Tim Connor Hits Trouble (3 page)

Unconvinced by this piece of bland twaddle, Erica Botham was poised to launch a follow-up question when Howard Swankie interrupted.

‘Thank you Ms. Botham, I think Dr Connor has given us a pretty good impression of where he’s coming from as far as gender is concerned.’ He paused for a moment, fixing Tim with a searching expression.

‘As Chair I want to ask him just one question arising from his earlier comments on political violence. Dr. Connor do you have a view about the use of political violence in mature democracies? When it might be legitimate I mean. I wasn’t quite clear from your earlier comments what your own view is?’

Stinking fish! He’s still trying to catch me out. Best keep playing it straight
.

‘I don’t think political violence is justified in a functioning democracy … By which I mean a society where there is substantial freedom of expression. In various forms of autocracy, it might well be justified.’

‘What about non-violent civil disobedience? Is that ever justified?

‘Again it depends on the regime and the nature and extent of the grievances and repression. I see it as a last resort in democracies but more often justifiable in autocracies. Of course, the protester would have to take …’

‘The consequences …’ Swankie finished the sentence, sounding slightly relieved, Tim thought.

He knew he needed Swankie’s vote but wasn’t prepared
to hang his arse out for it. He assumed the women were a no-no, if not from the start, certainly by now. He had some rapport with the other two men but not much with Swankie. Maybe this was the moment to tilt for his support by showing he could compromise.

‘I’m no brick-thrower, never have been. People have a responsibility as well as a right to negotiate and compromise.’ Keen to secure his integrity he added ‘but I do think individuals and groups also have a right to protest and, of course to self-defence if they are the victims rather than the perpetrators of violence.’

Swankie leant forward again, resting his chin heavily on his right fist. He gave Tim a long look, almost as if for the first time he was taking the idea of appointing him seriously.

‘These are important questions and obviously we could all spend a long time on them. However, I think we’ve covered sufficient ground.’

He leaned back, opening his arms in a concluding gesture, as he addressed Tim directly. ‘We hope to come to a decision within the next half-hour. You’re quite welcome to wait outside if you wish and we’ll let you know the outcome shortly or, if you prefer, Dr. Jones can call you later at home. That’s something I would usually do but I have another pressing engagement late this afternoon.’

Tim preferred to learn his fate sooner rather than later. Waiting for the phone to ring with the result of a job interview was mini-torture undiminished by familiarity. And the moment of rejection never got any better. ‘I’ll wait, if that’s ok.’ He got up, still stiff with tension.

As he turned to leave, Henry Jones went to open the door for him.

‘That’s fine. Please, don’t bother.’

‘It’s no bother.’

Tim caught a whiff of alcohol as he passed Jones. And was that a wink or an involuntary tick? ‘Maybe he knows something I don’t,’ he thought optimistically. ‘Or, maybe he’s just pissed.’

Back in the anteroom he slumped onto the couch. No point sitting there for half-an-hour. He got up and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling Georgian windows. Beyond the new building blocks the countryside rolled fresh and green. His head cleared. As he relaxed, his biological needs temporarily parked, reasserted themselves.

I need to hit the pot. And get a cup of tea and a bun.
He checked his watch. He had twenty minutes max, just about enough time.

Once back in the anteroom pessimism had set in. Aisha Khan seemed a virtual shoo-in, a perfect identikit fit for this job, whereas his own best pitch of ‘rising young star’ was well into its twilight. Not that he believed the job was a ‘PC’ fix – Aisha Khan didn’t give the impression of needing unfair help.

His glum train of thought was broken by the sound of the interview room door opening. He looked up anxiously. Swankie was walking briskly towards him, his hand outstretched. ‘Congratulations Connor, I’m glad to be able to offer you the post. I take it that you still intend to accept.’

Tim was momentarily disoriented by the Dean’s words: life-changing for him. He barely remembered the shake-hands-firmly-to-show-what-a-strong-character-you-are rule as his big, clammy hand closed round Swankie’s soft, manicured one. He confirmed his acceptance with a grateful croak.

