Tim Connor Hits Trouble (21 page)

Erica welcomed him with a wide grin and the huge hug he had been looking forward to. He tossed the champagne onto a chair and as they hugged again swung her off her feet.

‘Put me down macho man, you’ll give yourself a hernia
just where you don’t want it. That’s if you haven’t already sprung one through mega-belch strain. That was really pushing the limit.’

‘Erica, Petaldust, I haven’t come here to discuss my belches.’ He returned her gently to the floor. ‘But you’re right, it would be a pity to put myself out of action.’

‘And what action are you referring to?’ She teased him.

‘Well I assume you haven’t invited me here to give me lessons in social etiquette.’

‘No, not now perhaps, but I might give you a few tips some other time. You are a bit of an uncut diamond.’

Tim looked slightly taken aback and she added hastily, ‘But a diamond nevertheless.’

‘I thought you liked a bit of rough.’

‘Tim don’t be so crass. I’m not referring to your performance in the sack. It’s your behaviour in public that lacks, how can I put it? A certain finesse.’

Things were not quite going as Tim had anticipated. He felt a stab of concern. He attempted to get things back on course. ‘Let’s pop the champagne cork and relax a bit.’ He glanced around the sparsely furnished room. ‘In the absence of any decent seats, why don’t we drink it in bed?’

‘Tim you’re about as subtle as an air-raid sometimes? Ok, but I’m afraid I don’t have any decent glasses. We’ll have to drink it from the bottle. And perhaps we can talk for a while before we have sex. Maybe it’s the atmosphere of this room or lack of it but I feel a bit disconnected just now.’

Tim’s impulse was to respond defensively to Erica’s mood. He was about to point out that their late night liaison was her idea when it flashed across his mind to take her remark seriously. He remembered that it was one of Gina’s complaints that he rarely listened properly to her.

‘Of course we can talk. We probably don’t do enough talking anyway. We’re both so busy that it’s not surprising we get out of touch.’

‘Thanks Tim, I just needed to slow you down a little. Sometimes you come at me like an express train. Anyway
why don’t we get into bed? It’s not much fun standing here gaping at each other.’

Shrugging off an impulse to object to Erica’s mechanistic imagery of him, Tim tried to stick with a sensitive approach. Perhaps he had misinterpreted her message on his mobile although it had read like a straight ‘come on’ to him. Maybe his oafish exit had caused her to change her mind. He ought to save such spectaculars for the lads. Or maybe drop them altogether. He did tend to regress under the influence. And he had missed an opportunity to get on more friendly terms with Rachel and Annette – something Erica wanted. Of course he had been provoked - especially by Annette. But the belch was unfortunate. It wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t already been more than half pissed. Farting would have been even worse. Yet he had heard that women farted amongst themselves. Maybe farting was a form of same-sex bonding, but for some reason taboo in mixed sex situations. He reflected that natural though it was it was not particularly attractive.

‘Tim what are you thinking about?’

‘Nothing, Darling. I’m just sorry I seem to have upset you.’

‘Well I’m not upset now,’ replied Erica, still sounding slightly irritated. ‘Let’s get undressed.’

Usually they undressed for sex by hurling themselves at each other and tearing off each other’s clothes at top speed. The exceptions were when Erica was in one of her more choreographical moods. This time they undressed separately.

Once they were in bed things briefly took a turn for the better. The bed was a single one and quite cold, encouraging a swift warm-up clinch. Tension eased as their bodies closed together. Tim rubbed his chest against Erica’s breasts, her nipples stiffening in response. He was quickly erect. He remembered his promise ‘to talk first.’ His balls danced in protest as he made the effort to do so.

‘Erica, what shall we talk about, is there anything you want us to discuss?’

To his chagrin Erica exploded with laughter. He preferred it when people laughed when he intended to be funny. Erica had wanted to talk and he had offered to do so. What could be more reasonable than that?

‘Tim this isn’t an academic seminar.’ She lent back, now relaxed, smiling into his face. ‘Maybe this isn’t the best time for a heart to heart after all. I’m feeling horny again myself. It’ll be fine if you just carry on as usual.’

