Bums on Seats

by Tom Davies

  EXTRA! EXTRA! EXTRA!

  Turn up for The Books means Poverty in the Dorm

  by Yazza

  There was an astonishing outcome to the recent, highly publicised, contest for the hand, and everything else, of a beautiful young lady whom good manners decree shall be nameless. And your special correspondent was there to observe it for you!

  Informed opinion had overwhelmingly indicated that Tillfield’s golden boy of the cricket field would prevail. All the evidence seemed to support this view. Even the maiden herself appeared to favour this outcome. Yet the swain with the unlikeliest of chances, in the end, prevailed easily.

  Whilst Tillfield overwhelmed Prince Henry School, a popular, but unfancied in this contest, sixth-former from another continent romped away with a different trophy! And, I can report, stayed for an encore!

  The scene was an idyllic sylvan glade. Dappled sunlight illuminated the congress of our Romeo and Juliet. The only competing sound, with the audible expressions of pleasure, was the distant occasional clapping as Tillfield batsmen decimated their opponents.

  The unexpected is one of life’s delightful felicities.

  At that point in the bulletin Yazza got quite carried away by the supposed power of his prose.The outcome was the talk of the upper school. Alastair, a lad of suspicious nature, visited Yazza late that evening. “Did you really see them at it?”

  “I certainly did. Not that I’m a peeping Tom, you understand. I just think that all these things are in the public domain. It’s a matter of civil liberties. The press must never be muzzled!” he added, with strong conviction.

  “How near were you?”

  “About half the length of the dorm. Luke was very vigorous. Sharon was making moaning noises.”

  Alastair was convinced; couldn’t in fact bear to hear more details of Luke’s victory. “Thanks very much Mayhew. Here you are, for an excellent article. Mums the word about this visit.” He handed the other boy a plastic bag containing a bottle of Chateau Tillfield. Thirty years on, when Justin ‘Yazza’ Mayhew was Editor of a fabulously successful, national downmarket tabloid, he was wont to put his feet up on his desk from time to time, drink straight from his whisky bottle and recall, with affection, his very first exclusive!

  Sharon, who’d lately lost her job through persistent lateness, was delighted with the £100. She’d also found Luke a strong and thoughtful performer.

  Luke, a discerning boy who’d always had access to quality in life, knew a good thing when he found one. There was no doubt in his mind that Sharon was something of an artist. Throughout his final year at Tillfield he met her fortnightly, and fulfilled his side of an arrangement whereby he made her an un-repayable loan of half his allowance.

  CHAPTER 11

  1997

  Monday morning again. Simon smiled at his group of final year Business Studies students. They were debating the impact of the European Working Time Regulations on British small businesses. His mind was on Zombek, and he yearned for coffee and bacon butties in the Common Room.

  “So, what are the trade-offs then?”

  Lucinda, as he’d known she would, came down on the side of the workforce. “The free marketeers huff and puff about excessive labour regulation distorting competition and efficiency. What they mean is that employers should remain able to get away with appalling employment practices. An average working week of 48 hours is a good enough contribution to an employer and to society in general, from anyone.”

  Richard, who always put the opposite view from Lucinda, said, “Very fine and socially conscious – when seen from a university lecture room. If you were running a little manufacturing unit on an industrial estate, like my dad does, you’d see the facts of life. You scrabble around for orders and promise delivery dates to suit the customer. If you don’t, you don’t get the orders. If that means everyone working 12 hours a day, 7 days a week sometimes, then that’s what you do. At least it keeps people in work. Lose your job and you can enjoy an average working week of 0 hours!

  Simon felt that Lucinda and Richard might become ‘a number’ before long. They acted and sounded remarkably like his parents. Even so, he was quietly pleased that the class saw both sides of issues.

  Sonia made a contribution. “The Working Time Regulations are just a step along the way in a long evolutionary trend in working practices. A hundred years ago, when efficiency and working methods were much poorer, things were much worse. There’ll always be good employers and bad employers. And there’ll always be employers operating under difficult economic constraints. But working conditions, in the end, reflect the prevailing view of social justice, in a democracy, at any point in time.”

