Tim Connor Hits Trouble (7 page)

Since then Heather had been on permanent orange alert and he was keen to avoid trouble from her direction. He needed her to be on side. And it was not only Heather he had to think about. Sexism had become a cardinal sin in academe. Rightly so as he had come to understand, though he believed that the policing of behaviour could be as oppressive as the problem it was intended to solve. In any case, he could not afford to behave ambiguously. According to his own progress chart he was about ready to launch a bid for a career defining promotion, possibly, given his increasing prominence on the national scene, at Deputy Vice Chancellor level. Still, a few moments with a new appointment hardly amounted to a capital offence. With a bit of luck it would go unnoticed.

‘Look, it’s impossibly loud in here. Why don’t we pop out for a minute onto the terrace? I need to catch a breath of fresh-air, I’ve been pressing the flesh for the last couple of hours,’ his invitation hung awkwardly but he knew that Aisha Khan had little option but to agree.

That was how Aisha saw it, too. They threaded their way towards the French windows that opened out onto the broad terrace. Swankie gestured Aisha ahead of him, stumbling slightly as he followed her through. As he guided her towards a carved wooden bench his hand rested fleetingly longer than appropriate on her slender shoulders. It occurred to Aisha that Swankie might be drunk; no more than slightly she hoped. When he sat a little too close for comfort, she got up on the pretext of straightening her dress and sat down again a good couple of feet from him… If there was a problem this seemed to kill it. Swankie stayed put and resumed the conversation in impeccably bland terms.

‘This is one of the great advantages of a rural campus.
We have this splendid view across the countryside with the city lights in the distance; magical really. The urban campuses have nothing to match it. Few of the out of town universities are quite as richly endowed. Aesthetically I mean. They talk about Keele as “the dream on the hill” but its landscape is a little contrived and now more or less obliterated by the decision to build so intensively. And beyond its campus, the terrain doesn’t compare to what we’ve got. But, of course, as a local resident you’re familiar with the natural beauty of the locality.’

Swankie was beginning to relax again, confident that he was erasing any impression of over-familiarity. He conceded to himself that Aisha was also more at ease now that civil distance was re-established. Still he did feel slightly light-headed, due no doubt to a combination of three or four glasses of wine and what he sensed was a slightly raised heartbeat. He continued with friendly, if less than compelling conversation.

‘Have you always lived in this part of the country, I can’t quite recall from your CV?’

‘No, not at all. We – my husband Waqar and I only moved here about ten or twelve years ago shortly after we married. I’m a Londoner, from Southall originally. My parents came from Bangladesh in the seventies. We were quite poor when I was very young but my father built up a small chain of restaurants. I met my husband through the restaurant business; he owns a much larger chain than my father ever did.’

‘So what brought you down here? People usually leave the great metropolis in late middle-age, if at all.’

Aisha continued, happier now the prospect of futher awkwardness had receded. ‘We visited the West-country for a holiday and fell in love with it. The idea of living in Wash was to have a family life as far away from work as was practically possible. Waqar, both of us that is, we haven’t even opened up a branch of the business in Wash. We don’t want the distraction. It’s worked out quite well but
Waqar does have to spend a lot of time in London which is difficult for us. We have a flat there.’

Swankie interjected in what he hoped was the measured tone of a helpful senior colleague. ‘Yes, I can see the problem; some people would find that situation a little lonely. But at least you’ve used your time effectively, admirably in fact, in view of what you’ve achieved academically.’

He felt a sudden urge to flutter his academic feathers.

‘What you describe is a nice example of what the
poststructuralists
refer to as contingency: the unpredictable effect of one event or circumstance on another. Or, in more everyday terms an unexpected positive outcome has emerged out of a difficult situation, namely your academic success achieved in time fortuitously made available by the absence of your husband. Of course that formulation doesn’t address the issue of agency, the ability of individuals to make a difference. Not many people would have turned ill fortune to such excellent effect. You did. And of course many other good things might flow from you doing so.’ What these ‘good things’ might be, Swankie opted not to suggest.

He was concerned that his flurry of poststructuralist theory was over the top for the occasion. He wanted to sound interesting, learned even, but not pompous. And anyway he wasn’t quite sure that he fully understood the ‘post’ theories. He hoped that Aisha Khan was not about to rumble him.

He needn’t have worried. Aisha had listened intently to his remarks. Having come into academia the hard way, she was eager to learn more, and Swankie was supposed to know.

‘Umm… that’s interesting. I’ve been thinking about agency in relation to the subjects in my research sample. I know ten women is not a sufficient basis on which to generalise, but contrary to some people’s impression of Muslim women, most of my subjects were quite assertive in searching out their life options. I’d like to develop the agency
theme more when I expand my work. Maybe you could recommend some key literature in the area?’

