The Campus Trilogy

by AnonYMous

  I was just settling down to my cake and coffee in a comfortable corner table. I had opened my copy of The Times and was just about to begin on the obituaries, when the two ladies stood before me. They were clearly distressed. ‘Could we speak to you for a moment, Provost?’ asked Miss Mildred.

  There is no peace for the wicked. I put down my newspaper, stood up and pulled out a couple of chairs for them. With many fluttering apologies for disturbing me, they sat down.

  ‘We don’t know what to do!’ said Miss Betty. ‘We just got this letter this morning. There was no warning or anything …’

  It was from Reg Blenkensop, the Canon-Treasurer of the cathedral, and was on official writing paper. It gave the sisters notice that the rent on the Mitre premises was to be increased five-fold. If this were not agreeable to the Misses Monkton, Canon Blenkensop would be grateful if they would regard the document as a notice to quit. The cathedral already had the firm offer of another tenant.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I said.

  Mildred took out a handkerchief and wiped her eyes. ‘I rang up Canon Blenkensop’s office this morning. His secretary told me that the offer was from McDonald’s.’

  ‘And who is Mr Macdonald?’ I asked

  ‘No, Provost. It’s not somebody called MacDonald. It’s that awful American hamburger chain. The ones that are always advertising on the television. Well of course they can afford enormous sums of money. So we’ve got to go … We’ve been here for more than twenty-five years.’

  I was astonished. ‘But the Canon doesn’t have the power to evict you,’ I said. ‘That’s a matter that only the Chapter can rule on.’

  ‘That’s not what Canon Blenkensop’s secretary told us. She said that it was the Canon-Treasurer who makes these sorts of decisions. The cathedral needs a great many repairs and the Chapter can no longer let out its premises on charitable rents.’

  ‘Charitable rents!’ I was horrified. ‘You are not a charity. You are a successful small business paying a very fair commercial rent.’

  Betty smiled damply. ‘That’s what we always thought, Provost. We’d feel dreadful if we thought we weren’t paying our way …’

  ‘Look,’ I said, ‘you’re members of the cathedral family. The Mitre is an important part of the town. We all know and love it. No one can bake a victoria sponge like you.’ I looked longingly at my cake which was sitting uneaten on the plate in front of me. ‘Now you mustn’t worry,’ I continued. ‘We’re not going to have a fast-food chain next to the Trinity Gate. Revenue from rents is important. But your future is not in jeopardy. Canon Blenkensop simply doesn’t have the authority to make these sorts of judgements. The other Canons won’t countenance such an idea. And neither will I.’

  ‘But what about the rent?’ Betty lamented.

  ‘It may have to be raised a bit. I can’t promise that won’t happen. But it certainly won’t go up five-fold. The cathedral regulations stipulate that rents can only be increased in line with the retail price index. So it simply can’t be more than that.’

  The sisters looked profoundly relieved and grateful. ‘Thank you, Provost,’ said Miss Betty. ‘You don’t know how worried we’ve been. It would break our hearts to leave St Sebastian’s, but we couldn’t afford to stay without the business.’

  ‘I’m going to get you a fresh cup of coffee,’ announced Miss Mildred.

  The next Chapter meeting was on that Friday. I did not warn Blenkensop in advance. Instead I looked up the regulations to make sure I was on solid ground and, when I found that I was, I planned to humiliate him publicly.

  In the event, it was unnecessary. I passed round copies of Blenkensop’s letters to the sisters under Any Other Business. Once he understood what was threatened, old Canon Sinclair turned white with fury. Despite his Parkinsons disease, he rose to his feet and lambasted the Canon-Treasurer. This time there was no talk of the unpleasantness of Chapter disagreements. Sinclair had known the two women since they were children. Their father had been the Chief Verger of the cathedral and their mother had arranged the flowers for more than fifty years. It was a disgrace even to contemplate evicting them, whatever the commercial advantage. And to attempt to do it under false pretences was nothing less than wicked.

  It was a splendid display of righteous anger and I enjoyed every moment of it. As soon as the Chapter meeting was closed, Reg slunk away to lick his wounds.

