Very soon afterwards Marion Powle came in and took his place at the centre of the top table. He announced that the minutes of the last meeting had been circulated and asked if he might sign them as correct. Jake could find no more objection than anybody else. Then Powle recited the names of lazy bastards who had said they weren't coming. After that part the Estates Bursar was called upon to introduce Agenda Item 3. (They mean Agendum 3, thought Jake.) The item or agendum in question concerned the sale of some college property in a part of the kingdom that had until just the other day borne the name of an English county but was now known by some historically authentic title that meant as good as nothing to anyone. The price quoted ran into six figures and was immediately agreed by those assembled. It was a very different story when the next item—agendum came up. This time the focus of attention was the proposed new chairs for the library, the joint proponents of the proposition being the Domestic Bursar and the Mods don who doubled as the Librarian of the college. A prototype was brought in by a menial and examined with some closeness, several leaving their own chairs to see it better. At first it seemed to gain some approval, and when Wynn-Williams sat on it and it didn't collapse its adoption looked almost certain. But then the cost was asked for and given at ?125 and all over the room there were wincing noises, rather like but in sum louder than those made by Brenda on getting into a cold bed. For a chair! they all kept saying—for a chair? Not quite all. 'Of course' it seems a lot, said Jake to himself, but haven't you noticed that 'everything' seems a lot these days, you fucking old fools? In the end the Domestic Bursar, after he had made it plain that it would be no use going back to the maker and trying to beat him down, was instructed to do just that.
The next topic was described simply as Stanton St Leonard Churchyard. All Jake knew about Stanton St Leonard was that it was a village to the north-west of Oxford, that the living of its church was in the gift of Comyns and that 'by way' of consequence a part of its churchyard was set aside for the remains of Fellows of the college, an amenity not much in use for however long it was since they had been permitted to marry. Probably the local authorities wanted the place concreted over and a community centre or skateboard park built on the site.
The Master looked round the meeting with a serious expression. 'Now I'm afraid I have a rather serious matter to draw to the attention of Fellows,' he said seriously. After explaining about Stanton St Leonard for the benefit of the recently elected, he went on, 'During the vacation a certain Hoyt H. Goodchild, a citizen of the United States, was visiting relatives in the village when he suddenly died. It seems that these were his only relatives; at any rate, there was silence on the other side of the Atlantic and the family in Stanton decided to bury Mr Goodchild in the churchyard there. By a most unfortunate and grievous coincidence the rector was away at the time and the, sexton ill, and evidently neither had briefed his substitute in full, because on returning to their duties they found Mr Goodchild buried at the Comyns end.'
There was a general gasp of consternation, almost of horror, in which Jake couldn't quite prevent himself joining. Funny how we all overact at these get-togethers, he thought to himself: what ought to be of mild, passing interest attracted passionate concern or a facsimile of it, ordinary care for the interests of the college came out as crusading zeal. All part of being donnish.
Powle was continuing, 'Both men have expressed their profoundest apologies but that's hardly the issue. I must have some guidance here. Senior Tutor?'
'No difficulty that I can see,' said Dollymore. 'He'll have to come up, won't he?'
Wynn-Williams and some of the other senior Fellows showed their agreement.
'I don't really think we can quite do that,' said Powle.
'We won't have to do anything, Master, it's up to those two in Stanton to set right their mistake.'
'There would have to be an exhumation order, which might not be easy to obtain. And there are the feelings of Mr Goodchild's relatives to be considered, surely.'
'They'll be village people, I don't expect much obstacle there. And as for the exhumation, the authorities are bound to understand our historic right not to have a total stranger, and an American at that, in our own sacred ground. Why, some of those graves go back to the time of the Civil War.'
'I think everybody here understands that, Senior Tutor, but I very much doubt if the authorities would, to the point of taking action that is. They'd be nervous of the publicity and I couldn't blame them.'
'It's out of the question, sir,' said the political scientist who ran a current-affairs programme on TV.
'Out of the question to do what is fully within our rights and in conflict with no law?'
'I'm afraid that in this case we'll have to bow to the opinions, the prejudices if you like, of .... outsiders,' said Powle.
'Good God,' said Dollymore. 'What a world it's become.'
'You're proposing that no action be taken at all, Master?' asked Wynn-Williams.
'Not necessarily. Are there any suggestions?'
There were none for half a minute. Then a natural scientist of some sort asked where Goodchild's grave was in relation to the others and was passed a marked plan of the churchyard. On examining it he said,
'As one might have expected it's at the end of a row and it also happens to be near the yew hedge. One might be able to plant a section of hedge, or transplant one, better, so that the intruding grave is as it were segregated from the others.'
This suggestion was debated at some length; in the end it was agreed upon. But Roger Dollymore hadn't finished yet. He said defiantly,
'It'll be all very well until the autumn.'
The writer in residence, who had often declared that he had done no writing at all as yet and had no plans for doing any while in residence, and who was wearing a red-and-black upper garment the material of which had been fashioned by human ingenuity, and who had uttered a loud yelp of deprecation on hearing Dollymore's first proposal for the treatment of the offending cadaver, said, 'What happens in the autumn then?'
Dollymore said as to an imbecile, 'The leaves fall.'
'And?'
'And cover the ground.'
'So?'
'So somebody has to clear them eh-way.'
