Tim Connor Hits Trouble (23 page)

It felt odd to be simultaneously complimented and chastised. Aisha’s feelings seemed conflicted. But if she did want to talk he would listen. He’d try to show some sensitivity. ‘Aisha you’ve listened to me and I trust you. You can trust me, I promise. Maybe we should agree that this conversation is in total confidence?’

‘I do agree but you haven’t actually said very much in confidence to me yet. You said you were hurt about the break-up of your relationship, but believe it or not that is fairly obvious, especially from the way you were looking at your wife at the party.

‘Was it that obvious?’

Tim shifted uncomfortably as the conversation swung back to him. Almost on auto-cue he came up with a diversion.

‘Where the hell is Henry? There’s a man who really has problems, and they could get worse given his Attila the Hun tendencies.’

‘Tim, let’s deal with Henry when he arrives. I was just going to say that to me, Gina looked as though she’s still very fond of you. And she also seemed quite sad. You said she blames you for your break-up. Maybe she simply knew that emotionally she could not live with you after what had happened, whatever that was exactly; ‘more in sorrow than in anger’ as they say. That might explain why she found someone else so soon. Anyway, do you blame yourself?’

Tim was caught by the directness of the question. There was nothing for it but to flee into a moral abstraction. ‘Blame isn’t a very sophisticated concept. We live in an age of moral ambiguity.’

‘Tim, that may be true but it doesn’t answer the question. I think you’re indulging in what the shrinks call ‘avoidance.’

‘Are you asking if it’s my fault?’

‘That’s not quite the same question but…’

‘Yes, I had an affair.’

‘And obviously she found out.’

‘Not exactly; she never had proof and I never really admitted to it.’

‘Should you have done?’

‘Maybe, probably… Yes.’

‘If she knew or believed that you lied, maybe that was more the issue for her than the infidelity.’

‘It could be. Anyway, I think it’s too late now. As I said, she’s found someone else. They’re living together in our old place as it happens.’ The thought reawoke his sense of loss and regret. He found himself reaching for some sort of self-justification. ‘Maybe very occasionally dishonesty is justifiable in a relationship? Men have to deal with contradiction, you know. Most of them really want a decent home life and to be decent themselves but many – probably more than you think also succumb to the temptation of instinctual attraction. The two things don’t gel well at all.’

‘What makes you think it’s so different for women? Most of us have to decide between loyalty and desire at some point in our lives. Anyway, the truth is the only fair basis on which people can decide how to relate to each other. At least you seem to have got some way to telling Gina the truth. Most lies are attempts to deceive others into doing or thinking something that they otherwise wouldn’t so that the liar can gain some advantage, usually at the expense of the victim of the lie.’

‘That’s a very dispassionate and analytical way of looking at it. I’m not sure all lies are so calculated. Aren’t they often the bastard child of passion? Anyway I bet you’re glad that you have a stable marriage even if it’s not perfect.’ He was shifting the spotlight again.

‘Perfect it isn’t.’

‘Tim gave Aisha a sharply quizzical glance.’

‘It looked pretty good to me.’

‘All that glitters… Lots of marriages look good from the outside. And to be honest I have a lot to be thankful for but…’

Tim waited.

‘But I believe that I have the same problem with Waqar that your wife had with you.’

‘Dishonesty?’

‘Yes that, but firstly infidelity.’

‘God! I’m surprised. Are you sure? I mean, you’d think he’d realise how lucky he is. I mean…’

‘Thanks. That’s very kind of you. He does treat me very well as he sees it. But he doesn’t appreciate how much I’ve changed. He doesn’t know how to react to it. He’s quite a bit older than me and even now he ‘daddies’ me, treats me as his ‘darling princess.’ But that doesn’t stop him having an affair in London. Two friends have separately warned me about it, so I’m pretty sure it’s happening. Maybe he gets his real kicks down there. Sometimes it feels as if I’m just for decoration and status. Like the house, something to show off.’

‘How long have you known about it?’

‘Several months, almost a year.’

‘I see,’ Tim was pensive for a moment. ‘You must have felt badly let down at times, quite isolated, lonely.’

‘Yes,’ Aisha looked vulnerable. ‘As we’re friends and you’ve told me something about your personal life, maybe I should confide something else to you.’

‘Of course you can, if it will help. You can trust me. I swear to secrecy.’

Aisha came straight to the point.

‘I have been lonely and as a result I’ve drifted into a friendship that may be unwise but it’s not an affair. And I do mean
not
an affair.’

Tim hid his surprise.

