Tim Connor Hits Trouble (20 page)

‘Now you’re beginning to sound like a hippie. I bet you took a stack full of psychedelics in the sixties and seventies.’ Brad seemed determined to needle Cal.

‘I had my share but not now. They can take a toll on you and anyway these short cuts can leave people suspended in a counterfeit infinity believing all kinds of fuzzy-brained rubbish.’

In his efforts to annoy Cal, Brad had succeeded in annoying himself. He was beginning to look edgy and combative.
Tim decided to move in again. He shifted his chair closer to Cal.

‘So, Cal, you’re a lifestyle radical?’

‘You can put it that way if you want. Capitalism has mugged just about every area of institutional life, even the arts, maybe especially the arts, and higher education. There’s no alternative but to work with our own lives. ‘The personal is the political,’ as someone once said. Ultimately if enough people change their values and lifestyles, the old system will dissolve. Not that there’s any guarantee.’

Tim leaned back, noticing that the room was now almost empty. People had headed off to the final sessions and the clatter of waiters clearing up was beginning to drown out their conversation. He took the opportunity to move things on.

‘Look, we have to make a decision. Do we bunk the final session or not?’

‘I’m for bunking,’ said Brad. ‘I’m looking forward to a guided tour of the great metropolis, or at least part of it.’

‘That’s fine by me. I don’t know the city that well, though, so I won’t offer to be the guide. Maybe Tim can do that,’ suggested Cal.

‘Ok, no problem. There’s enough daylight left for a stroll along the riverfront and maybe through one of the parks. After that we could stop off in Soho for a meal unless either of you have signed up for the formal conference dinner tonight.’

Neither had.

‘That’s sensible of you,’ commented Tim, ‘it’s expensive and you don’t get a proper pudding.’

The three men made their way out of the university and onto the Aldwych crescent immediately to the south. The huge solid buildings amplified the crashing din of the traffic. Across the crescent was the massive edifice of Bush House, home of British public radio broadcasting and on the other side, the Strand. Bush House looked like the hulk of a vast
beached ship. Traffic hurtled relentlessly round the one-way system regulated only by seemingly random traffic lights.

‘Follow me you two,’ Tim shouted above the cacophony. The three of them skipped across to the Bush House side of the crescent just as the lights let loose another barrage of traffic. A couple of car horns blasted behind them as they made it to the pavement. Tim shuddered at the mad, blaring noise; Brad shouted a generalised ‘fuck off’ at the oblivious vehicles; and Cal, kaftan flapping, just about preserved his trademark cool.

‘Keep following, we can cut through here,’ Tim gestured towards an open throughway between two sections of Bush House. Emerging at the other side they took advantage of a lull in traffic to cross the Strand. Tim waved a hand in identification of his old college, King’s, confining his comments to an expression of regret that his favourite student drinking-hole nearby had disappeared.

Within a couple of minutes they had reached Waterloo Bridge.

‘I don’t want to drag you two all the way to the other side of the river but let’s walk to the middle of the bridge, it gives a good view of the Thames and the surrounding city.’

As they made their way onto the bridge Tim attempted to recall items of historical or literary interest about it. Apart from mentioning Monet’s stolen painting of the bridge, all he could come up with was the Kinks’
Waterloo Sunset
. It turned out to be a good call as both Brad and Cal knew the song. And as it happened the pale sun was just beginning to set, diffusing a diaspora of light blue, silver and gold across the evening sky.

‘Waterloo sunset time,’ Cal quoted a line from the song.

‘Yeah, it’s almost like I planned it,’ said Tim, pleased with himself.

‘Didn’t Shakespeare write a poem about a bridge?’ asked Brad.

‘Could be – he wrote about most things - but you’re
probably thinking of a famous sonnet by Wordsworth,
Upon Westminster Bridge
,’ Tim suggested, ‘it’s a bit further up river.’