‘Excellent. You’ll receive a formal offer in the post during the next few days. Shortly after that Henry Jones will be in touch with you to discuss academic matters. Feel free to contact me if …’ he checked himself, glancing quickly at his watch. ‘So congratulations. You know where to pick up your expenses claim form.’ With another swift handshake, he hurried off.

Tim’s return journey to the station was a good deal pleasanter than his journey out. At this point he couldn’t give a flying fuck how or why he’d got the job. So what if it
was too late for them to re-advertise the post? At least he hadn’t blown his interview. It must have been a 3-2 win for the boys he thought. Thank God he had managed to keep Swankie on side despite their lack of rapport. However it had come about, he was through the door. He felt a stab of concern for Aisha Khan, although he was sure she would get an academic job without the kind of the long wait he had experienced.

He celebrated by ordering a taxi back into town. After a mini pub-crawl he searched out a café where he could indulge in his favourite cream-tea. He wolfed down a plate of scones heavily stacked with cream and black current jam. A second quickly followed, the third he took his time over, savouring the moment. On the way to the station he stopped to knock back a couple of pints.

He spent much of the return journey in the train’s tiny tin-box lavatory, his euphoria surfing waves of nausea and tsunamis of vomit. Not for a moment did he think it wasn’t worth it!

Aisha Khan pressed the engage symbol on her mobile. For a few nervous moments she heard only the crackle of static. Swankie’s cultured voice, straining to connect, broke through. ‘Hello, am I speaking to Ms. Khan?’

‘Yes, is that Professor Swankie?’

‘Good, Swankie here. I’m delighted to be able to offer you a post as a lecturer in the Social Science Department. Can I take it that you accept?’

‘Yes, of course, I’m so delighted. Thank you. I hadn’t quite expected it.’

‘You underestimate yourself. You interviewed exceptionally well. Every member of the panel was most impressed.’

The post-successful-interview phone call is not an equal exchange. Abject gratitude can plunge the newly anointed into spluttering incoherence. Having again expressed her delight, Aisha left it to Swankie to make the running.

‘You’ll shortly receive a formal offer including information
about your salary. You’re fortunate to live locally already – that will save you a lot of trouble, either moving house or commuting.’

‘Yes, it’s amazingly convenient to get the job I want so close to home.’

‘Oh, I should say that in fact we made two appointments today. Dr. Connor is the other successful candidate although …’

‘I’m glad,’ she interjected. ‘… he really seemed to want the job.’

‘Yes. A second post became vacant after a colleague in the faculty received a late job offer – a promotion to another institution. So we’re making a double-appointment. I expect Dr. Jones will want you to come in together at some point. But is there anything you want to ask me?’

Aisha was sure there was but her mind registered a complete blank. ‘Not … not just at the moment, thanks.’

‘Well, given that you live so close by, do come in and see me some time before you start if there is anything you want to discuss. You can make an appointment through my secretary.’

‘Thank you, that’s very helpful.’

‘Not at all. I’m sure you’ll find everyone will be very supportive. We realise this is a big change in your life.’

Swankie continued on another tack. ‘Oh, and, yes, the social scientists along with the rest of the faculty will be having a get-together, a party, just before term begins. You’ll get an invitation to that.’

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’ll really look forward to meeting other colleagues.’

‘Well, congratulations again. As I said, feel free to get in touch with Henry Jones or myself if you have any queries. You’re sure there’s nothing you want to ask now?’

‘No, I don’t think so. Thank you.’

‘Goodbye for now then.’

‘Goodbye.’

‘Yeeeeeeeeeeeees,’ Aisha shouted as she triple-pirouetted
across the grass, brown legs flashing as her pleated skirt whirled waist high.

‘Yeeeeeeeeeeeees… Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh,’ jubilation turned to panic as she tumbled into a nest of nettles.

Brought back to earth she carefully extricated herself.

Who should she share her news with first? With Waqar? Not yet. Best start with Caroline, her best friend and owner of the small pre-school play group that Ali attended. Caroline would share her delight. Caroline had supported her all the way.