‘I’ve been seeing quite a lot of Howard Swankie.’

He could no longer hide his surprise.

‘You cannot be serious.’ Tim’s effort at empathy was under serious duress.

‘What do you mean, I cannot be serious?’

‘I mean, Swankie! He’s got as much charisma as a
half-cooked
kipper – and that comparison could make me unpopular with kippers.’

Tim frequently made the mistake of underestimating the attractiveness and sex appeal of other men. Ostrich like, because he couldn’t see it, he assumed it wasn’t there. But Swankie? Aisha put him right.

‘Don’t be so sure, Tim. Actually he’s quite attractive in a mature, worldly kind of way. And he’s intelligent, of course. He knows an awful lot about the education system and I find that quite helpful. Anyway I seem to go for older men: in love and in friendship.’

‘That counts me out then, I guess.’ The words were out before he could stop himself.

Aisha gave Tim a long look, edged with wistfulness but her response was reluctantly non-negotiable. ‘Tim you have enormous charm despite your self-consciously rough ways and I like you very much but I haven’t ever counted you in. How could I? The potential for personal and professional chaos if you and I got involved makes it unthinkable. So for me it has been unthinkable. I like and trust you as a friend. I assumed that was the way you thought about me.’

Few phrases are less welcome to the lusty male than ‘
I like and trust you as a friend
’ followed as they usually are by ‘
but not in a sexual way
.’

Aisha’s remarks disturbed more than Tim’s macho pride. Semi-reconstructed romantic that he was, he felt a sense of sadness and regret for what would never be. But he knew that Aisha was right, that they had to settle for friendship. Besides, he had begun to believe he was falling in love with Erica. He had told her so even if they had not translated words spoken in passion into their everyday relationship. If that wasn’t sufficient complication, his emotions were still raw and unsettled after the break-up of his marriage.

He suddenly realised that this moment might be the closest he and Aisha ever came to each other, as intimate as they would ever be. He wanted them to share and realise it fully. Words would not do it. He reached across the table and gently held her slim vulnerable wrists, kissing her hands with slow intensity. There was no resistance. She leaned
forward, brown eyes wide and softly shining. She was so close to him he could see the grain and sheen of her skin and feel her breath on his face.

‘I understand. Just one request, then,’ he whispered.

‘What’s that?’

‘A kiss.’

‘Tim…’

‘Please, a forever kiss.’

‘Ok, just one kiss.’

‘On the lips?’

‘One kiss only.’

Finally, after the long kiss goodbye she slipped her wrists from his hands.

‘Aisha,’ Tim began.

She put a finger to his lips.

‘Tim… in some other lifetime. But in this world and for now, I can’t.’

Tim leaned back in his chair. He felt slightly dazed, as though lost in some half-remembered dream, engulfed by… As his focus returned he found himself addressing the banal topic of Swankie.

‘So… so the Swankie thing then, is it sorted now? It sounds like he misunderstood what it meant to you. As long as you don’t…’

Aisha anticipated where Tim was going. ‘No, there’s no chance of that happening. And there never was. I wasn’t even tempted when he was trying to sweep me off my feet by being so helpful and, well… flattering, I suppose. I guess I was naïve about
his
intentions but believe me I never had any intentions myself, beyond benefiting from his supposed professional know-how.’

‘Thank God for that, or whoever’s up there. Swankie is an oily toe-rag as far as I’m concerned.’

‘Tim, where do you get your language from? Stop judging everything on the basis of competitive egos. We can dismiss the Swankie-Connor contest as a non-score draw watched by a crowd of nil! It’s not happening.’

Tim laughed, despite being cut down to size. He enjoyed the rare occasions when Aisha’s calm broke and she gave vent to her feelings.

‘Aisha I’m concerned about you, not him. That’s what matters really although I can’t deny I’m glad that Swankie has not had his wicked way.’

‘Well he hasn’t. Period.’

Tim finally levered his ego aside and focused again on Aisha’s marital situation.

‘That does make it simpler in terms of sorting things out with Waqar. I suppose by now you’ve begun to talk to him about some of this, including your suspicions of what he’s up to.’

Aisha looked flustered and slightly embarrassed.

‘No, no, not yet. There’s a lot to consider, Ali for instance. And I’ve just started at Wash. Look Tim absolutely nothing happened with Professor Swankie but Waqar is incredibly possessive.’ She looked defensively at Tim. ‘I know what you’re going to say.’

‘Honesty you mean? Practising what you preach?’ He smiled sympathetically. ‘You make your own judgements, Aisha. If it was such a non-event you might well be right not to mention it. It’s a complicated life,’ he added, shrugging his shoulders.