Released from the coils of virtue, he was about to do just that.

There was a loud staccato knock on the bedroom door.

They gripped each other in alarm.

‘Shush,’ whispered Erica, ‘it’s bound to be Rachel.’

‘Holy smoke and sunny Jesus! You’re kidding.’

‘Shush, she’ll hear you.’

A second knock rang out.

They remained silent.

At knock number three Erica decided that she had no alternative but to concede she was in the room.

‘Rachel, is that you? I was asleep. Listen, I don’t feel too well. I need some kip. We can talk in the morning.’ As a sweeter she added, ‘we can have breakfast together.’

‘What a coincidence,’ there was irony in Rachel’s voice, ‘I don’t feel well either. I was going to ask you for a couple of stomach settlers.’

‘Let me see if I have any.’

After a credible pause she announced, ‘Rachel I’m sorry I didn’t bring any.’

‘I happened to notice you had a packet in your handbag. I’m coming in.’

Her next knock loudly underlined her intention.

Erica was running out of ideas.

Realising that Rachel had no intention of retreating, Tim decided to register a protest.

His inhibitions lowered by his earlier breaching of polite custom, he ripped off a top range fart.

‘Erica, there’s no need for that,’ Rachel remonstrated.

‘Don’t be disgusting, Rachel, it wasn’t me.’

There was a moment of silence from outside the door.

‘Then who was it? Are you being molested? Open the door or I’ll have to call security. For all I know some man could be holding a knife to your throat.’

‘Of course I’m not being molested. I would have told you if I was. It’s Tim.’

There was a further, longer moment of silence.

‘Tim! What a surprise. Is the man completely incontinent? Are there any of his orifices over which he has the slightest control? I’m still coming in.’

‘Rachel, he’s naked.’

‘Tell him to put his trousers on,’ shouted Rachel.

Having announced himself, Tim now joined battle.

‘I refuse to be ordered to put my trousers on. Enter at your peril.’ His resistance had no effect on Rachel but annoyed Erica.

‘Tim, this is not funny. Please put your trousers on. I’m going to let Rachel in. We’ve got to stop this fiasco. Half the block is probably listening in.’

Tim sensed that the balance of power in their tripartite struggle had shifted. He pulled his trousers and shirt on and with a look of determination sat on the only chair in the room. It was to prove a meagre tactic.

Another thunderous knock sounded out.

Erica hastened to open the door. Rachel immediately walked over to the bed and sat on it. Without a struggle Tim had conceded the prime territory.

Once inside and in strategic control, Rachel’s tone abruptly changed.

‘Look, I’m sorry you guys. I just, I had to come up here. Erica understands. Tim, I apologise, I can’t explain to you.’

Disconcerted by Rachel’s sudden show of vulnerability, Tim was unsure how to respond. He looked across at Erica for some kind of indication.

Erica was silent for a moment, glancing from one to the other. Finally her gaze settled on Tim.

‘Tim, the three of us can’t spend the night here. I need to see what’s wrong with Rachel.’ She hesitated for a moment. ‘Would you mind leaving us now and I’ll call you early tomorrow morning?’

He looked at the two women and reluctantly decided he had no option but to retreat. There was no way that Rachel was leaving. And he certainly wasn’t going to embark on a threesome. Sometimes it just isn’t your day. He quickly finished dressing. Whatever was going through Erica’s mind, her embrace as he left was full-blooded. But looking into her face for reassurance he saw only the image of his own confusion.
What the fuck is going on?

Back in his own room he threw off his clothes and stumbled naked into bed. Through half-sleep he watched as Erica and Rachel drifted dancing and shouting, appearing and disappearing… Erica seemed to beckon him on. Stumbling after them, he fell.

