The taxi lurched to a halt just outside the porters’ lodge, jerking the vice-chancellor awake and sending him fumbling for his wallet. He handed over a banknote with a gruff but unusually generous “Keep the change” and clambered out into the brisk December mist.
From the eastern wall of the Arts Building, a familiar feline form stared down at him in the sallow morning light. Mr Tibbles, global icon of the University of Rural England, had been supersized on to a 10-metre promotional banner, asserting his tabby influence over the campus in a lordly manner the v-c found deeply irritating.
Jet lag pounding in his temples, the v-c glanced at his watch. 8.15am. With his circadian rhythms still wandering loose over the Atlantic, he pondered whether to head for his flat or his office. He chose the latter, smiling at the thought of the impact his sudden appearance might have. As he trundled away with his suitcase, Sid, the head porter, observed his unsteady progress, lifted the phone and dialled a familiar number.
“He’s back.”
Nothing more needed to be said.
“Morning all!” bellowed the v-c as he crashed open the door of the senior management suite, the throbbing heart of the administration. The lack of panic caused him mild disappointment, and he answered the welcoming greetings of his team with curt nods and grunts before retreating to his office. A moment later, a loud, prolonged oath blasted out into the morning calm. The team exchanged glances and after a moment’s respectful pause, the chief of staff put his head around the v-c’s door.
“Is everything all right, Peter?”
Fury rendered the v-c momentarily incapable of further speech, which was probably for the best. He pointed, shuddering, to the chair, his leather throne of state emblazoned with the crest of the university – occupied by a large tabby cat. Mr Tibbles – for it was he – was sound asleep and wearing an expression that could only be described as smug. His face darkening with emotion, the v-c turned to his colleague and muttered, in barely controlled tones, “Kindly get that bloody creature OUT of my office. If I never see it again, it will be FAR TOO SOON!”
He was rewarded with a frosty sniff and a curt “Certainly, vice-chancellor”, accompanied by a numbed silence in the outer office. With this wildly uncharacteristic response from his usually ebullient colleague, the v-c realised that he was in serious trouble.
The rise to power of Mr Tibbles, the cuddly keystone of the URE social media strategy, was a masterclass in self-promotion and ruthless cuteness. This large tabby moggie had spent months inveigling his way into the good graces of the portering and administrative staff through a campaign of tactical purring and strategic camera-friendliness. Adored almost universally, Mr Tibbles now featured in a series of hugely popular internet videos that followed his peregrinations around campus, adding significantly to the open day footfall and spawning a useful sideline in feline selfies with prospective students. At their Friday-night post-work meetup, resplendent in their bright “Team Tibbles” hoodies, the communications team routinely toast their feline gift from God in cheery and increasingly rowdy tones: “Mr Tibbles! Vice-chancellor-in-waiting!”
The current incumbent approached his marketing strategy meeting with deep foreboding. The bright young media folk who run the social campaigns had been working overtime storyboarding a killer video for the new recruitment season proposing that Mr Tibbles and the v-c be filmed spending a full day together, meeting staff and students, enjoying the sunny vistas of the grounds and so forth – in order to demonstrate the “caring side” of the administration. The final brilliant proposal – that Mr Tibbles be awarded a fellowship for “services to campus well-being” – almost rendered the v-c in need of a defibrillator as the room teetered on the knife edge of his barely suppressed fury. He rose slowly from his chair and placed leaden fists on the tabletop. Then, with a look of pure venom, he announced, “There is no way in hell I’m playing second string to that bloody cat!”
He left abruptly, in the manner of a cornered stag.
Much later, in the small bar of the White Hart, the registrar and the vice-chancellor sat in companionable silence at a table bearing the remains of a meal and a beer-stained advert for Christmas bookings. As his longest-serving confidant, the registrar was determined to get to the bottom of the v-c’s dark state of mind.