He checked his watch. ‘I’ll tell you something else for free. I don’t think we’re going to see Henry tonight. I better call him now. He’s probably still at home.’

He got Annette on the phone. Apparently Henry was asleep in front of the television and had been for the last couple of hours. Annette concluded the conversation by hinting that Tim might consider letting out a room to Henry in his recently acquired house. Tim opted to treat that suggestion as a joke. But it nagged in his mind. He wouldn’t see Henry homeless, but the thought of sharing a house with him was alarming. Why was he always so drawn to irretrievably disastrous characters? Perhaps it was because he was one himself: a confederacy of the damned. He better be
careful that he didn’t ditch his own life into the pits. One seriously mistaken move and he was right in the middle of it.

At least Henry had not made a wild gut response to his sacking – not yet. Ironically he had cause to be grateful to Henry. His absence at the pub had completely changed the dynamics of the evening, creating a vacuum into which Tim and Aisha had poured their own pent-up emotions. In an hour or so they had slipped from a friendly professional relationship into closer personal intimacy. Admittedly it had to be of the confessional rather than the romantic kind but… Tim blanked out the latter possibility. Not that he was un-attracted to Aisha but the transpontine lunacy of doing anything about it made him feel almost giddy. He wouldn’t, of course, not in this lifetime.

Tim welcomed the arrival of Easter as dry earth welcomes rain. Not that Easter offered the prospect of a complete break from work, but a few weeks without teaching flexed up his time. He intended to catch up with family and friends, taking student assignments and the rest of work on his travels. Inconveniently his teaching load had been topped up with two modules in which he was not a specialist and this was an opportunity to get more than one lecture ahead of his students. For a brief period he could do so where and when he wanted. The break changed the time-space equation.

He also hoped to make more progress with his own writing. Fortunately he wrote best late at night or in the early hours of the morning – time stolen from sleep. When things were going well or when he had a publisher’s deadline to meet the late nights would close up on the early mornings. He could be half off his head with exhaustion. In his scale of priorities it was worth it. But there was a cost.

As he contemplated his personal life, it seemed under
pressure from all sides. There were moments when he wished he’d carved out a simpler existence but that option was now so far beyond the blue it was not worth thinking about. Far from being in control of his life he often felt he was the object rather than the author of events. Take Naylor for instance, self-confessed arsehole that he was. Buying a place next door to him was sheer bad luck. Why couldn’t he have landed next to some kindly old lady eager to mother him: falling over herself to take in his washing and regularly passing home-made puddings over the fence? Instead he’d got Naylor, spoiling for trouble and hurling insults. Still, though he detested Naylor as a manifestation of humanity, a boil on life’s backside, he couldn’t help admiring a vocabulary richly vulgar enough to challenge his own best efforts. He had to concede that the East End, where Naylor was misconceived produced argot as vividly expressive as the North, serving the same good purpose of rude humour and even ruder insult. Still, he was relieved that for the moment he seemed to have silenced his troublesome neighbour.

And then there was Henry, not so much a disaster waiting to happen as someone stuck on disaster repeat. He feared that, sacked or not, Henry’s potential for chaos still had much to offer. It was a dizzying thought that Henry’s anarchic behaviour might attain even more vertiginous heights, that new pinnacles might yet be achieved. Even in a profession notorious for eccentrics and assorted escapees from ‘the real world’ there could be few to compete with Henry. He was a throwback to an earlier age – which one Tim wasn’t sure, the early nutcracker time perhaps, or middle madcap-flutter period. Still, his sympathies were squarely with Henry rather than his critics. He felt driven by some perverse aesthetic to side with the stimulating and entertaining, against the dull and punctilious. If there were a battle to be joined over Henry’s sacking he was with the old man. That, he realised, would not gain him any career brownie points. It wasn’t even a question of principle over self-interest. He just didn’t want to see Henry blown away
by the system and the farts that fuelled it. Even so he had no desire to join his friend in some grand but futile gesture. He was in no mood to put his hard-earned job in jeopardy, unless some terrible issue of principle forced him to. He was not looking for a heroic conflict and hoped one wouldn’t find him.