  The debate continued and was largely self-prompted by the students. They visited a number of related issues. To what extent did working practices evolution rely upon political intervention? Could a heavily integrated society like Britain have a truly unfettered free market in anything? Did liberal-minded management sacrifice a measure of authority? Simon thought this was all very pleasing. Of the sixteen students remaining in this particular batch, he anticipated that four would achieve an upper-second class honours and one, probably Sonia, would get a first.

  Ultimately he called a halt. “I’m very pleased.You’ve obviously all thought a lot about the subject. Carry on like this to the end and there’s likely to be a good deal of beer flowing when you get your final results. And I’ll be buying it!” This produced cheers all round. “Collect your essays from my desk and leave me work for marking on the way out, please.”

  Sonia stopped briefly at his desk and handed over an extra essay. “I’m just revisiting some key topics from earlier in the year,” she explained. “Next month I’m starting to revise the whole course.”

  “Good, I’m sure that’s wise. You’re obviously going to do well anyway, Sonia.”

  “That will be due in no small measure to you, Simon. You’ve been great for us all. Everyone says so.”

  He glowed. “I’ve got a great job. If only it paid me enough to eat,” he joked.

  “Thanks for the other afternoon. It was lovely. ’Bye-ee, Simon!” She squeezed his arm and hurried after the others.

  Phew! He’d been wondering how she’d be today. Would she be embarrassingly affectionate? Or sorrowing and reproachful? Aloof? Blasé? In fact she’d been her normal warm and polite self. Great! He gathered up the papers and strode off to meet Luke Nweewe in the Common Room.

  *************

  The Common Room was warm and welcoming. So was Josie. There was no queue. They were alone at the counter. He’d have to be careful.

  “Hello Simon,” she gave her best, two megawatt smile.

  “Hi Josie, you’re looking outrageously happy for Monday morning.”

  “I wonder why that is.” Her eyes travelled up and down him, head to thighs only. She deployed her secret weapon. “I’ve put double bacon in your butties.”

  He laughed delightedly at the incongruity. “Josie, you spoil us. You’re bright sunshine on a winter’s day. How can I ever repay you?”

  Her colleague approached behind the counter.

  “Think how,” said Josie. “But don’t take too long.”

  Simon gave a smile equivalent to a clapped-out 10-watt light bulb, picked up the coffee and butties and set out towards Luke Nweewe. As he left, she whispered, “My good old dad’s repaired the Volvo!”

  He might have a little trouble with Josie.

  “Hi Luke, how goes it?”

  “Hello Simon. Everything is for the best in the best of all possible worlds.”

  “Dr. Pangloss in Voltaire’s Candide?”

  “Correct. But I tend to believe it and I try to act it, Simon.”

  “There’s a strange paradox, Luke. Sunny optimists are often going to be disappointed, whereas miserable pessimists never meet worse than they feared. So, you’d expect optimists to become unhappy and pessimists to be fulfilled!”

  “I’d describe that as an unwarrantable conclusi
on from a justifiable premise!” Luke chuckled at his own words, picked up the cups and made to the counter for refills.

  Simon noticed Josie laugh at something he said. “Luke, you want to be careful with Josie,” he cautioned.

  Luke astounded him. “You sound as if you, too, have had the Volvo treatment, Simon.” Simon was gobsmacked, as they say. “How did you get on with drafting?”

  “Here’s a floppy disk for you: one draft syllabus and one draft of a proposal to the Senior Management Executive Committee. I’m discussing them both in outline with Chloe in half an hour. I’ll tell her you’ve copies, so we keep in step.”

  “Wonderful, Simon. Unless you telephone me to say otherwise, I’ll email them tonight. You’re doing us proud. It’s very pleasing.”

  I’ll give you a call anyway, after Chloe. I say Luke, what did you mean about the Volvo?”

  “Volvo? I drive a Lotus. You’d have a job to do anything other than drive in that!” Luke got to his feet, beamed his best Dr. Pangloss smile and strode off.