Her mobile was still on. She brought up and pressed Caroline’s number.

‘Caroline, hi. Guess what!’

‘What? Tell me. Did you get the job? You didn’t.’

‘Guess.’

‘You did!’

‘Yeah … I’ve just had a phone call offering it me. I turned it down of course.’

‘You’re joking.’

‘You bet I’m joking.’

‘Whowee… Well done, What a genius! Come over. We must celebrate. I’ll buy us something special at that new place in Cathedral Square. You know the one. We went there a couple of weeks ago. I’ll bring Ali with me, it’ll save you having to pick him up. Most of the other kids have already gone home by now. Look, I’ll finish up quickly and see you in about forty-five minutes. Is that good for you?’

‘That’s great, no problem. See you then.’

Aisha made her way back to the road and decided to call Waqar.’

‘Waqar, Darling.’

‘Aisha, petal-dust! How did it go? Have I finally lost my wife to the world of education or are you still all mine?’

‘I’m still all yours but …’ she hesitated slightly. ‘Yep, I got the job.’

‘Fantastic, my brilliant baby.’ Aisha could catch no sign of
ambivalence in Waqar’s voice. Maybe he was on side, after all. He continued to effuse.

‘Look, I’ll get home early tonight. Seven to seven thirty. We need to talk … to celebrate. Make sure Ali is in bed. I’ll bring in something from one of the restaurants so you don’t have to cook…one of your favourites…’

There was a brief pause before he continued in his more familiar, busy man tone.

‘Listen, I have to go now. It looks like there’s been some embezzlement at one of the restaurants and I want to crack it without involving the police. Unfortunately it’s happened at one of our London places. That’s where I am now. Um… I guess seven thirty will be a bit tight, maybe eight o’ clock? Anyway, well done, darling. I’ll phone when I’m on my way back. We’ll talk later. Bye for now then.’

‘Bye, Waqar see you soon, miss you.’ ‘Soon’ was more in hope than expectation.

Typical Waqar; always up to his eyeballs in his own concerns. Softening she decided that maybe she was being unfair. In his own way he cared. Still on a high, she left unacknowledged the whisper of worry about the way their relationship was going.

Caroline and Ali and Caroline’s child Danny were already in Cathedral Square when she arrived. She saw them before they saw her. They were punting an inflated multicoloured ball between them. She paused briefly to watch. Ali doggedly ignoring the drag of his leg brace was just managing to keep up with the others. For a moment he stumbled. Danny rushed to steady him. Caroline moved over, smothering the two four year olds in a giant hug. Sweet Caroline more like a sister than a friend; better than a sister, because there was no sibling or any other kind of rivalry between them.

Caroline was a British-African who still had family in Northern Nigeria and like Aisha, a Muslim. They had met on an Access course some years ago and remained friends since. Aisha had supported Caroline through a fraught
marriage and divorce, since when they had become close confidants. Caroline’s energy and optimism in opening a pre-school play group had been part of Aisha’s inspiration to pursue a career herself. She was glad to be sharing this moment with her.

‘Hi, you guys,’ she announced herself.

‘Aisha!’

‘Mummy!’

The three of them rushed over, almost bundling her to the floor as they bounced into her.

‘Your mum’s a hero, a star, Ali,’ shouted Caroline.

‘I know! Will you buy us an ice cream Mum? Caroline said we had to wait for you.’

They found a table and began their small celebration. The boys were not quite sure why it was a double helpings day but weren’t asking questions. Aisha and Caroline enjoyed a rare bottle of champagne, quashing their residual religious scruples.

‘I’m sure Allah will understand,’ suggested Caroline.

‘I think so,’ replied Aisha who in any case indulged from time to time.

If life wasn’t quite perfect it had definitely taken a leap in the perfect direction.

Once he had recovered from his hangover Tim enjoyed his remaining time at Peyton College. The perennial schadenfreude of some of his colleagues at his struggle to break into higher education evaporated as they adopted the new wisdom that really he was better suited to that sector. Most were pleased for him and most of the few who weren’t pretended to be. In an increasingly competitive and stressful working environment, he was not universally loved but he had made few real enemies.

