The Campus Trilogy (47 page)

‘But, Magnus, they're throwing me out. Everybody will know the real reason. It's all because I don't fit in.'

‘Would you want to fit in with that lot? Think of it as a
promotion
. Onwards and upwards….!'

‘Honestly, Magnus. You just don't see it. This is just what
happened
to my grandparents during the last war. As Jews they were ostrasised. They were forced to move from their beautiful big house in central Berlin and were crammed into a ghastly
apartment
with two other families in a slummy suburb. That's why they fled to London in 1933. Pilkington's just like the Nazis. He wants his department to be Judenfrei. That's what it comes down to …'

Magnus readjusted his bandage. ‘I say, old chap,' he said, ‘I think you're going a bit over the top. The Old Building isn't a ghetto – after all the Vice-Chancellor and the Industrious Sloth have their offices over here. And so do I for that matter.'

‘It's insulting.' I was determined to sulk.

‘I think you'll like the idea when you get used to it,' consoled Magnus. He searched around for his sherry bottle. It was
concealed
by a pile of papers behind his phallic statue. He poured out two generous glasses. ‘L'hayim!' he said, using the traditional Yiddish toast. ‘Here's to life in the St Sebastian's Ghetto!'

The day after term ended and the students disappeared, I began packing up the books in my office. I had to put them all in
cardboard
boxes ready for the move to the Old Building. Compared with many academics, I never thought I had a large library, but there is a major difference between books sitting neatly on a shelf and books scattered in piles all over the floor. The whole task was a nightmare and took me nearly two days.

In the meantime, all the tables and chairs that were being stored in Harry Gilbert's old room had to be removed. The administrator was not happy about this because she had nowhere else to put them. For several days the corridor outside
my new room was almost impassable and looked like a furniture depository. The bits and pieces were only taken away by the Head Porter and his team after the Catering Manager had
intervened
. He had three huge commitment ceremonies in the Great Hall, one after another, and he insisted that the Health and Safety people would not tolerate his waiting staff tripping over furniture while they tried to serve gourmet banquets.

The new room was spacious with splendid Gothic windows. Sadly it needed painting. Harry had hung a great many pictures on the walls and there were old nail marks and chipped patches of plaster everywhere.

Imogen had just come home from Cambridge for the spring vacation. Emma and I loved having her with us and I hoped she might help me redecorate. However, she was still busy with her dissertation. Her Director of Studies had been very pleased with the first draft and we had high hopes that our daughter was
heading
for a First. Imogen still felt that it needed fine tuning and she was making frequent visits to the Women's Refuge to consult with Jan and Liz, the paid workers, and to do further interviews with the residents.

One evening she told us what she had learnt about Mrs Flanagan. Apparently, Helga had been taken into hospital the night of the St Sebastian's Feast. She was suffering from extensive bruising, a head wound and serious concussion. When she regained consciousness, she had been interviewed by the police. They pressed her, but she had persisted in her story. She said she had had too much to drink and had fallen down the stairs hitting her head. The police told Jan that they did not believe this for a moment. The position of the blood stains in the house told a very different story, but there was no chance of bringing a successful prosecution if Helga refused to cooperate.

Jan and Liz visited her frequently in the hospital. They never ran into Flanagan. Either he was not going to see Helga at all or he came early in the morning or very late at night. In any event she never spoke of him. She was very quiet and was having to undergo a huge number of neurological tests. However, Imogen thought that she would be discharged within the next couple of weeks. The women from the Refuge were doing their very best to persuade her to come and stay with them, but, as yet, Helga had refused to commit herself.

Once the university reopened after Easter, I went in to collect my post. Amongst the usual pile of letters and magazines was an ominous envelope marked Private and Confidential. I went to my office which was now crowded with boxes and opened it. It was from Pilkington. It read:

This letter should not have been a surprise. I knew that I was vulnerable and the whole fiasco of the degree in Casino Management had not strengthened my case. Nonetheless seeing it in writing was a shock. I did not want to retire. As a
philosopher
, I felt that I was at the height of my powers. And anyway the whole thing was so unfair. I had given St Sebastian's the best years of my life. The Philosophy department was well-respected in the outside world and we had done exceptionally well in the last Research Assessment Exercise.

Then there was the personal element. How on earth could Emma and I survive without my job? Admittedly Emma earned a very good salary with the BBC, but positions in the media are
notoriously
insecure. If for some reason her programmes ceased to be popular, her employers would have no hesitation in looking for new talent. At least Imogen would have finished at Cambridge before I had to leave St Sebastian's, but what would we do if she wanted to embark on some expensive postgraduate training? My pension would not begin to cover the cost of law or medical school.

I searched for my telephone amongst the boxes of books. It took me fifteen minutes to find it as it was buried at the bottom of a carton of philosophical encyclopaedias. When I plugged it in, I was relieved that it was still working.

I called Magnus at home. When he answered, he told me he was having a bath. In the background I could hear running water. ‘Do you think I could get electrocuted using this thing?' he asked.