Swankie was about to confirm that indeed he could make recommendations and would shortly email her accordingly, when he noticed his wife and Ruth Steir emerge through the French windows. Heather looked agitated. Instantly the smile of friendly engagement disappeared from Swankie’s face. Abruptly he leaned away from Aisha and gave a pre-emptive wave to attract his wife’s attention. Spotting his gesture, the two women walked briskly towards them.

‘Howard, no wonder I couldn’t find you. The Vice-Chancellor has dropped in for a few minutes. I’m sure he’d like a word with you. He’s just inside the French windows talking to Henry Jones and that ancient bohemian friend of his. They seem to have cornered him. They’re making rather a nuisance of themselves. Do go and prevent them from doing anything too embarrassing. We’ll stay here and chat with Ms. Khan.’

The two women, one large and wide and the other tall and thin sat down on either side of Aisha.

‘Lovely to see you again,’ said Rachel Steir. ‘It’s absolutely wonderful that the department has recruited another woman and doubtless, as I picked up from your research, another feminist. You’ve probably realised that Henry is somewhat unreconstructed and we tend to look to younger colleagues to supply energy and inspiration these days.’

They were interrupted by the crash of breaking glass and crockery from inside the building.

‘That’s probably Henry falling over,’ she commented smiling sweetly at Aisha. ‘Let’s leave them to it and chat.’

The start of term was even more hectic than Tim had anticipated. An initial surge of energy carried him through the sessions of introductory guidance he was expected to deliver to students, even though at first he scarcely knew more than they did about how things worked.

Like most higher education institutions, Wash was in a period of cost cutting through the use of technological innovation, ‘strategic’ redundancies, and whatever ‘efficiency gains’ looked viable. Along with restructuring came a flux of new rules and procedures: ‘ebureaucracy’ Henry dubbed it. Tim could see Henry’s point and itched to get started on ‘the real job’ of teaching. Difficulties were magnified in smaller institutions as managers and administrators sought to match the sector’s big hitters. As the Wash system struggled to cope, Tim spent much of his time chasing up confused and distressed students, some the victims of his own mistaken advice. In a couple of cases he found himself negotiating the return of students from their
parental homes where they had fled in panic. Generating calm and confidence was challenging when he doubted his own assurances that it would all get sorted in the end. But on the whole, for most, it did.

Things slowly settled once teaching got under way. Most of his work was in preparing and delivering lectures and seminars, although administration was almost as time-consuming. As he had discovered in his previous job, email was not always a time-saver. Time saved from face-to-face communication and phone calls was lost sorting through jargon-ridden emails from the bureaucracy. On top of official stuff, his in-box was swollen by frequently unnecessary and incomprehensible emails from students, although these became more coherent as term went on. Then there was the spam: spectacular legacies from unknown benefactors; get-rich-now deals and offers of sex with self-proclaimed beautiful if distant and impoverished women. In the end he zapped his email arrival alert system and set aside a couple of dedicated periods each day to deal with work-related emails. Serious problems he dealt with face-to-face.

Somehow he managed to make some progress with his book on generational conflict and resolution. The topic had become a hot one as the media picked up on a sharp debate between some prominent intellectuals of the ‘baby boomer’ generation and a group of young professionals. The latter blamed the boomers for many of the difficulties of young people. He pushed himself to keep writing, hoping to get the book out before public interest subsided. His view was that blaming the boomers for the problems of the current younger generation was simplistic. The real issue lay with the concentration of wealth and power in the hands of selfish national and global elites. To that extent he agreed with Henry. He was getting to like his older colleague whose eccentric ‘couldn’t give a damn’ behaviour was an antidote to his own busy intensity. They had struck up a budding friendship and occasionally met for a wind down or barn
storming session about whatever came to mind.

Getting to and from Peyton once a week to see Maria, pushed him at times close to exhaustion. Sometimes the effort seemed entirely wasted and left him feeling empty and ineffectual. At first having a ‘part-time’ dad intrigued Maria but the novelty soon began to wear off. Gina was keen for Tim to maintain a relationship with his daughter but her new partner, Rupert Eccles, was less enthusiastic without openly opposing it. He was coolly polite, but made it clear he did not want Tim to remain around the house with Maria for more than half an hour or so. Predictably, soon after Tim’s arrival he would ask some version of the question ‘So where are you taking your daughter today, then?’ On some occasions, Tim didn’t even get as far as the house. Instead Maria was dropped off at whatever venue Tim had decided to take her to. He did his best but soon visits to adventure playgrounds, parks, movies, and, in desperation, even McDonalds began to appeal less and less to both of them.

