local community. I thought a set called “Make a Fortune from Your Old Junk” would go down a treat. Perhaps you’d even consider holding it in the drawing room here, that’d pull in all the old pussies of the precincts. And then you could have an Antique Roadshow evening with some celebrity or other. I’m sure Harry here would let you use the Chapter House and you could invite a panel of experts. We’d give them all a free dinner at Flanagan’s and of course pay all their travel expenses. People could bring their rubbish for you to value. They’d love that. Perhaps we could even have an auction. The Business Studies department would organise it for you. Twenty per cent of the proceeds to the university, that sort of thing. I’m sure you’d enjoy it!’

  Victoria took a deep breath, but before she could utter a word, the Vice-Chancellor was looking at his watch again.’ Well that’s settled then! My secretary will be in touch. I’ve got to go to a Council meeting. Let them all have their say and then do exactly what I was going to do anyway, that’s the ticket …,’ he said as he headed for the front door. He bounced off in the direction of the Trinity Gate. As he passed, he directed a sly kick in the direction of Marmaduke who was occupied in tossing a disembodied squirrel leg into the air.

  For the rest of the week, Victoria was busy organising the house and ordering new curtains and carpets. I met with the Canons of the cathedral and was preoccupied with ecclesiastical problems. I realised from my first meeting with the Chapter that the Precentor, Percival Samuel was terrified of the Senior Canon, Reg Blenkensop. Blenkensop in his turn bullied the Precentor mercilessly. Officially the Precentor was responsible for the cathedral music. He was a willowy young man who seemed much attached to the works of Hindemith and Messiaen. In contrast, Canon Blenkensop insisted that the only composers worth having were Handel and Elgar, although he was prepared to make a concession occasionally for the works of Bach. They quarrelled about it ceaselessly and it was clearly a delicate situation.

  On my first Sunday, I preached a sermon at Matins and was delighted to see a number of old friends at the service. I did notice, however, that despite the Precentor, the anthem was by Handel. Cleo and Brutus were becoming used to their new home, but did not dare venture outside. Marmaduke spent much of his time sitting on a bench in our front garden, glaring at our cats whenever they had the temerity to look out of the window. Occasionally, a passing tourist would take his photograph. He would stop whatever he was doing, present his best profile to the camera and give a self-satisfied smirk.

  On the Monday, the day of our lunch with the Vice-Chancell
or, the sun was shining. Magnus had telephoned us to say that he was to be of the party and we arranged to meet him outside the restaurant. When we arrived at the university, we parked our car by the old Victorian red brick brewery. Over the front door was a large sign with ‘Flanagan’s’ in big letters and a logo of an academic wearing a mortar board. If Alf Flanagan had been its model, it was certainly a flattering portrait. Magnus was waiting for us by the main entrance.

  We found Flanagan in the entrance lobby and he led the way up a flight of stairs to the dining room at the top of the building. A youthful waiter wearing jeans and a sweatshirt with the same logo led us to our table which had a splendid view of Old College with the cathedral spire in the distance. The seats were comfortable, the room was busy, and the young staff seemed attentive. ‘Well, what d’you think?’ asked our host.

  Victoria and I looked at each other. ‘It’s delightful, Alf,’ I said. ‘It’s just hard to think of it as an academic part of the university.’

  ‘Gotta move with the times.’ Alf Flanagan was in a jovial mood. ‘If you stand still nowadays you go under. I’m sure it’s just the same in your cathedral. Can’t keep doing the same old thing!’

  As a follower of a religion which had lasted two thousand years, I was not sure about this. Still, I was now Visitor of St Sebastian’s University by virtue of my position as Provost of the cathedral and it was my duty to support the Vice-Chancellor.

  Alf Flanagan was enjoying himself. ‘Actually the Brewery has been a godsend. Not only does it provide premises for Brewing Technology, Catering and the restaurant, we use the European grant to finance all the university’s sporting activities. I’ve developed our golfing and swimming facilities to a near-Olympic standard and we now offer Sports Studies as an undergraduate degree and various diplomas in Professional Golf, Pool Management, Life Saving and Sports Coaching. You see one thing leads to another … We now attract students from all over the world, all paying full foreign students’ fees. And of course the Dance department has gone from strength to strength since we added Artistic Dance to our other programmes …’