  *************

  “Morning Chloe!”

  “Hello, you’re prompt.”

  “I aim to please, in everything!” he leered.

  “Well, you can please me by not acting the campus Lothario! … Sorry, Simon, the last man through that door tried to grope me. He won’t do it again, mind, I stamped hard on his toes. No names, but watch out for a revered colleague with a pronounced limp!”

  They shared a laugh, friendship restored. Simon, not for the first time, resolved to treat his female friends with the respect he genuinely felt. It wasn’t that he was always trying it on; he was just a jokey sort of bloke. And he was genuinely interested in Chloe. She had everything, brains, looks, nice personality and she appeared to be unattached.

  “Here’s a peace offering.” He passed over a copy of his draft report together with a draft syllabus, for Zombekian students. She sat and skimmed the papers for a minute or two.

  “Fine, you’ve had a busy time, talk me through them.”

  “Well, the syllabus is aimed at those preparing to be junior managers – which means all the Zombekian students, because that’s their country’s need. I, and others in the Business School, can manage all the Accounting modules and all the Human Relations elements. We’d need help from you and your colleagues in the Economics Faculty to deliver most of the Economics stuff. In essence the syllabus is meant to hammer home the fundamentals. They must learn about the efficient production of goods and services. They must have a sufficient grasp of accounting to be able to keep the score on profit and loss. They must be able to operate in a manner which carries their workforce with them.”

  “That all sounds admirably sensible. Any likely snags?” Her eyes engaged his with peculiar intensity. He thought she might directly access his brain for answers. This was a woman who’d be hard to deceive.

  He swallowed and said, “Some of their A Level groundwork might be a bit lacking, I should think.”

  “Let’s come back to that. Talk me through your draft report to the committee.”

  “Well, the market would stand about eight thousand pounds per year, for three years, per overseas honours degree student for this type of course. I’ve proposed that we establish facilities to process an intake of two hundred of them per year, for three years. So in the first year the income is £1.6 million. In the second year, when the next batch has joined, it’s £3.2 million. In the third year it becomes £4.8 million. Assuming that no more join, then in the fourth year the income drops back to £3.2 million. In the fifth year it drops further to £1.6 million. By the end of the fifth year the last batch of students has qualified and the scheme ends. Total income derived from the scheme is £14.4 million. Mind you, we could have a reputation for overseas students by then and find other sources. Or Zombek may want to carry on.”

  “And the downside?” She was looking perceptive again.

  “We’d have to give extra help to the students to focus. I’m assuming that the majority have never lived in anything like our culture. There’ll be distractions. The learning will be hard anyway. If the failure rate was high, our reputation would sink.”

  “What does Luke Nweewe think?”

  He was right. She could see into his mind. “Naturally, I’ve collaborated with him. He’s endorsed both the syllabus and the report, at a personal level. On our say so, he’ll email them to his Minister of Education for consideration. But, Chloe, you do see …” He was about to enlarge on the ramifications of some students having marginal A Levels, but she cut him off.

  “You don’t need to say it! Look, what the students will need is extra group-based tutorials. And those will need to be very directive. It probably means four extra lecturers at, say, twenty-five thousand pounds a year each plus overheads. Which probably means fifty thousand pounds per year for each in total. That will add just two hundred thousand a year to the bill. I expect the Zombekians would see the sense in that. Don’t you?”

  “I’ll put it to Luke, shortly.”

  “OK Simon, and then work up your draft a bit, especially in respect of teaching resources. Then we can meet again in a few days.”

  “Yes, that should be fine.”

  “Simon, I’m sorry I snapped when you arrived. You’d done nothing to deserve that. Perhaps, when the pressure’s off a bit we could go somewhere for a bite to eat?”

  He didn’t subsequently recall exactly leaving her. On balance he thought he’d probably just floated out and wafted back to his office.