‘That sounds right, you ought to know. Good name for a poet, Wordsworth. You know worth …’

‘No need to explain,’ there was a hint of irritation in Tim’s voice. He wanted them to enjoy the scene, not listen to feeble puns about it. Some phrases of Wordworth’s sonnet came to mind.

‘Wordsworth has a line in his poem something like ‘ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples lie open to the fields and to the sky.’ You can probably still pick out examples of all of those, apart from fields, even though most of those features are dwarfed by more recent stuff.’

‘St Paul’s still looks impressive despite the glass and concrete giants around it,’ Cal commented.

‘What’s that? Brad asked gesturing to a point south of the river more or less opposite St Paul’s.’

‘That’s the Gherkin.’

Brad puzzled for a minute.

‘I’ve never thought of gherkins as beautiful.’

‘What do you think of that one?’ asked Cal.

‘The same, it’s not beautiful.’

‘Postmodern architecture isn’t necessarily beautiful. It’s more conceptual,’ Cal explained.

‘What’s the point of the concept of a gherkin?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe it asks a question.’

‘It certainly isn’t asking me a question.’

‘Maybe not, but you asked one yourself a moment ago,’ Cal pointed out.

‘I know, anybody would, confronted by that dollop of…’

Tim decided to change the topic and the location.

‘Let’s just shift across to the west side of the bridge and look up the river. We’ll see The Houses of Parliament and catch the best of the sunset.’

They crossed over and despite the rush of pedestrians managed to plant themselves against the west railings.

‘Now that’s architecture,’ enthused Brad gesturing towards Parliament, ‘that’s no gherkin. That has elegance and style. It’s almost as impressive as the Kremlin.’

‘Yeah, true it’s a great example of the mid-nineteenth century gothic but you wouldn’t build something like that today,’ Tim suggested.

‘Maybe, maybe not but I’d rather see more buildings in that style than more gherkins. I mean, where do they go from a gherkin, a beetroot?’ Brad looked genuinely perplexed.

Now Cal chipped in.

‘They go even bigger, I guess, and even more arbitrary in shape. In fact new concoctions are already in the pipeline. Look at that half-constructed giant saltcellar like folly behind us. It’s already dwarfing everything around it, an unintended monument to the sky-high egos of the age. Hubris signalling its own nemesis. Postmodernism’s inadvertent satire on itself, its concluding exclamation mark, hopefully.’

‘You’ve got a point there,’ said Brad out of his depth. ‘What’s it called?’

‘The Shard.’

‘Shard to swallow,’ Brad quipped.

‘Puny, but you’re right, it might well fail to pay for itself.’

‘Capitalism is always shafting itself,’ said Brad, feeling he was on a bit of a roll.

Cal looked mildly miffed at Brad’s prosaic response to his flight of poetic social commentary. He decided to take a dig at him.

‘Brad, you ought to develop your own style of Marxist gothic, an extravagant celebration of irrelevance.’ He winked at Tim. Brad glared at them both.

Sensing that the quality of their architectural discussion was about to plummet even further Tim brought it to a swift close.

‘Ok, let’s wander across to Trafalgar Square and think about eating somewhere in Soho. I don’t know about you
two but I’m getting hungry. We’re gonna have to give the park a miss. It’s too dark.’

‘Good idea,’ agreed Cal, ‘it’s quite cold now the sun’s going down. Let’s move on.’

‘Let’s have a couple of drinks on the way. This walk has given me a wicked thirst,’ said Brad.

Now that the idea of food and drink had been launched they moved quickly through the city, the day slipping into night as they went.

Brad was insistent that he wanted to sample the full ‘London English pub atmosphere’ and they stopped twice to knock back a few drinks. In practice Brad seemed to favour varieties of Eurofizz rather than English bitter but was still convinced that he was getting an authentically British experience. The effect was the same. The three of them were in light rococo mood as they made their way across Trafalgar Square.