  The trial of the Priory’s errant gardener was scheduled for the next Monday morning. It was to take place in the Crown Court, a grim Victorian building located next door to Arrowsmith Teacher Training College on the other side of town. Under Sir William’s instructions, Kev had already pleaded guilty so there was not going to be a jury. My father-in-law had demanded that both Victoria and I attend. ‘The judge needs to see that the boy has the support of the Church,’ he said.

  Sir William had spent the previous weekend persuading all the Home’s inmates to sign a petition for leniency. He himself was scheduled to plead mitigating circumstances. When we offered to give him a lift in from the Priory, it was curtly refused.

  ‘Quite unnecessary!’ said my father-in-law. ‘Matron is driving the bus!’

  We parked our car in a convenient car park and waited in the entrance hall. It was a horrible place. Other young men besides Kev were also being tried that morning. There was an air of desperate optimism among the small family groups which were hanging around. I noticed that there was one lone, middle-aged woman sitting by herself. She had badly-dyed blonde hair and there was a pathetic shabby-smartness about her appearance. She was about the right age and she looked miserable. I had nothing to lose so I walked up to her. ‘Are you by any chance Kev’s mother?’ I asked.

  She was startled, but I explained who I was and introduced Victoria. At that very moment, Sir William and his party came through the door. Besides Steve, the other gardener, there was Mrs Mackenzie, Mrs Germaney and old Mrs Blenkensop, as well as three other ladies I did not know. ‘Matron’s still parking the bus!’ Sir William informed us.

  Last of all came Kev. He was dressed up for the occasion in a suit which was slightly too big for him. ‘Got it at Oxfam!’ announced Sir William. ‘Jolly good, don’t you think!’ Topping it, to Victoria’s amusement, was Sir William’s old school tie. It had been lent for the occasion. ‘Nice to find a good use for it,’ was Sir William’s explanation.

  I presented Kev’s mother to the ladies and they all made little sympathetic noises. I noticed that it was old Mrs Blenkensop who gathered her up and insisted that she sit with the Priory group in the public gallery. Kev was whisked off by a police officer and Sir William was conducted to the witness room. Finally, Victoria and I waited for Matron and the three of us joined the others. With so many supporters, it was quite a squash up there.

  We waited with the court officials. Kev sat at the back with the policeman in the dock. He looked scared and smaller than usual. I realised that he was not very old. At half past ten the judge arrived and we all stood up. He was dressed in a black gown with a red sash. The court officials bowed and the judge took his seat.

  First to speak was a representative from the police. He described the iniquity of the crime that had been committed by Kev’s friend. Quite rightly, he was already serving a prison sentence. He pointed out that, although it was commendable that Kev had pleaded guilty, he had a considerable criminal record. Receiving stolen goods was a serious offence and should not be treated lightly. In his opinion a custodial sentence would be the only appropriate punishment.

  The ladies were horrified. Mrs Mackenzie gave a hastily suppressed little squeak and there was much sighing and shaking of heads. Kev’s mother wiped her eyes and Kev himself looked even smaller. I realised that he had been through all this before. The judge looked at his notes. He asked no questions.

  Then Sir William was summoned. He looked grave and determined. Supported by his stick with its silver dormouse handle, he asked permission to make a statement. The judge bowed his consent.


  Having explained who he was (name, title, regiment, rank, occupation and current address), he gestured towards the public gallery. ‘It is clear, Sir,’ he said, ‘that young Kevin has a great deal of support from the residents of the Priory, where he works in the capacity of gardener. And that’s because he does a jolly good job!’

  There was a little murmur of assent among the ladies which was hastily hushed. ‘I took the liberty, Sir,’ continued Sir William, ‘of organising a small petition on young Kevin’s behalf. It was signed by every member of our community, residents and staff, every single one. No exceptions. Kevin is an excellent worker and a very helpful young man. We are all anxious that he should be given another chance.’

  Again there was a small flutter of approval which this time had to be reproved by a court official. Then Sir William embarked on the nature of the crime. He was very breezy about it. ‘When all’s said and done, he was only keeping a bag for a friend. He was doing a favour for an old comrade. Of course he should have asked what was in the bag, but that’s the kind of mistake any of us could have made, Eh What!’