  At half past three, he decided to skive off to the supermarket. His fridge-freezer could do with a top-up. When he arrived, at five minutes to four, the place was bright, pleasant and enjoyable. He’d never counted, but there must be 10,000 culinary delights on offer. He ambled along the aisles adding items to his trolley. Numerous staff were amending price labels.

  At four o’clock they disappeared and all hell broke loose. He selected a pack of sirloin steak. The label said reduced by £1. He put it down to think about it. A gnarled hand reached past and snatched it up. He ignored the rudeness and edged towards another amended label. Another trolley shunted his aside.

  “Mine I believe,” said a quivery voice, its octogenarian owner grasping the only remaining reduced sirloins. Simon ended up with three unreduced packs of pork chops.

  The pre-packed cheeses were at the next turn.

  “Ouch!” he winced. A younger lady, probably only around seventy-five, sped over his right foot in her electric wheelchair. She’d picked up two heavily discounted mini-camembert, reengaged the motor and slewed the corner to ‘TV dinners’ whilst he still hopped about. He dubbed her ‘Agatha Schumacher’ in his mind’s eye!

  He moved on and it became clear that the whole damn store was full of senior citizens, either darting or driving about at speed, all of them being bargain-selective. Perhaps the Social Services had fitted them up with reduced-price-seeking radar.

  By careful footwork, and keeping away from discounts, he avoided further confrontation, barring an ancient elbow in the ribs at a fruit display. At the checkout, the old gent in front unloaded two bottles of gin and two bottles of port. “Got to keep her in the mood” he smirked. Simon wondered what tablets he was on.

  When it was his turn to pay, the checkout operator said, “Don’t ever come at four o clock if you value your ankles. It’s bargain time and the wrinkly Mafia take over!”

  Back home, he rang Luke who, after the briefest of hesitations, accepted the amended figures.

  “If you email a revised draft today, I’ll get it off promptly. Thanks again, Simon.”

  About an hour later, sat in his living room, he called up the Outlook Express package on his computer. Five minutes after that, for better or worse, it was on its way.

  He decided to spoil himself with a homemade spaghetti bolognese. He assembled and processed half a pound of minced beef, a diced large onion, a tin of tomatoes, paprika, a crushed garlic clove, a sprig of tarragon, an Oxo cube, a knob
of butter and a generous splosh of red wine. It would simmer and reduce for an hour. He went back to the computer to update his stocks and shares statistics until it was time to cook the spaghetti.

  “Great! His holding in Thompson Travel had shot up in value. There were strong takeover rumours in that market sector. He was just over £1,000 up. This was a good time to sell. He reached for the phone. “Hello, I’d like to deal in my portfolio please. My PEP code is SM 402633.”

  “Thank you, sir. Would you confirm, for security reasons, your full name and address and date of birth?” He did so. “Very good, sir. How can I help you?”

  “Would please tell me what price you’ve got on your screen for Thomson Travel?”

  “Yes, sir. They’re a hundred and forty pence to buy, a hundred and thirty-eight pence to sell.”

  “A hundred and thirty-eight is the best, is it?”

  “It is, sir.”

  “All right, sell my entire holding at a hundred and thirty eight pence; no less. And that instruction can stand until the market closes tonight.”

  “If you’ll just hold on, sir … Right, I confirm that I’ve now sold them at a hundred and thirty-eight pence.The transaction is complete. Do you want to buy something else, sir?

  “No thanks. I’ll just let the balance sit in my account until I’ve decided. Thanks.”

  “Pleasure Sir.”

  Simon made a note in his Filofax. He’d cleared about 12% after dealing expenses and stamp duty on those shares, in just over four weeks. Wonderful! Everything was looking distinctly rosy.

  After luxuriating over his meal, he poured a brandy, lowered himself into the recliner and pressed the buttons on the stereo remote. He was in a Mahler mood. He felt soulful and somewhat larger than life. But he also felt a bit lonely. If he was, after all, going to become better off, he’d need someone to share it with. And not just on a ‘Wham, bam, evening Ma’am,’ basis. Someone like Chloe! The thought entered his head without prior notice. It shocked him.