The lack of a stable base where they could spend time together began to take its toll. Maria became increasingly moody and temperamental. She wanted to know why Daddy had gone to live so far away, and why Mummy and Daddy didn’t like one-another anymore? After several weeks she asked whether he was still her Daddy or if she’d got a new one now? Her confusion turned into sullenness and withdrawal. It didn’t help much when Gina assured him that Maria was getting on quite well with Rupert. It even felt double-edged when she added that domestic disruption had apparently not adversely affected Maria at school. It all made Tim feel marginal and irrelevant. Slot in, slot out dads. He understood Maria’s happiness was what mattered most but that didn’t lessen his own hurt and anxiety. Understanding was not enough. He determined that whatever else he had lost, he was not going to lose his daughter.

One Thursday evening about half way through term the
build up of stress suddenly imploded. It hit physically. A wave of darkness surged across his consciousness. His eyes lost focus. His chest went momentarily into spasm. He clutched his temples as he struggled to regain stability and control. The episode lasted no more than a few seconds. Slowly he massaged his face and head, calming himself. He opened his eyes. The computer screen stared primly back, neither mocking nor concerned just stubbornly, unflinchingly there. He got up from his chair leaving the icy machine suspended in mid sentence: ‘The two generations have more in common than…’
Time for a change of scene
.

He decided to respond to this scary moment by taking a walk into town. It might clear his head. Then he would wash away the accumulated tension of recent weeks with a few drinks. If he was honest with himself, he had to admit that he was lonely, just a little. He thought of calling Henry to join him, but decided he was in no mood for one of his colleague’s more baroque performances, diverting though these could be. He needed to get away from anything and anyone connected with work. He wanted to ground himself again, to get back in touch with what passed for the real world. As he walked through Wash the city seemed solid enough. It was the space between his ears that had taken an ethereal turn. Not that he entertained the possibility of anything so time-consuming or self-indulgent as a breakdown.

He deliberately let himself get lost, wandering over to the eastern outskirts of the city and then meandering haphazardly through the back streets. The suburban sameness of this part of the city felt reassuring. Here the housing was plain and unpretentious, mainly red brick or concrete rather than the sandstone or granite of the city centre and wealthier neighbourhoods. By now, most adults had returned from work and children had gone in off the streets, curtains were being drawn as people closed up against the encroaching night. A few teenagers were still hanging around waiting for something to turn up, but without much optimism that it would. A handful of couples were making their way
into the city centre. Arm in arm, a pair of young women passed him, their tall shoes clicking briskly on the hard paving stones. A freshening wind ruffled his long hair. The haunting melody and lyrics of Van Morrison’s legendary ballad drifted into his mind -
the cool night air like Shalimar
.

Pensive and reflective, his mood was rudely broken.

Two young lads, short of something to do, decided to amuse themselves at Tim’s expense. Noticing that his trousers stopped an inch or so above his ankles one of them shouted, ‘Aren’t ye a bit old for short trousers?’

Tim made no response.

‘Don’t ye think you need a haircut Mate?’ asked the second youth.

No answer. The lads had kept a wary distance from Tim and he reckoned he could get out of this spot of bother by ignoring it – cautiously. Something along the lines of ‘talk quietly and carry a big stick’. All he lacked was the stick. Maintaining his pace he continued to walk on. The lads trailed after him without much conviction.

‘Give us a fiver, mate, and we’ll leave ye alone.’

Irritated, Tim abandoned his strong silent strategy. He turned to face the lads. They looked no more than fifteen or sixteen years old and quite small and skinny. Both had carrot coloured hair, aggressive freckles and features that were too large for their thin faces. They were clearly brothers and probably twins. He guessed they were jokers rather than thugs. It was no great risk to face them down – unless, of course, they were carrying a weapon.

‘You guys taking the piss?’

‘Looks like ye’ve already had the piss taken out of ye mate.’ It was reassuring that this remark was made as the two were backing away from Tim, ready to beat it should Tim go for them.

‘Very funny… You two are not contributing much to my evening. You could do worse than go missing.’

‘Posh ain’t we? Do you mean you’d like us to fuck off?’

Tim bristled. He didn’t like the ‘posh’ comment. It disturbed some distant, unpleasant memory. But by now he had concluded that the boys were not a threat. He kept his cool and decided to redirect their surplus energy.

‘Look I’ll give you a fiver if you can take me to a pub with decent beer,’ adding after a moment’s thought, ‘and maybe a few decent looking women as well.’

The offer had instant appeal to the carrot heads. ‘Yeah,’ they knew a couple of good pubs, though they couldn’t often afford to drink there themselves. Tim sealed the deal.

‘Ok, two quid now and three when we get there.’