Yet, there were times when Tim wondered whether he was becoming as disaster-prone as Henry. There was plenty of scope in his life for further chaos, most of which centred on his relationships with women. After his conversation with Aisha in the pub he realised that far from living a cosseted life, hers was as difficult and troubled as his own. He now fantasised himself as her minder, guided by friendship, not passion. Was he kidding himself? Probably. But friendship with her was all he could or should permit himself or – and this was the protective bit, offer her. He had enough on his hands with his existing romantic relationships: Gina, now past (probably) and, Erica, still unfolding - hopefully.
Torn between two lovers, acting like a fool
. He corrected himself. He had only one lover, having been red carded by Gina, not to mention his refusal of a further dalliance with Georgie. He wasn’t even coping with the one lover he did have. His relationship with Erica seemed marooned in a cul-de-sac of erotica. Nice if you can get it, but limited solace to the bleeding heart. They did connect emotionally from time to time but these moments slipped away even as he tried to hold them. Erica seemed to draw back – towards Rachel he guessed. He was determined that they should talk things through over the Easter break. He would try to persuade her to join him on part of his travels. The most serious issue though did not lie with the gorgeous women. It lay with himself and his child.

His life beyond Wash was as demanding and complicated as his life in Wash. He had to get a grip on things. ‘Get a grip’: a deceptively simple proposition. The separation from Maria had been tough for both of them. He was still unsure how well he was handling things. Perhaps his struggle
to maintain a strong relationship with her was selfish - a failure to accept that he had forfeited his right to belong. He might even be an encumbrance, getting in the way of her adapting to a new life. Her welfare was what mattered. But he couldn’t help his own emotions. What would she think of him in ten or twenty years’ time? Would she think much about him at all? The best he could do was to keep making the long and sometimes apparently futile trips across the country. If nothing else his efforts would be on the record. After all, had he not tried?

His problems did not stop with Maria. Even with a battery of support, his mother was barely coping in her house. He planned to check out yet more care homes. He owed it to Teresa to get that right.

He decided he would plan most of the break around Maria and his mother. Admittedly the idea of spending an extended chunk of time with his daughter was not entirely his own. It was Gina who had initially suggested that he and Maria went on a holiday together. She pointed out that in over six months Maria had spent only three weekends with him in Wash. She added dryly that on one of these, she herself had brought Maria over and done most of the looking after. Tim had to concede these sparse but telling facts, but insisted that it was always his intention to spend time with Maria over Easter. But he realised that taking off with her for a week or more, as Gina suggested would require much more organising than the two or three days he had envisaged. Gina’s comment that some people arrange their whole lives around their children came as a bit of a stunner.
Absolute beginner
.

Gina also weighed in with a suggestion for the Whitetown leg of his trip. At six years of age Maria had still not met Tim’s mother. He explained this to himself as a matter of convenience: it was easier to leave Maria with Gina’s sister or with friends rather than put her through a tedious five hundred mile round trip. But he began uneasily to wonder whether he was kidding himself, rationalising
away an unconscious anxiety that his mother might react in a racist way to her grand-daughter. And was indulging this anxiety also racist?
Let he who is without guilt cast the first stone
. Even well into the twenty first century there was still much low key but deep-rooted, unearthed racial prejudice across the country and the North West was no exception. His mother shared in it. Was he genuinely protecting his daughter from any hint of rejection and seeking to avoid pointless distress to his mother or covertly endorsing prejudice – perhaps even sharing in it?

Gina cut through the double-think and prevarication by pointing out that if Maria never saw her grandmother she would eventually come to see it as explicable, only in terms of avoidance and rejection, in short, as racism. Given Teresa’s parlous state of physical and mental health they should deal with the situation quickly. Gina believed that Teresa would rise to the occasion. There was a promising precedent. Teresa had soon come to terms with Gina’s own skin colour by insisting that she ‘must be prone to catch the sun.’ Bizarre as this mis-observation was it seemed to satisfy Teresa, allowing her to avoid confronting her prejudice whilst accepting Gina. This was not quite a conversion to anti-racism or cultural pluralism, but there the matter rested.

Appreciating that her reshaping of Tim’s plans put greater demands on his parenting skills and stamina than he was used to, Gina offered a sweetener. She would link up with them for the Whitetown leg of their ‘grand tour’ and take Maria back with her after the three of them had visited Teresa. Tim swiftly agreed. He suggested that Gina join them in Moss Vale, a small village between Birmingham and Coventry where he and Gina had often stayed with their friends, Charlie and Rose. He intended to head there once he had picked up Maria in Peyton.

Released for the moment from academic routine, he drove from Wash across country in good spirits. He was
looking forward to the next couple of weeks despite the challenges. Skirting London without any problems, in the early summer sunshine even the A13 seemed less dowdy than usual. Peyton itself, a long, lateral straggle on the map, would never prompt the description of attractive let alone picaresque but for him it triggered a satisfying feeling of arrival just by being there.