Brad and Cal were fascinated by Chinatown, but the three of them failed to reach a consensus on whether to eat Chinese. Eventually they crossed Shaftesbury Avenue and settled for an Indian restaurant in Frith Street in the heart of Soho.

During the course of the meal the conversation turned to the other Wash sociologists at the conference. Tim was mildly concerned they might think he and Brad had ditched them in favour of the delights of the metropolis. It didn’t reassure him when Brad pointed out that they had done exactly that. Tim was beginning to regret that he had missed a possible opportunity to spend some time with Erica, even if not on a one to one basis. It frustrated him that their relationship seemed suspended between the compulsively physical and tantalising intimations of something more serious. Diversions and interruptions constantly cropped up, mostly in the form of other people. Gina’s image came into his mind. He smiled wistfully. He was by no means over her. Then he thought of Rachel, not so much a diversion as an obstacle as far as he was concerned. That was not
Erica’s view. Frowning he drained off the dregs of his glass of wine. Putting the glass down he realised that the alcohol was beginning to go to his head. He’d rarely drunk so much so quickly since his student days.

‘Wake up young man, you’re in dreamland,’ Brad gave Tim an over-the-top shove causing him to knock his glass across the table.

‘Whoops, apologies,’ Brad quickly retrieved the glass carefully replacing it the right way up. ‘Good job it was empty.’

Annoyed, Tim glared at Brad who continued in his usual auto way.

‘Listen, you guys, I like this Soho part of town. How about we spend a few hours here and take in a club or two?’

‘Not for me thanks,’ answered Tim. He felt he had paid his dues to Brad by chaperoning him so far. He thought again of Erica and concluded he was definitely in the wrong place.

Brad turned to Cal.

‘How about you Cal? C’mon we could have some fun.’

Tim was surprised when Cal agreed, but less so when he explained why.

‘Sure Brad, I’ll spend some time with you in the fleshpots. I’m not going back to the conference anyway. I’m only paid up to today. I’m off to Spain in the early hours of tomorrow morning for a break. So I have a few hours to kill before I make my way to Stansted.’ He gave Brad a considered look, ‘Mind you Brad I’m not looking to do anything too exciting or tiring.’

‘That’s going to cut your options down around here but it’s great that you want to come along.’

Tim was glad to get rid of Brad. He always felt more comfortable as a social outrider than as ‘one of the boys’. A parting of the ways wrapped up things nicely and left him free to get back to the conference and search out his colleagues. With luck he might prise Erica away from the others.

Outside the restaurant Tim and Brad exchanged contact details with Cal. The three of them shook hands and said their farewells.

‘Be careful how you go, then,’ warned Tim, ‘keep tight hold of your wallets and your trousers.’

There was an odd postscript to the jaunt. As it turned out Brad failed to take Tim’s parting advice, at least as far as his wallet was concerned. In circumstances he was strangely reluctant to explain, he ‘lost’ it along with credit cards and a return ticket to Wash. Later he touched Tim for a bridging loan but adamantly refused to take his advice to report the incident – whatever it was - to the police.

Tim returned to the university via the Strand; celebrated location of several theatres and top hotels, including the Savoy. For Tim this was a familiar stretch of London, although it would never mean as much to him as the streets of Whitetown. As a student the Strand meant no more to him than a crowded walkway between the London School of Economics and King’s at one end and the myriad bookshops of Charing Cross Road at the other. Strangely his most personal memory of the Strand was linked to his hometown. He had walked along the famous street with his mother on her only visit to the big city in the mid nineteen nineties. She had behaved like an elderly Alice in Wonderland ‘ooing and aaing’ at the legendary sights from Nelson’s Column down to Waterloo Bridge. He had kept several photographs of her trip, taken at a time when ‘family snaps’ reflected meaningful selection rather than automated habit. They served to connect the person to the place: ‘look, I’ve been there.’ His favourite was of his mother standing proudly at the entrance
to King’s where, as she frequently told her neighbours, ‘our Tim passed his degree.’