“I’m a trifle concerned, Peter, by your sudden antipathy towards cats,” he said. “I mean, I know you’ve never been a huge fan, but I’m guessing that your current reaction isn’t just jet lag. What’s happened?”
The vice-chancellor took a long pull at his ale and ran one hand through the remains of his hair. “Well, I suppose you of all people deserve an explanation – but this is strictly between us. After the San Francisco conference, I nipped over to Berkeley and spent a few days with Beth – mostly to catch up after our wonderful road trip in the summer. It’s a nice spot, right up in the hills behind the campus, the last street before the forest. Well, one day Beth had some meetings, so I just hung around by the pool reading. Before she left, she reminded me – yet again – not to let the cat out. It’s a pretty little thing, what they call a calico, and was always whining by the patio doors. Anyway, it was lovely day, just a hint of wildfire smoke, so I thought, ‘Why not let the poor thing out for a bit to enjoy the sunshine?’”
He paused for a moment, his eye temporarily drawn by the sparkle of the fruit machine lights reflected in the silver tinsel winding its way around the collection of dusty bric-a-brac on the window ledge behind the registrar.
“We both settled down and I must have nodded off, but when I woke up the cat had legged it – it was nowhere to be seen. Knowing Beth’s views, I wandered up and down the street like an idiot, shaking a bag of cat chow. One of the neighbours drove up and asked what was what – then told me that a mountain lion had been around, drinking from his pool…Well, I needn’t tell you that there was hell to pay when Beth got home. Called me a murderer, threw a few things, and the upshot was that I slept on the sofa. Luckily, my flight back was the next day – but the offer of a lift to the airport suddenly vanished and I had to take the shuttle bus. Not the end to the trip I was hoping for, I can tell you. So, yes, I’m off cats…”
The v-c pondered his empty glass for a moment, then looked across at the registrar. “Fancy another one…?”
Behind the counter, the barman – coincidentally, also the editor of the student newspaper – left the polishing of an already immaculate wine glass and moved forward to serve him.
From his office window, the vice-chancellor watched with gloomy disbelief as loosely coordinated groups of volunteers walked in lines across the campus. They checked bins, looked under cars and tested locked doors – all the while emitting feline-friendly sounds in a variety of styles. The word was out: Mr Tibbles had gone missing. He was absent from all his regular snack sites. His bed in the porters’ lodge was empty and cold. His only presence was in the animated clips of his glossy, svelte form that scrolled across the campus information screens.
Uproar erupted across the myriad social media channels used by his extensive fan base, and, perhaps inevitably given the absence of information, speculation began to emerge. This turned quickly to disturbing conspiracy theories. There was only one person on campus who had ever publicly expressed disapproval of Mr Tibbles – and the vice-chancellor’s position already made him an easy target. Had he arranged for Mr Tibbles, the furry threat to his authority, to be “disappeared”?
Ideas muttered in dark corners grew and were amplified as feverish innuendo took hold – then burst into the campus mainstream when the student newspaper dropped a late-night special edition with the banner headline “WHERE IS MR TIBBLES? VC HAS FORM ON FELINES…”. The scurrilous lead article carried an exotically augmented version of the story Peter had told in the White Hart, together with a mock-up of him as Ebenezer Scrooge, a thankfully random photo of a street in the Berkeley Hills and a “witness” account that sounded deeply contrived. Peter began to review his thoughts on the value of a free press, but had the good sense to keep them to himself.
In the senior management suite, phones began to ring, ping and buzz. Hordes of folk, incensed by the article and the much nastier content now flooding social media, demanded the immediate sacking – and preferably the tarring and feathering – of the vice-chancellor. Many had suggestions that were far more explicit and, in some cases, physically impossible.
As night fell, a crowd began to gather in the courtyard below the v-c’s office window. It quickly gained the look of the mob of villagers from a horror movie – lacking only blazing torches and pitchforks for the full effect. They clearly had strong views on who constituted the monster in this scenario. Anticipating the imminent arrival of the first brick, the v-c edged slowly away from the window, while the registrar had a discreet word with Security.