The ill-sorted but picaresque trio set off towards the city centre. They exchanged names or, as the lads announced themselves as ‘Light-bulb’ and ‘Dipstick’, in their case, nicknames. Tim had attracted a few nicknames in his time, the one he was most coy about being ‘Spare Parts.’ He decided to pass on mentioning it on this occasion. The banter continued in a more friendly tone as they approached the river. They stopped just short of a bridge leading into the main commercial and entertainment area.

‘We’ll leave you here, Sir, if that’s ok,’ said Dipstick the noisier of the two, suddenly respectful as the pay-off moment neared. ‘When you cross the bridge you’ll find yourself in a main street, follow it round for about fifty yards and you’ll come to a pub called
The Bombadier
. It sells real ale, the stuff people like you like.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Can we have the rest of our money now, Sir?’

Tim searched his pockets for three-pound coins. Nothing doing. Keeping a tight hold, he pulled out his wallet from an inside pocket and extracted a fiver.

‘Give me two and I’ll give you this.’

Dipstick hesitated. ‘How about we give you one back so we get three each?’

‘You drive a hard bargain.’

‘Definitely… one of them.’

Tim handed over the fiver and was half surprised to get
a pound back.

‘Ok, see you around.’

‘Not if we see you first,’ said Dipstick.

‘He’s only joking, he doesn’t know when to stop,’ was Lightbulb’s farewell contribution.

Tim walked briskly to the pub. His head was clearer now, and his thirst sharper.
The Bombardier
faced flat-fronted onto the street. From outside, its only notable feature was a large pub-sign that sported a muscular red-coated gunner about to fire a cannon gun. It seemed an odd image for a student city. Then he recalled the army garrison that he’d noticed while house searching.

Inside, the pub was half empty. The décor maintained the martial theme with garish pictures of miscellaneous British military victories on the walls that were also festooned with ancient rifles and cutlasses. This did not appear to be quite his scene. Only a pressing thirst prevented him from executing a quick about turn to search out an alternative watering hole. It was no wonder the kids made sure they got their money before he’d seen this place. He scanned the portrayals of martial glory wondering if the artist’s intention was perhaps ironic. Looking around the notion of parody seemed plausible, the pub’s clientele appeared more boho than military.

He made his way to the bar. Behind were two burly bartenders wearing identical yellow tee-shirts printed with a pink-coloured cannon gun with pink cannon balls on each side. The image did not suffer from over-sophistication.

One of the bartenders approached him, smiling broadly.

‘Lovely to see you Sir. What can I get you?’ His voice was an octave or so higher than Tim had expected and sweetly pitched.

‘A pint of your best bitter and do you do cooked food?’

‘Certainly Sir… We’ve still got curry left or sausage and mash. Green salad if you want it. Oh yes, and in the spirit of multiculturalism we’ve adopted a hybrid dish called toad
in the chapati.’

‘I’ll have a curry please, the salad and a round of bread on the side, brown if you’ve got it.’

‘No problem. Except that the bread would be white, sir. Is that ok?’

‘That’s fine, I don’t discriminate.’

‘I’ll bring it to you, Sir.’

Tim found a seat at an empty table. As he glanced around his impression that the pub was gay friendly was confirmed. Several people wore tea-shirts with gay pride slogans and one muscular young man wore a jacket proclaiming his support for Stonewall. Nobody had gone for the cannonball t-shirt favoured by the bartenders and prominently on sale behind the bar at twenty-five per cent off half-price. Most of the couples seemed to be same-sex but a number of apparent cross-dressers made it difficult to tell.

Tim was beginning to feel his dip into the real world was taking a decidedly surreal turn. Not that he considered queers surreal. He was simply bemused by the gap between his intention at the start of his ‘sortie’ and what was emerging. But bemusement was a lot better than the bombed out state he’d been in earlier.

His musings were interrupted by the arrival of the bartender with his meal. ‘There you are Sir. Is there anything else you might want?’

Tim took in the bartender’s fifteen stone of beef packed into a frame of about five feet six inches.
Nothing you can give me
- was the un-P C thought that popped up. Out loud he said, ‘No. That’s excellent. Many thanks.’

When eating alone in a pub Tim usually read the newspaper. He found the two activities relaxing although they did not always combine elegantly. On this occasion he didn’t have a paper with him and couldn’t spot one in the pub. No matter, there was plenty here to interest him. As he ate he peered into the pub’s soft rose light. He amused himself by trying to establish the biological sex of the cross-dressers.
He did so to his own satisfaction in about half-a-dozen cases. Eventually his attention settled on three people at a table a few feet from his own. Two were definitely males. Occasionally they touched and fondled each other more freely than Western heterosexual norms usually allow to adult males except in peak moments in sport and some other entertainments. He assumed they were partners.