He parked as usual on the road outside the house even though the drive was empty. He guessed that Rupert had gone out to make it easier for them to load his car for the trip. As he walked towards the house he noticed Maria’s face pressed against the front room window. It quickly disappeared as she spotted him. ‘Good sign,’ he thought, ‘it looks like she’s up for it.’ He knocked out a cheerful rhythm on the door. Maria opened it.

‘Hi Dad, we’re going on a holiday in the car aren’t we? Mummy says I’m to make sure you drive carefully.’ Suddenly she looked and sounded bigger, a small child rather than an infant, flourishing newly discovered self-confidence. He even sensed a hint of calculated reserve in the hug she gave him; she was restoring her favours provisional on his good behaviour. Perhaps he was imagining all this, projecting his insecurities onto her innocent actions.

Gina stayed in the background as father and daughter re-engaged. When she did embrace him he thought he felt renewed warmth, probably in appreciation of the effort he was making.

As she stepped away he kept his hands on her waist.

‘Do you miss me, then?’

‘Be fair, Tim,’ she said quietly, glancing at Maria, ‘this is not about you and me.’

He lifted his shoulders in reluctant acceptance. Stepping back from Gina, he turned to Maria.

‘Come on young lady, it’s time to hit the hard nosed high-way.’

‘Don’t be silly Dad, the high-way hasn’t got a nose.’

‘True enough. Time to go anyway. I’ll take your big bag and you take the little one with your playthings and reading books. Ready, then? Kiss Mummy good- bye.’

Gina waved them off from the roadside.

His drive across country from Wash had taken over three hours and Tim was glad that the journey from Peyton to Moss Vale was barely a couple more. Maria announced that she was ‘going to do what mummy said and behave really nicely.’ After all, as she pointed out she was ‘actually six now.’ As good as her word, she was no trouble. In fact for a time her chirpy remarks about the passing countryside and travellers in other vehicles helped his concentration. At one point they had a discussion about whether men or women are the better drivers, concluding that women probably drove more carefully and men more quickly. Showing early feminist potential Maria added that she thought women could drive more quickly if they wanted to, but they were ‘too sensible to take silly risks.’

Maria’s patter began to slow down and then stopped after about an hour. The sound of gentle and intermittently emphatic snoring confirmed that she had fallen asleep. He had intended to stop at the Watford Gap so that they could have a snack. Deciding against waking her, he pulled into the service station anyway. He stretched himself, drank some bottled water and made a call to Charlie and Rose confirming the approximate time of their arrival.

As he restarted the car Maria awoke.

‘Where are we, Dad?’

‘We’re just leaving The Watford Gap. It’s about half-way to where we’re going.’

‘That’s funny.’

‘What’s funny?’

‘Why is it called a gap?’

‘There’s probably a gap in some hills near here.’

‘Near Watford?’

Tim thought for a moment.

‘Good question. As it happens we’re not that near the town of Watford which is quite close to London.’

‘So why is it called Watford?’

Despite having passed through it innumerable times, Tim had suddenly become conscious of his total ignorance of how the Watford Gap, a good fifty miles north of Watford, had got its name. He reached for an escape.

‘Maria, angel, we’ll look it up on Google later. Maybe there’s another Watford.’

‘It doesn’t matter Daddy,’ Maria sounded sleepy again.

Moss Vale lies off the stretch of motorway that joins the M1 to the M6 – about halfway between the two. Fortunately for its inhabitants the village is sufficiently far from the motorway to allow them to ignore it other than in matters of commuting and supply. Once off the motorway, the approach to the village continues from the south-east by narrow roads, some without pavements, and heavily wooded on either side. Coming into a clearing of farmland the motorist dips into a broad, shallow valley where the village suddenly appears. Moss Vale is idyllic in a way that increasingly few English villages still are, lashed as much of the countryside is by concrete.

They had scarcely finished parking when Charlie and Rose were out of the house ready to welcome them. Charlie was a powerful, six-foot, sixteen stone. Next to him Tim looked almost skinny. Rose was about half Charlie’s weight and almost a foot smaller. Both of them worked as social workers in Birmingham.

Tim got out of the car to receive his friends’ usual warm greetings. Their attention though was focused on Maria who they hadn’t seen for over two years. The star of the occasion was still half asleep and not quite up to the fuss. Lifted out of the back of the car by her dad and passed from the arms of Charlie to Rose she came over grumpily shy and reluctant.