Some mild speculation hung on about why he had found it so difficult to crack higher education. He was better qualified and published than many successful candidates, although the increasing flood of youthful PhDs onto the job market raised the entry bar year by year. His own opinion was that the problem was mainly an image one: he was too easily labelled as ‘potentially troublesome’ at a time when university managers were increasingly wary of trouble. This was not merely a defensive response on his part; his handful of published writings were radical. Out of conviction but
also for clarity, he had stated even in his first publication, an introductory psychology textbook, that his beliefs were libertarian and progressive. This was not likely to improve his career prospects. At a time of financial cuts, universities were more likely to appoint staff that would generate income, typically by winning research grants than someone who believed in democratic reform, inclusive of the higher education system. There was no necessary conspiracy about it. There was no need for one. The new finance-driven culture was soon embedded as ‘common sense’. The pressure was to make safe and manageable appointments. Nobody would apply those adjectives to him. Even an open testimonial from a former tutor did no better than describe him as ‘a risk, although possibly a risk worth taking.’

Despite his strong self-belief, serial rejection sparked occasional paranoia. He began to wonder if even his physical appearance counted against him. At a big-boned, slightly cumbersome six-foot three he looked and moved more like a building site worker than an academic. His interview outfits rarely met expectations that were becoming more standardised as higher education succumbed to the corporate ethos. At eighteen he had reluctantly acquired a suit for his university selection interview and had worn it for interviews ever since. Job interviews in higher education are not fashion parades, but this item, made of ninety-five per cent acrylic, did attract attention. When he sat down the trouser legs would shoot up to his calves while his hairy forearms protruded several inches out of the jacket sleeves. This distracting arms and leg show had probably cost him most of the jobs he had applied for, even before he opened his mouth. Topped off by a sweep of long black hair and usually sporting a pair of leather boots at the other end, he invited the killer observation that ‘I think we’re all agreed that Dr Connor is not quite what we’re looking for.’ Doggedly and with only a twinge of self-doubt, Dr Connor disagreed. He wanted prospective employers to know what they were getting. And he sensed that if he tried to please
‘the suits’ by attempting to look like them he would soon start to think like them as well. His was a perverse kind of integrity but finally luck had sprung him from a catch twenty-two of his own making.

One of the traditional farewell rituals for staff leaving Peyton College was a one-to-one glass of wine with the Principal Tom Gardner and another was a night out with colleagues at a local pub. Tom Gardner had enough personal strength and vision to make the progressive regime he had introduced at the college work well. Even so he was feeling increasingly constrained by the stream of relentless government initiatives. He could see no end to them; whichever party won the next election. At over sixty he was beginning to find that looking backwards offered a pleasanter view than looking forward – a sure sign, as he well recognised, that it was time to go.

A bottle of red wine and two glasses were already on the coffee table in the corner of Tom Gardner’s office as he welcomed Tim. ‘Sit down. And congratulations! We’re sorry to lose you but I know from several references I’ve written for you over recent years that it’s what you want. Here, have a last glass of wine at the college’s expense.’ He poured a glass of Malbec and passed it over. ‘Have some salted nuts as well if you want. I don’t eat them myself. They get stuck in my teeth.’ He sat down across the table from Tim.

‘Thanks. That’s right. I’ve always liked the idea of working in an academic environment. Also I need a change. I’ve enjoyed this place but I wouldn’t fancy being here for the next twenty-five years.’

‘You’re lucky that you’ve been able to make a change. You’d be surprised how many people here have tried to move on and not been able to, especially older colleagues, the younger ones do usually find it a bit easier. Anyway I’m glad you got the job.’

Gardner paused, getting up from his chair he walked over to his office window. He gazed out thoughtfully, ignoring by dint of long habit the grey expanse of the staff car park.
‘Actually I thought of moving on myself a few years ago but it’s not easy to get a good promotion outside of this sector and there are few better jobs than mine within it. Most of the higher-paid jobs are in national or local educational bureaucracies and these days they don’t seem to be appointing progressives of my ilk.’