Howard Swankie was feeling faintly apprehensive as he finished off his breakfast of two lightly poached eggs and a single vegetarian sausage, washed down as always with a cup of decaffeinated tea. The Vice-Chancellor, Geoffrey Broome had set up a one-to-one meeting with him without giving any indication of what it was about. Not that he expected Geoffrey to send him an agenda for a short notice, unscheduled meeting but to be left completely in the dark seemed inconsiderate of his senior colleague. Reluctantly he acknowledged to himself that his well-practised persona of calm competence had been ruffled. It was particularly odd that the message had come via the Vice-Chancellor’s office rather than through a personal phone-call. He had begun to think of himself as part of Geoffrey’s trusted inner-circle yet this almost looked like a deliberate exercise in distance keeping. He couldn’t help worrying if he had unwittingly made a mistake of some kind. Mentally ticking through recent events, he came up with nothing. Almost nothing. There was one matter on which he might be vulnerable
but was virtually certain that he had safely covered his tracks. More likely the problem was something to do with the Social Science Department, his Achilles heal. The other five departments in the faculty were out-performing on all indices but the social scientists were throwing up one problem after another. He winced as he thought of Henry Jones. If there was one person capable of acting as his nemesis it was that antiquated poltroon!

He reached absently for the teapot to pour himself a second or was it a third cup of tea. His wife Heather saved him the bother. As usual when Howard seemed preoccupied she hovered in discreet attendance.

‘Let me pour for you, Darling.’

She glanced at him as she did so, weighing up whether to keep quiet or attempt to reassure him. With years of practice she had become expert in reading her husband’s moods but she was uncertain how to respond to the present one. It was inconsiderate of the Vice-Chancellor to leave matters so opaque.

‘I’m sure there’s no need to worry Howard. Your faculty has just about the best set of metrics in the university. And Geoffrey has said on more than one occasion that he would back you for promotion if you decided to apply to a larger institution. I’m inclined to think it will be good news of some sort. Who knows he may have called you in to tell you that you’ve been head-hunted.’ She smiled, cheered by her own flimsy optimism.

She waited for his reaction. Despite their chequered history as partners, mainly due to Howard’s extra-marital affairs, they had learned to work as a team both professionally and socially. As they progressed and prospered together a solid respect and low-key affection had developed between them. She genuinely supported Howard’s career ambitions, although she was aware that by doing so she was also helping her own. The pragmatism of their current relationship bore little resemblance to the passion of their early days but she had no desire to revisit the instability
of that time. It didn’t worry her in the least that she couldn’t remember when they last had sex, although she did sometimes wonder how Howard felt about it or rather the lack of it.

Swankie’s mood lifted slightly in response to his wife’s reassuring tone.

‘You may well be right. But I don’t like it when things are left vague. It begins to niggle not knowing what’s going on.’

‘Well you’ll know shortly.’ She glanced at the kitchen clock. ‘It’s time you went. Let me help you put on your jacket.’

She took his jacket from the back of an empty chair and opened it out for him to slip his arms into. He shrugged it onto his shoulders and turning round kissed her lightly on the cheek.

‘What would I do without you, my love?’ he whispered.

By the time Howard Swankie arrived at the university he had just about coaxed himself into a clear, business-like frame of mind. He prided himself that he had developed the confidence and discipline to cope with whatever might arise. In his private fantasies he imagined himself as a kind of academic sharpshooter – unfazed whatever the challenge. Although he preferred to keep it quiet he liked cowboy movies especially those starring Clint Eastwood, whom he considered he resembled in implacable character if not in physical stature. However, he had found it embarrassing to watch Eastwood’s movies at the cinema where he might bump into students. DVDs at least allowed him to indulge his taste in private, although he rarely managed to persuade Heather to join him. That was her loss: he was convinced that the great man’s acting talents were grossly underrated.

He recalled his favourite Eastwood quote as he nonchalantly triggered his car key instantly snapping the doors shut:
In this life there are those with loaded guns and those who dig
. He, Howard Swankie, was the man with the loaded gun or loaded brain, not to push the parallel too far. Soon, maybe today even, he would deliver justice to Henry Jones. Perhaps that was what the meeting was about.

He strode purposefully into the Vice-Chancellors office complex and knocked firmly on his secretary’s office door. She promptly opened it.