But just as the porters were, somewhat gleefully, assembling a snatch squad to grab the vice-chancellor and remove him to a safe location, the good news came. Mr Tibbles had been found!
Almost whooping with delight, the communications team’s videographers raced to the scene of the Christmas miracle: the tea room of the technical services group way across campus. It appeared that Mr Tibbles was a regular visitor there, enjoyed the occasional plate of ham with them, but was known locally as Trevor – so they hadn’t made the connection. The discovery was live-streamed over the web – and to the large outdoor screens around the university. Anger turned to joy in the crowded courtyard and the mood of suppressed violence dissipated into revelry. A video loop of Mr Tibbles’ reappearance quickly racked up many thousands of views, and it seemed the crisis had passed.
Yet in the morning there were doubts. The student newspaper, desperate to build on its recent surge in sales and publicity, led with the headline “IS THIS REALLY MR TIBBLES? FANS FEAR FELINE FRAUD” with before and after photos of the moggie in question. Was it the same cat? While one tabby cat looks much like another, there did seem to be some odd differences between the pictures. Folk began to mutter darkly once again, with senior staff wondering whether to begin distancing themselves from the v-c. They knew full well that any sleight of hand to find a “new” Mr Tibbles would be popularly considered a cover-up scandal of career-ending magnitude.
As it was a slow news day, local TV and radio quickly pounced on the story. By lunchtime, it was appearing as a novelty segment dropped in at the end of the national news. There was talk of an official inquiry, and the v-c was told to expect a call from the minister – who was to be briefed in case she was doorstepped by journalists regarding the drama. He thought fondly of the bottle of single malt in the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet and regretted the passing of daytime drinking in academia.
Sitting at his desk, the v-c stared at the phone with dark hatred. It rang. He answered. It was not the minister but the university librarian with some exciting news, on which she was reluctant to go into detail. “It’s just easier if you come over,” she said, “I’ll meet you at the side door.”
Beyond the basement stacks, a seldom-used workroom had been left with the door ajar. Swinging it quietly open, the librarian beckoned silently to the v-c. A cardboard box of soft packing material stood in the corner of the room, and in the dim light from the corridor Peter could make out the form of a large tabby cat within it – suckling an untidy heap of tiny, multicoloured kittens.
“Is that…?” began the v-c.
The librarian nodded. “Yes, it’s definitely Tibbles – although I guess she’ll be Ms Tibbles from here on. She must have sneaked in here to nest. I’ve never seen her in the basement before – not enough cuddles.” Peter nodded and, genuinely delighted by the turn of events, knelt gently down beside the box. “I wonder,” he said sheepishly, holding out his phone to the librarian, “I wonder whether you would take a photo of us?”
Within a few hours, the media circus had left town. Interviews had come and gone, relationships had been patched and Trevor, no longer the Tibbles stand-in, returned to his accustomed chair by the tea room radiator. A barrage of requests to adopt the kittens had replaced the stream of bile directed at the vice-chancellor, and he could once more walk openly across the campus. He was just approaching the door of the White Hart for a celebratory pint when his personal phone pinged once more.
Seeing the sender, he opened the message with some trepidation – to be greeted by a photo of Beth hugging a calico cat with some glee in front of her Christmas tree.
The text read: “Look who came home! She’d moved in with some students down the street, but they phoned me when I put her photo on the power poles.”
A great sense of relief washed over the vice-chancellor – especially when he noticed the next message: “PS. What are you doing for New Year…?”
He was forgiven. Peter grasped the familiar brass handle of the pub door and pulled. A slow smile eased across his face as he decided that steak and claret could now justifiably form part of his evening celebration.
John Gilbey has been the property of a number of cats over the years. He teaches in the department of computer science at Aberystwyth University and tweets as @John_Gilbey.