Tim listened in mild surprise. He’d come to regard Tom Gardner as a permanent and essential fixture at the college, almost as a part of its foundations. It hadn’t occurred to him that Gardner too might feel career blocked. He left his seat and joined his senior colleague at the window, a gesture of egalitarian solidarity he would have hesitated to make on any previous occasion. Allergic to hierarchy he nevertheless respected this man’s personal authority as well as his achievement in establishing a liberal educational regime in contrary times. ‘I doubt that I’ll work under such an enlightened boss again. Not many would have given me the opportunity to develop that you did ten, almost fifteen years ago.’

‘I don’t know about that but times are changing, as they always do,’ said Gardner. ‘The pressure is to produce results and to a prescribed format. There isn’t the scope now to shape things according to your own vision.’ Glancing at Tim he added ‘I should warn you that’s also becoming the case in higher education as well.’ Then dropping the serious tone he looked directly at Tim and grinned. ‘So, don’t imagine you’re going to escape into an ivory tower paradise, young man.’

The conversation moved briefly to more personal matters. Gardner expressed concern about the break-up of Tim’s long-term relationship but didn’t want to pry. He suggested that once Tim was established in his new job he might come back to explain the mysteries of higher education to the college’s students. They drained their glasses in unison, shook hands and said a warm goodbye.

The farewell booze-up was on the last day of term.
The
Highwayman
rocked as excited voices competed against the
thudding music. A premiership game between Manchester United and Liverpool showing on the pub’s giant television screen added to the hubbub. Tim was sat with a group of sports-types who had launched into a rowdy argument about which of the two teams had the best claim to the nickname of ‘The Reds’. A chunky northern émigré, the college’s first team goalkeeper, offered an opinion:

‘Whichever one of them but not those clowns down the road.’

‘And who might they be?’ This came from an indignant-looking female student wearing an Arsenal shirt.

‘Depends which way you’re facing: Southend to the East or the Arses the other way.’

‘Stop insulting my favourite team! Arsenal is called after guns not bums. As for Southend United, they don’t count. People only watch them when they want a break from football.’

A sudden roar swamped their conversation. The group’s attention swung to the big screen as a dubious penalty was awarded to the Manchester side, a regular occurrence at Old Trafford. Tim’s attention was distracted from the kick as someone pushed a fourth pint into his hand. He looked up. It was from Ted Sidebottom, the bluff, diminutive Head of Physical Education.

Tim’s attention was drawn back to the screen as the crowd erupted again, divided by reactions of pain or relief as the ball smacked against the crossbar and sailed impotently into the stand. Tim was in the relieved camp. There was a riff of laughter as the camera caught United’s managers hopping about apoplectically in the technical area.

Grinning Tim turned again to Ted. ‘Hey, Ted, I haven’t finished this pint yet.’ He gestured towards a
half-empty
glass. ‘I don’t want to get too blotto, I’m on my way tomorrow.’

‘Come on … I’ve bought it for you now. It’ll soon disappear down a big lad like you. You’ll be as fresh as a daffodil tomorrow.’

‘Daisy’

‘You’re no daisy.’

‘I’m no … Listen this is a silly discussion. Sit down for a minute and say something sensible to me.’ He turned to the students. ‘Can someone give their chair to Ted for a few minutes so we can have a chat?’

The young Arsenal supporter got up and perched herself on the knee of an athletic looking mixed race guy. ‘You don’t mind do you?’ He didn’t. ‘No problem, stay as long as you like,’ he said shifting her into a more central position on his lap.