‘Good morning, Professor Swankie, the Vice-Chancellor is expecting you. He said you should go straight in.’

‘Thank you.’

Swankie walked briskly across the room and knocked on his boss’s door, more discretely this time. He waited for a few moments. He was unsure whether he had heard an invitation to enter. He did so anyway, not wanting to appear hesitant.

Geoffrey Broome rose from behind his office desk to greet him. A tall imposing man in his late fifties, he wore his chief executive status with self-conscious aplomb. As always when they met, Swankie found his attention drawn to Broome’s impressive nose, the size of a Toucan’s beak and the colour of beetroot. Swankie reminded himself not to stare at it.

‘Howard, I’m glad you could make it at such short notice.’ Broome paused for a moment. ‘I need to resolve a couple of tricky issues with you concerning members of your staff. Do take a seat.’ He gestured towards two expensive looking synthetic-leather armchairs set in an alcove at the far end of the room.

Swankie relaxed slightly. It seemed he was not the subject of Broome’s concerns. Broome waited for Swankie to sit down and then, moving past the second chair, remained standing. He gazed ruminatively out of the window, taking his and Swankie’s time. Swankie’s unease stirred again. Broome was a master at signalling his authority with minor nuances of language and behaviour. Just when it was your turn to say your piece, there he was again reversing back into the limelight. Looking up at his senior colleague he waited for him to break the silence. Lowering his eyes Swankie’s attention was caught by a vase of roses on the table between them, the petals compressed together in the style of mass overseas imports. He wondered vaguely if the flowers were
artificial. Resisting an impulse to touch them, instead he spread his hands on his thighs, out of the way. In any case it wasn’t always possible to tell the difference between cheap real and artificial flowers. Perhaps these were some kind of hybrid variety, half real and half plastic. Despite his nervousness he was pleased with this observation. Yes, he was definitely getting the hang of post-modernism.

He wished Broome would get on with things.

Broome turned round, ponderously dramatic, giving Swankie a smile of empty intimacy of the kind that the status conscious sometimes reserve for their senior acolytes. Usually Swankie found Broome’s minor assertions of hierarchical gradation reassuring. They seemed to affirm his-own importance in the scheme of things. Yet on this occasion, uncertain of what might be coming, Broome’s peacockery played on his apprehension.

Sitting down Broome started to speak. ‘The degree classifications from your faculty were good again this year Howard, although not quite so good as last year. In any case congratulations. I don’t doubt that the upward march will be resumed in the near future, preferably next year. I trust you will also manage to increase the number of full-time and full-time equivalent units in your area as indicated in your five year plan.’ He gave another dead-eyed smile.

Swankie nodded a firm assent and waited for Broome to continue.

‘But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about, at least not now. There are more immediate matters to deal with.’ He paused for a second, exhaling audibly. ‘I’m aware that the Social Science Department has been virtually reconstituted in the last year or so and on top of that you are coping with that rather eccentric exchange lecturer… What’s his name? Burper.’

‘Purfect,’ Swankie corrected him, quickly suppressing a smile.

‘Purfect, of course, an odd name for one to forget. These exchanges don’t always work out. Strange types sometimes
turn up. In any case he returns to the States quite soon, so any difficulties associated with him will disappear painlessly. There’s no such easy solution with the other colleagues I’m concerned about, Henry Jones and Tim Connor. Let’s deal with Connor first, as his is the less extreme case I think, though in certain respects more complex.’

Swankie relaxed, now the purpose of the meeting was apparent. It flickered through his mind that he might get more out of the meeting than he had anticipated: not only was Jones’s neck on the line but it looked like Connor might be in trouble too. He had not been much impressed with Connor although he felt he still had some leverage over him, especially as he had not yet completed his probationary year. But for the moment his response was noncommittal. ‘Yes, both are a challenge in different ways. They require quite some managing. As it happens I think they’ve struck up something of a friendship.’