‘I'm sure it's perfectly safe,' I said. ‘I'm sorry to ring you now, but I'm in terrible trouble. I've just received an official letter from Pilkington. He tells me that since there will be no philosophy in two years' time, he is applying to the Committee to have my post declared redundant. He recommends that instead of fighting the decision, I accept it and take early retirement.'

There was a splash. After a long pause I heard Magnus's voice. He had just lost the soap. ‘Sorry, old chap,' he said, ‘I'm having a bit of difficulty here. You say Pilkington wants to make you redundant? Well, I'm not surprised. The theologians are not exactly the sharpest knives in the drawer and you can't expect them to enjoy having someone like you around. You undermine their comfortable presuppositions. I don't suppose any of them liked your splendid hymn very much either. I shouldn't have encouraged you to circulate it …'

‘But what am I going to do?' I said desperately.

‘Well you'll be in your mid-fifties once the last of the
philosophy
students leave. Won't you have had enough of St Sebastian's by then? After all, Emma must be doing quite well and you'll get an index-linked pension. You should have enough to live on. And after all, Imogen is old enough to start earning her own
living
. She can support her old parents. I always thought I should have had a daughter to look after me in my old age.'

Magnus was not an expert at offering consoling pastoral advice. I made one last bid for sympathy.

‘But Magnus,' I protested. ‘I don't want to leave.'

‘Oh dear, you do remind me of Harry. That's just what he used to say.'

‘Did he?'

‘He kept maintaining that he liked research; he liked his
students
; he liked to be useful; he liked contributing to the sum of human knowledge. I did my best to dissuade him and put him in touch with reality, but he could never see it. Anyway, in the end he got a better job. Maybe you will too …'

‘Magnus,' I tried to divert him from his flight of fantasy. ‘What am I supposed to do?'

There was a pause. ‘I don't know,' Magnus said. ‘I never know what to do. The best thing is to wait and see. Maybe you'll win on the premium bonds like me! Ah,' he declared brightly. ‘Here's the soap … slippery little bugger!'

For the rest of the vacation I was depressed. I slept badly. Emma insisted that we went to bed at the usual time, but I always found myself awake at three o'clock in the morning. I kept
calculating
and recalculating how much money we would have once I retired. The situation was not desperate. We had paid off our
mortgage and I had made extra contributions to my pension over the years. We would still be reasonably comfortable as long as Emma could keep her job. But I could not overcome the feeling of unfairness. It nagged at me and I found myself fantasising about taking revenge on Pilkington and his smug disciples.

Just before term began I volunteered to drive Imogen back to Cambridge. I had tried not to trouble her with all my difficulties, but I found myself compulsively discussing the situation round and round with anyone who would listen. Imogen was always gentle and sympathetic with me but I feared that I had ruined her vacation. In any event she was still preoccupied with her
dissertation
which was due to be submitted in the middle of May.

After leaving her in her college, I drove back to St Sebastian's, but I was not concentrating on the road. I was nearly home when I landed at a busy intersection. Without looking properly, I pulled out directly in front of a black Peugeot. There was a screech of brakes, a moment in which time seemed to be
suspended
and then I heard an enormous crash. I had suffered a direct hit broadside.

The other driver was all right. He jumped out of his car to speak to me. I knew it was all my fault and I said so. Then I realised that I was in excruciating pain and I could not move. I was trapped inside the car and it was a full fifteen minutes before an ambulance, the police and a fire engine arrived at the scene. The firemen pried open the door. The paramedics could not have been kinder, gentler or more reassuring. I was carried out on a stretcher and placed in the ambulance. The siren was activated and within a very few minutes we had arrived at St Sebastian's Hospital.

I do not remember very much of the details. I was taken
immediately
into the accident and emergency room where I was
X-rayed
. The doctors were concerned that I might have damaged my spine, but all was well. Only my pelvis was fractured. It was broken in two places. Later I was wheeled on a trolley to one of the wards where my hip was placed in traction. Emma had been contacted straightaway. She arrived in the emergency room and stayed with me, holding my hand, while the doctors did their investigations. Then she went upstairs with me and helped the nurses settle me in the ward.

‘Poor Felix,' she said stroking my hand. ‘Tell me what
happened
?'

I explained about the accident and asked about the other driver. ‘He appears to be fine,' she said. ‘Just a few scratches.'

I was relieved. ‘How long do they think I'll be here?' I asked.

‘The doctors said at least ten days. But then you'll need to rest at home for about three months. They don't want you to put any pressure on the hip for six weeks. But you'll be able to walk with a crutch.'

‘I'll have to get sick leave,' I said. ‘Someone else will have to teach my classes next term.'

‘That's their problem,' Emma said stoutly. ‘Let Pilkington worry about it.'

The next day Imogen came down from Cambridge by train. Emma had tried to dissuade her, but she needed to be reassured that I was all right. In the event she was more upset than I was. She was tearful and Emma and I had to tell her again and again that it was not her fault. She was not to blame that I had driven her back to the university. I had been careless and that was the end of the matter. The important thing was to be thankful that the damage had not been more serious.