Ted was the physical opposite of Tim who on balance was glad things had turned out the way they had. He was barely five foot six, bandy legged and bald in the style of Bobby Charlton. But he was strong and nimble with low centre of gravity that enabled him to bustle past opponents when playing his favourite game of hockey. Unfortunately Ted failed to recognise his inability to achieve a similar level of performance at football by far the most popular sport at the college. He was as bad at football as he was good at hockey. Therein lay the cause of a recurrent clash with Tim. Bizarrely Ted fancied himself as a striker, countering the fact that he almost never scored with claims that he was a creative fulcrum responsible for numerous assists. Mysteriously these remained unobserved by others. Tim also preferred to play striker and had a decent goal tally. Crucially Ted picked the staff-student team that played in a regional league. Faced with their comparative goal statistics Ted had little choice but to play Tim as striker. That was until the team got hammered, physically as well as in the score-line, by Thunderstone Police. Ted saw his opportunity, blamed Tim for the defeat and dropped him from the squad. He moved himself to striker from his previous position that he described as ‘libero’ and from which he had orchestrated havoc for the rest of the team. Wherever Ted played, it seemed impossible that he could inflict even more
damage on the team. This proved not to be the case. The change of position precipitated a ten-match losing streak in which Ted scored one goal, a world-class header that left his own goalkeeper helpless. Frank opinions were exchanged during and after this match. Finally Ted announced that he would give Tim ‘another opportunity’. The next game was a 1-0 victory in which the proud goal-scorer was Ted. Never mind that the ball had cannoned off his backside from a defender’s clearance. ‘Told you so,’ he said, ‘I saw it all the way’.

A minor source of needle between Tim and Ted was about the correct pronunciation of Ted’s surname, Sidebottom. Ted insisted that the correct pronunciation required the separate enunciation of four syllables: thus, ‘Sid’-‘e’-‘Bot’-‘tom’. Tim refused to oblige. In the spirit of taking the piss he usually pronounced the ‘Side’ and ‘Bottom’ parts of Ted’s unfortunate name separately. He insisted that this was the only sensible pronunciation. By serendipity this pronunciation evoked Ted’s oddly lateral gait, no doubt caused by constant stooping to connect with a myriad of hockey pucks. The two men never quite resolved this matter although Tim eventually conceded that Ted had a right to have his name pronounced as he wished however ridiculous it might sound.

In a mood of putting past differences aside, Ted had approached Tim. Well tanked up he was in expansive mood, his Yorkshire accent even more pronounced than usual, ‘Ye know Tim, you’re not such a bad bugger as ye crack on.’

Always ready to listen to an opinion about him-self for good or bad, Tim encouraged Ted to go on.

‘How’s that then, Ted? I’ve didn’t realise you’d become one of my fans.’

‘No, ye’re right there. I ‘aven’t. Ye can be a bit of a tart. I mean why are ye leaving yer Gina and yer young daughter. Everybody likes Gina, ye know.’

‘Listen Ted, you don’t know what happened between us … As a matter of fact …’ Tim was about to defend himself when Ted backtracked.

‘Look … sorry … I came over to pay ye a compliment, not to criticise.’

‘Ok. Go ahead?’

‘Right … The truth is that the reason why ye get sum flack is that a lot of the guys envy ye a bit. Not in a nasty way, though it can come out like that. I mean you’re a free floater. The system doesn’t seem to have grabbed as much of ye as it has of sum of uz. Ye do what most of uz only think about doing, if that. Ye write books, seem to pull attractive women, and instead of serving yer life-sentence out ’ere like the rest of uz idiots ye go and get a job in ’igher education. That’s what I mean, yer not afraid to be different, ye go yer own way and show it can be done.’

Tim looked at Ted in surprise. The half-cock eulogy seemed genuine enough. It hadn’t occurred to him that the jocks among his colleagues might subliminally admire and envy him. It had taken Ted in a mood of drunken reflection to work it out. In so far as Tim thought about the jocks at all, he took them pretty much at face value. He had never aspired to be one of them, gathering to play cards at break time or getting pissed together when they could get collective dispensation from their wives. They took his demeanour and life-style as an implicit rejection of their own. In response they were often jocularly aggressive towards him. Occasionally this triggered a frisson of irritation, but that was a small price to pay to maintain the identity boundary. He tagged them ‘the fat table’ and to them he was ‘a bit of a weirdo’. It came as a shock that he might be their subterranean role model. But he enjoyed the irony of it and even felt slightly flattered.