‘Have they indeed. Is this a case of the old corrupting the young? Jones has been a thorn in our side for the past ten years or so, ever since he succumbed to his drink problem. Hopefully he’s the last of a kind, at least in this institution. Our selection processes are more robust these days. And as you know, they have to be. The technical and communication demands of the profession are much greater now than even fifteen or twenty years ago. We can generally filter out types patently unsuitable to the job. Even so, despite our safeguards, I understand from your interim report on him that young Connor might fall into that category.’

‘Dr. Connor isn’t that young, Vice Chancellor. He’s well into his thirties – from memory, probably late thirties.’

‘Really. I don’t wish to discuss his age, Howard. Doubtless he’s old enough to take responsibility for his own actions. In addition to your own not particularly enthusiastic opinion of him, I’ve received a couple of informal comments about him that suggest he may not be fully up to speed with the norms of professional conduct.’

Swankie was still unsure precisely where Broome’s comments
were leading. He was unaware of any serious issue in relation to Connor although he now regretted his own role in appointing him. Connor gave the impression of being slightly disorganised and at times adopted a confrontational manner that had not been apparent at interview and which suggested that in the long run he might be as troublesome as Henry Jones. But these matters could not be construed as misconduct and judging from the summary of student evaluations and peer reviews passed on to him, Connor was otherwise doing a reasonable job. Still, if there was a legitimate opportunity to get rid of him, Swankie was prepared to listen.

‘Perhaps you could tell me what has been said about him and who said it, Geoffrey.’

Broome gave Swankie a measured look. ‘For the moment the possible allegations must definitely remain confidential. It was made by three of his first-year students. It’s unusual for such youngsters to seek me out. I presume they were unaware of the complaints procedure and came straight to the top. These days I don’t keep an open door to students but if they insist on seeing me I will. That’s their right as customers.’

Instinctively Swankie was uneasy at this. Of course students had their rights and much had been done to implement them in recent years, including giving them the opportunity to evaluate teaching staff. But their criticisms were not always well considered or informed. As was sometimes the case with imposed market mechanisms, one group’s freedom could be at the expense of others.

‘And what was the complaint, Geoffrey?’ He leaned forward, intrigued to hear the proposed case against Connor.

‘The students accused Connor of racism although I think they used the wrong term. In effect one of his lectures was apparently critical of multiculturalism.’ Broome assumed a solemn expression. ‘We are a multicultural society, Howard,’ he shook his fist firmly, adding portentously, ‘we are a multicultural university. There can be no suggestion
of, well racism is not perhaps the issue,’ he struggled to find the right word, ending rather weakly, ‘of opposition to, I mean, anti-multiculturalism.’

Swankie waited to hear more, but nothing was immediately forthcoming. On the contrary Broome looked as though he thought little more needed to be said. Swankie found Broome’s blustering performance disconcerting. Racism was a tricky issue on which skewer anyone other than the most blatantly bigoted and, whatever his faults, Connor was certainly not that. All that Swankie knew about Connor suggested that he was strongly anti-racist. It was possible that the real problem was in the students’ mistaken perceptions, apparently adopted by the Vice-Chancellor. Not for the first time Swankie decided that his role should be in guiding the Vice-Chancellor away from making an embarrassing cock-up.

Geoffrey’s strengths lay in running the business and financial side of the university and Swankie had noticed that his grip of social and cultural issues was less secure. Yet perversely it was in these areas that Broome was most outspoken possibly to paper over his limited knowledge or, even worse, unaware of it. His pronouncements tended to be driven by politically correct positions that now shaped the culture of higher education rather than by his own intellectual grasp of matters. Usually his efforts were adequate to meet the expectations of the educational establishment but multiculturalism had become a complex and controversial area. Broome did not seem fully up to speed. It was one thing to support Britain as a multicultural society as both Broome and Connor did, it was quite another to understand the complexities of academic opinion about multicultural theory and policy which, Swankie knew Connor did and Broome apparently didn’t. It was not unusual for some academics and policy wonks to oppose certain multicultural policies arguing that they had the opposite effect to what was intended, separating people rather than bringing them together. It was quite fair to criticise multiculturalism
in that sense and Swankie guessed that Connor had made some allusion to this approach.