  Then Sir William described how Kev had helped him with the Priory garden. ‘Splendid boy!’ he said. ‘I’d like to have had him in my regiment! He’d know how to fight for Queen and Country! Not like most of the lads you get nowadays!’ He pointing at Kev with his stick. ‘In my opinion we need more like him! He’s a good worker and a helpful young man! No point in sending him to prison! He’d be a damned nuisance there! We need him in the Priory garden.’

  He turned to the judge. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘what it comes down to is we’re all counting on you to restore him to us. We are expecting to take him home with us in time for luncheon.’ He gave a brief salute and left the witness box. There was much nodding and a gentle ripple of applause from the public gallery.

  Then there was a pause in the proceedings. Kev was led away and the judge repaired to his chambers. The rest of us took the lift upstairs to the canteen for coffee. Matron and I made everyone sit down and we organised the refreshments. The ladies all clustered round Sir William twittering their congratulations. He looked grim. ‘It all depends on that judge fella,’ he said. ‘I never did trust lawyers …’

  Within half an hour, we were summoned back to the courtroom. Again we all stood as the judge entered. With considerable gravity he announced that he had listened carefully to what had been said. He recognised that the young man was a good worker and had earned considerable respect from the residents of his place of employment. However, receiving stolen goods was a very serious offence. For someone with Kevin’s record, a custodial sentence was to be expected.

  He turned to Kev. ‘Therefore I have decided to sentence you to a year in prison…’

  There was a gasp of horror from the public gallery and a small ‘Oh no!’ from Mrs Mackenzie … but the judge was still speaking.

  ‘… It will be suspended for two years! You have been exceptionally lucky to be given this extra chance. Make sure you do not betray the trust that has been placed in you.’ The ladies looked at each other. It took them a moment to understand what had been said. Then there was another spontaineous burst of clapping. The judge rose; the court officials bowed and the trial had come to an end.

  Outside the courtroom Kev was mobbed by the old ladies. Matron invited Kev’s mother back to the Priory to have lunch with everyone. She looked awkward, but she was persuaded into the bus by Steve and Mrs Blenkensop. Sir William was the last to climb into the vehicle. ‘Excellent day’s work!’ he pronounced to Victoria. ‘Now the lads can get the bulbs planted for the autumn. Not a moment too soon in my opinion!’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  A Corrupt Place

  The Funding Council consultants continued their visitation at the university. They were obviously doing a thorough job because they seemed to be interviewing literally everyone. But I heard nothing more. My own preoccupation was with the cathedral. Nearly every day I had a meeting with the Clerk of Works to discuss various options for dealing with our underground damp problems. Reg Blenkensop, as Canon-Treasurer, was often present on these occasions. He continued to ignore me, but he kept up an elaborate conversation with George Carpenter. As it happened, the Clerk of Works was also a rugby player although not at such an exalted level as Blenkensop. I had to endure a great deal of reminiscence about the glory days of the Oxford University team in the very early 1960s. In between, Reg was always complaining about the criminal expense of repairs. There were endless not-so-subtle hints that the only solution to our problems would be to impose admission charges. Secretly I was afraid he might be right.

  One Monday morning I received a call from Penelope Ransome. She was a senior lecturer in Women’s Studies and was the president of the trade union at St Sebastian’s. Several years previously, when I was facing my own difficulties at the university, she had given me considerable support in that capacity. I was delighted to hear from her. She said that there was an urgent matter which she needed to discuss with me. It could not wait so we arranged to meet at the Mitre at four o’clock that afternoon.

  I arrived early and was greeted warmly by Miss Mildred and Miss Betty. There was a nice table free near the window, so I sat down and ordered tea for both of us. Several minutes after the cathedral clock had struck the hour, my guest arrived in a flurry. I think the Misses Monktons found her appearance disconcerting, but they were too well-bred to mention it. I had forgotten how Penelope presented herself. Dressed in grubby blue-jeans, Dr Martens boots and a phosphorescent lime green jumper, she was sporting large silver earrings. In the old days, her brownish hair had been streaked with emerald green, but now she was transformed into a dazzling platinum blonde. What had not changed was her mascara. It was still dotted all over her cheeks rather than on her eye-lashes.