She had no wish to venture past the college and into Fleet Street although she was happy enough to return along the Strand, oblivious to the frustration her slow pace caused. Stretching his long arm around her back, Tim steered her close to the walls of the Strand’s massive buildings to protect her from being jostled. The walk back prompted her to recall a forgotten link with the Strand, the Irish émigré folk song,
The Mountains of Mourne
. The song featured a policeman, Peter O’Loughlin, who had risen from humble origins to direct the traffic ‘at the head of the Strand.’ The song tells how despite London’s glamour the homesick singer ‘might as well be where the mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.’ She had sung the song to Tim when he was a child and now he sang it for her. She was a flutter of pleasure and embarrassment wondering ‘what people might think’ as he serenaded her down the mighty thoroughfare. He gently pointed out that they were most unlikely to meet any of these people again. And in any case, it wouldn’t matter if they did. Had they been walking down the main street in Whitetown she would have rejected these arguments, but in the Strand she could see Tim’s point. Released from her inhibitions she joined in the song’s chorus harmonising a still serviceable alto with his bass. The incredulity of others passed them by. As Teresa commented ‘the further you are from home, the dafter you’re prepared to be.’ Tim agreed that in general that had been his experience.

He had little time to savour these memories as he hurried back from his jaunt with Brad and Cal. Well juiced up, his attempt to weave his way between knots of evening pleasure seekers and tourists drew the occasional irritated rebuke. Spraying apologies with boozy abandon he waltzed on. Once back at the university he headed for the leisure and bar area provided for conference delegates. He was feeling edgy now that he was about to commit himself to an evening with his women colleagues. He was still sober
enough to appreciate that he would not be at his sparkling best but too drunk to realise that he ought to forget about the whole thing. There was more than one way in which it could go wrong.

The room was large and punctuated by thick support pillars, making it difficult to see where the women were. He scanned it as best he could but failed to spot any of them. He decided to get himself a beer before resuming his search. Easier said than done. The area in front of the bar was crowded. Most people already seemed half canned and were energetically jostling for the bartenders’ attention. Whoever coined the stereotype of the politely queue-forming British had clearly not observed them at the trough. He didn’t feel like joining in the barging about and had resigned himself to a lengthy wait when he noticed a figure at the front of the queue apparently waving in his direction.

‘Tim, Tim… Let me get you a drink. Otherwise you’ll be here for ages.’

It was Rachel, in a mood expansive enough to stretch to buying him a drink. He put aside the ungenerous thought that she must be pissed.

‘Rachel, yes, it’s you,’ he observed pointlessly, ‘thanks. That would be good. Let me buy. After all I’m the gatecrasher.’

‘Forget it, this is my round. Is it just you or are you with someone?’

‘Just me Rachel, and it’s a pint of whatever bitter they’ve got on.’ He noticed a bartender move in Rachel’s direction. ‘Hey, don’t miss your turn, you can order now.’

Rachel turned quickly and got her order in just as the bartender was about to turn his attention elsewhere.

Revitalised at the thought of a pint, Tim pushed forward and helped Rachel gather up the drinks and several packets of nuts and crisps, dropping a couple of them as he did so.

Rachel quickly picked them up. ‘I’ll carry these you look like you’ll have your work cut out getting over to our table as it is.’

‘Bossy bugger,’ he thought, feeling his virility had been impugned.

There were four drinks: his pint and three shorts. Two of the shorts were presumably for Rachel and Erica but he was unsure about the third. It would not be for Aisha who as far as he knew didn’t drink. Perhaps she had not yet arrived. He guessed it must be for Annette.

He just about kept up with Rachel as she bundled her way towards a far corner of the room. The group had found a niche behind a large pillar that partly shielded them from the surrounding hubbub. Both Aisha and Annette were there as well as Erica. They gave him a friendly welcome, only Annette striking a questionable note suggesting that Rachel’s ‘pick up’ was ‘a bit on the youthful side.’ Relishing the irony, Rachel riposted that this was ‘the best she could do.’ Tim decided to let the jibes pass: he was not in the mood for lightly gendered piss taking.

Annette and Aisha were sat a couple of feet apart at a table already heaving with bottles and glasses. Aisha, a beacon of self-possession among the bacchanalia, had placed a large bottle of Buxton mineral water in front of her. It stood out as a statement of sober intent. Erica was sat alone on a faux leather couch. Once they had passed round the drinks and cleared a space on the table for the nibbles, Rachel plumped down next to her. Erica checked out Tim with a quick glance and a half smile. Masking a frisson of insecurity, he responded with what he imagined was a nonchalant wink.

Drawing up a chair he ignored the space between Aisha and Annette and instead squeezed in between Aisha and the sofa. He was within touching distance of Erica. Looking straight at Tim, Rachel stretched her arm round Erica’s shoulders. Erica slightly shifted her body, Tim couldn’t tell whether in welcome or discomfort at Rachel’s possessive gesture.

There was a moment’s awkwardness. Sensing Tim’s unease Aisha tried to shift away from edgy personal dynamics by starting up a broader conversation.

‘Our final session today was on the interplay of domestic and economic relations between the genders. It was interesting. You would have enjoyed it.’

Annette chipped in again, still sounding sardonic. ‘Yeah, why don’t you join us for the next session Tim? I believe your stream has got stuck in a generational debate with the young ones blaming the older ones for all sorts of things. Doesn’t that leave you as piggy in the middle?’

Annette was already needling Tim. It was beginning to get to him, her innuendoes falling like piss disguised as rain. It crossed his mind that even if Henry was a mess of his own making a less spiky character than Annette might have handled him better. But maybe she hadn’t always been this way. Probably the difference in their ages had played out badly over time as she wised up to his flaws. Something had soured her. He attempted a low-key response.

‘I doubt if I need to change streams to discuss feminism. I’m sure you guys can tell me all I need to know? Anyway, what did you talk about today?’

It was Rachel who answered. ‘We were discussing whether heterosexual partnerships break up so often because women no longer see it as their role to look after men while most men still expect them to. I believe you’ve been married and separated, Tim, what do you think?’

In his semi-addled state Tim had been hoping for a light conversation. This was not it. He was beginning to regret the amount of alcohol he had taken on board. He made a non-committal reply. ‘That’s probably a fair proposition although it’s not particularly original. There are other reasons for the high rate of divorce and partnership break-ups, although I’m not sure I’m in the mood to discuss them now.’

‘But don’t you think men’s dated expectations are part of the explanation?’

Rachel persisted.

‘Yeah, it would explain some break-ups.’ He decided to throw the question back to Rachel. ‘But why do you think so many women have made paid work their priority. I
believe about one in five women in this country now opt not to have children?’

Now Aisha intervened. ‘It’s obvious, really. They want independence. They realise it’s not enough to live their lives only through others. They need something for themselves, something for their own fulfilment.’

Annette broke back in. ‘Right but is most work
that
fulfilling? Especially the kind of work most women still end up doing? I don’t see much chance of self development in cleaning or shop work or even routine white collar work which is still the kind of stuff most women do.’

‘Agreed but it’s a hell of a lot better than being stuck in the home waiting to service a man,’ interjected Rachel. ‘Anyway more women are getting decent jobs these days, despite being blocked for promotion at the top end.’

Tim was about to bring Erica into the conversation when he noticed that she appeared preoccupied with her mobile. As his attention was distracted, Annette took up the conversation again. ‘The truth is that capitalists don’t care about the gender of labour as long as they have a steady supply. My benighted husband is right in that respect. It’s a vicious circle in which we’re all involved. But Rachel’s also right - things are better for women than they used to be. We’re on much more even terms with men even if the system itself is unfair.’