  I stood up when she entered. ‘Golly, Harry,’ she said, ‘I’ve never seen you in a dog-collar before. Am I supposed to call you Provost?’ Before I had a chance to reply, she flopped down in a chair and put a bag bulging with papers on the table. ‘What a day!’ she said.

  Miss Mildred came over in her neat blue overall to ask if the new visitor would like anything to eat. Penelope looked hungrily towards the cake tray. ‘Are you having something?’ she asked.

  I was quite stout enough, but I could see that this was an occasion when temptation was not going to be resisted. ‘Try the victoria sponge. It’s nectar and ambrosia,’ I said.

  ‘Oh goodie!’ said Penelope. ‘I need it. I really do.’

  Miss Mildred brought over two very large slices of cake and Penelope and I smiled at each other. ‘What’s going on?’ I asked.

  The words tumbled over each other. ‘Harry, you won’t believe what St Sebastian’s is like now. It’s completely changed since you left. We had the most appalling Vice-Chancellor. A complete nightmare! But anyway he’s gone – to the House of Lords would you believe! He’s become the opposition spokesman for higher education. Honestly! One doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry! But the point is he’s left the place in a total shambles. When he was with us he went into partnership with the most dubious institutions. And he introduced degree programmes and diplomas in the most ridiculous subjects.’

  ‘I understand he attracted a lot of students,’ I observed mildly.

  ‘Oh he attracted them all right. He just didn’t educate them. It was a complete exercise in dumbing-down. The most popular undergraduate subject in the university now is Celebrity Studies! I ask you … Celebrity Studies! We even give university certificates in pole-dancing as part of the Artistic Dance programme. The place is littered with nubile models from a partnership college in Florida. No one bothers to check if the students can read or write. As long as they can writhe around a pole, they get their certificate. We’ve become a laughing stock in the world of higher education …’

  ‘But I believe it’s very lucrative …’ As a professional ethicist, I always try to see both sides of any question.

  ‘Oh yes … Flanagan knew h
ow to make money. It was only by the grace of God we’re not educating half the American Mafia. He was determined to combine with some gambling establishment in Las Vegas and introduce a degree programme in casino management for them.’ I had heard about that particular scheme. To Victoria’s amusement, my father-in-law had been instrumental in its destruction.

  ‘Anyway,’ continued Penelope, ‘the whole thing is a total disgrace. None of these courses or partnerships have been properly vetted, and it appears that a team of investigators from the University Funding Council has just uncovered what’s going on …’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ I said. ‘I spoke to them on their first day. Sloth thought I would make a good impression.’

  Penelope giggled. She remembered my conflicts with Registrar Sloth in the past. ‘Times have changed!’ she chortled.

  ‘So what’s going on?’ I asked again.

  ‘Well,’ said Penelope, ‘last week I was summoned to see the Registrar. That bald creep is now the Acting Vice-Chancellor, if you can believe it. You know what he’s like – most of the time he’s asleep. Well, he told me that all the idiotic partnerships that Flanagan set up are going to be shut down. Apparently they’re illegal. There’s no justification for the British taxpayer subsidising fly-by-night colleges abroad. Well that seems reasonable to me. I just can’t understand how the old Vice-Chancellor got away with it as long as he did. But the upshot is that the university is faced with a loss of rather more than three million pounds every year.’

  I felt slightly sick. ‘I heard this was happening. Why did he tell you?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m in charge of the union and he has to consult me if he wants any employment changes.’

  ‘I see,’ I said.

  ‘As Acting Vice-Chancellor,’ Penelope continued, ‘He’s now in charge of finances, and he showed me the budget for next year. Council had planned for a surplus of nearly half a million pounds. But without the partnerships, instead we’ll be in deficit by at least two and a half million. So Sloth wants to solve the situation by getting rid of staff. And he’s insisting that everything is sorted out by the end of April. He wanted the union to know what’s happening.’