Tim was surprised that Annette offered even a grudging compliment to Henry. He was on the point of responding when his mobile sounded the arrival of a text. Apologising for the interruption he was about to ignore the message and switch off when he noticed Erica adopt an oddly contorted posture. She had leaned forwards and slightly sideways, apparently to shield her actions from Rachel. Without turning her head she was slowly and repeatedly shaking her mobile up and down behind her back.

Tim stared in puzzlement. His first guess, feeble, but all he could come up with, was that she wanted to express her irritation at his noisy mobile. He switched it off just as she
gave a quick glance in his direction. She raised her eyes in frustration as he did so. He had misread the script.

Realisation dawned. He recalled that a couple of minutes ago Erica had been fiddling with her own mobile. Suppose she had sent him a message that for some reason she wanted to keep from the others? If so it might not be too clever to open it now. There was an obvious alternative.

‘Will you guys excuse me for the moment? I need to pop to the loo. Can I get anybody a drink on the way back?’

‘It’s certainly more sensible to get them on the way back than on the way there,’ jibed Annette. Nobody laughed. Sensing she was over-doing the put-downs she attempted a more friendly tone: ‘Thanks Tim, we all seem to be ok for now.’ The effort proved too much and she added, ‘you seem to have timed your round rather well as far as your wallet’s concerned.’

Tim got to his feet. He hesitated, searching for a quick retort before heading for the gents. It was an unwise delay. He had begun to feel distinctly queasy. His gallop across central London had churned up several pints of beer, a couple of glasses of wine and a profoundly spicy chicken vindaloo. The effort of coping with the women had further bamboozled him. The gas was massing in his stomach. Control had passed from his brain to his baser self. It was either a belch or a fart. He prayed for the former.

As he battled with nausea he managed a befuddled smile to his colleagues. Bemused they stared blankly back.

There are moments when a belch can speak louder and more meaningfully than words. Tim surrendered to the moment.

Timing is all.

He let rip massively. And then again.

Rachel stared at him as though she had just received definitive proof that he was a moron. Annette’s face was a mask of rigidity as she struggled not to react, Erica was laughing albeit with a hint of disapproval and Aisha, her lips parted in a faint smile, stared at him in wondrous disbelief. Surveying
the effects of his gaseous interjection Tim decided that it would be a good idea to go missing. As he made his speedy exit he blurted an apology of extravagant insincerity.

No longer merely a convenient alibi, the trip to the loo had become an urgent necessity.
Oh Lord, give us relief!

Once in a toilet cubicle he was comprehensively sick and soon felt much better for it. Within a few minutes he had recovered sufficiently to check his messages. The top one read: ‘See you after twelve tonight. My room. Be there!’

He breathed the sigh of a man for whom affairs, having for some time been adverse, had at last taken a turn for the better. He decided not to return to his colleagues. If he was in for an all-nighter he would need a kip first. He texted Erica, asking her to explain to the others that he was too embarrassed to return. They might just buy that. He tapped out his message and then leant back on the pot, happy with the thought of what lay ahead.

Shortly before mid-night he made his way across the few blocks between his room and Erica’s. He felt refreshed after a rest and shower. He stopped to pick up a bottle of champagne from a local pub. Take-away booze of any kind is nearly always more expensive in pubs than elsewhere, except in the bars of posh hotels but he was not about to mess around for the sake of saving a few quid. He was eager to get to Erica. The image of her vibrant body and the depthless blue light of her eyes shimmered in his mind. It wasn’t just the sex he was looking forward to. Now that he lived alone he missed the emotional warmth and polymorphous closeness that he once could take for granted. Or so he had assumed. He could almost smell the scent of Erica’s lean body. As he quickened his step his cock began to move in synchronicity with the swinging bottle of champagne. His heart beat faster… faster…