Bums on Seats

by Tom Davies

  He thought she was money-grabbing at the expense of educational excellence. “Presumably your committee will take a relaxed view about those entry standards?”

  Simon thought not only was he a peacock, all plumage and small brain, but he was also foolhardy. He held his breath and waited for the Academic Registrar to ‘handbag’ the fool.

  She said, “I’ve often felt that narcissists excessively embellish their exterior to distract one from the stark uninhabited area between their ears.”

  Croft’s face turned bright pink. It coordinated beautifully with the grey silk bow tie and the turquoise waistcoat. He hissed, “My standards are consistently high in everything I do. We don’t all wish to walk around dressed like an advert for an army surplus store. I’m only concerned that we maintain a reputation for attracting good undergraduate material. Commerce makes profits. Universities make educated people. Every decision we take should spring from that.”

  Simon mentally computed the score at 30–15 to Croft, when Bellamy, in the chair, decided to intervene, even though this was shaping up to be an enjoyable, bitchy contest.

  “My dear Howard, Veronica, do let’s keep on track! What about the entry standard for the proposed Zombek students, Veronica?”

  “Thank you, Chair,” she smirked.

  Simon always found this politically correct form of address amusing. It invited a response of ‘That’s all right, Footstool’ or the like.

  She continued, “Our standard entry benchmark for British-born applicants is A levels accumulating to 14 points. That demand puts us in the upper quartile of the new universities. However, in the case of a block entry from overseas, working to a customised syllabus, we propose 12 points. Broadly equivalent to three A levels at D grade.”

  Ms Bullion Bosom, who had been lounging, straightened up, thereby redistributing half the nation’s gold reserves. “That sounds responsible and sensible to me, so long as accreditation and selection are overseen in a proper and effective way.”

  There followed a lively discussion, which Harold Bellamy wisely allowed to run its course. At one point, when Simon was about to intervene, he stopped him with the merest shake of his head. Eventually, though, he invited Simon to contribute again.

  “Thank you, Harold. I propose that accreditation and selection be the business of a joint committee. That committee would comprise an Admissions Tutor from The Business School, an Admissions Tutor from the Faculty of Economics, a Dean from another Pucklebridge Faculty, and two appointees by Zombek’s Minister of Education.” He tried to imbue his words with an appropriate gravitas, whilst briefly smiling at each present. New Labour would have been proud of him.

  Bellamy himself responded. “I too have considered this matter. I’m sure your proposal makes good sense and would receive the support of the Governors. If there are no dissenters, we should proceed on that basis.” There were no dissenters. Howard Croft probably had a mental image of the Academic Registrar reaching under the table for her ‘concrete handbag’.

  Ms Bullion Bosom said, “As Dean of Economics, I shall appoint Chloe Hodgekiss as Admissions Tutor for the Zombek intake.”

  Bellamy said, “In committee matters, I have proxy authority from the absent Dean of the Business School. His Admissions Tutor therefore will be Simon McGuire.”

  The ‘Peacock’ surprised Simon by joining in and proposing that Harold Bellamy became the other Pucklebridge member of the proposed joint committee.

  The meeting continued for another half hour and all Simon’s points of detail were nodded through. Bellamy summarised them and they voted to put his proposal, with their endorsement, to the next meeting of the Board of Governors. They rose, and then congregated at one end of the room around a table with two small hotplates on which Pyrex coffee jugs were slowly bubbling.

  “Cream, Simon?” said a voice at his elbow. It was his unexpected new ally, Veronica Concrete-Handbag.

  “Please, er, Veronica.”

  She passed him a cup of coffee. In the saucer were two small pots of cream and a Digestive biscuit. That was strange. There were no other biscuits in sight. She read his mind. “I bring a small pack for elevenses. It’s in my handbag.”

  He wondered if they might taste of Portland Cement.

  She brought her own cup and stood, he thought, uncomfortably near, backing him into a corner. Seen close up she looked fantastically well scrubbed. There was not a trace of makeup, yet she had a shiny pink glow about her. Her eyes shone in the manner of an enthusiast, or possibly a raving lunatic, he thought. Her dress looked like a well-laundered bit of second-hand tenting. Even so, she’d helped him greatly. Mustn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, and all that.

  “You did very well for the University today, Simon. We need people who are not afraid to push back the boundaries.”

  Simon was pleased but then cautious. Those last few words were a gambit he’d used himself when trying it on. But surely this woman wouldn’t be so frivolous? The thought was frightening! He pulled the conversation back into mainstream. “Thanks, err, Veronica, for your help today. This sort of committee is new for me. I wanted my proposal to succeed, but expected opposition.”

  “I just did my job, Simon. The extra fee income will, of course, greatly help Pucklebridge. If the project does go ahead there will be a deal of hard work for you. I wouldn’t be surprised if you got promoted,” she added with good insight. “Mind you, with authority comes responsibility and that can sometimes leave one in dangerous isolation.”

  So, thought Simon, she is bright after all and obviously very used to university politics and such skulduggery. He said, “Howard Croft was a bit brash today.”

  “Oh, he’s not so bad really. It’s just that at the moment he thinks he’s in love with a young chap in one of his classes. He does this from time to time. He soon gets over it. He’s very sound on his subject and a good Dean. He’s no good at combat, though. Occasionally I have to give him a bit of a bashing, figuratively speaking, to bring him back to good manners. But Simon, never mind Croft, I wanted to say something to you. My husband and I, and a few like-minded chums, go off to Dartmoor at weekends. We’ve got an ex-MOD light armoured personnel carrier. We keep it in a farmer’s barn down there. We go out on night exercises on the moor, war games, orienteering and the like. We’re very relaxed about exact personal relationships, rank and all that, and it’s really great fun. We’re always on the lookout for kindred spirits. How do you fancy giving it a try?”

  Simon was about to risk a hand-bagging by saying, “Would my Parker-Knoll recliner fit into the vehicle?” but was saved by Harold Bellamy.

  “Well done, Simon. I shall prepare a covering note to your proposal and then make it an agenda item for the Governors’ meeting a fortnight today. He did well, didn’t he, Veronica?”

  She smiled through gritted teeth, nodded and turned on her heel. Simon resolved to leave all incoming phone calls to his answering machine. Night exercises! He suspected that Veronica ‘took no prisoners’, as they say.

  Ten minutes later, giving the old MGB a good thrashing along the bypass, he felt on balance very pleased. His proposal would go to the Governors. He would be able to influence the graduate intake. He would have reason to work with Chloe. He could collaborate closely with Luke Nweewe’s Ministry of Education. If the cost of all that was a weekend with a band of nutters storming a hillside and taking a flock of sheep prisoner, so what? No self-respecting, rising entrepreneur would quail! In a while, he briefly wondered what Veronica Concrete-Handbag’s well-filled bra was fashioned from. Surplus tin helmets?

  CHAPTER 14

  Simon ran down the stairs from his flat and gave three short rings on his landlady’s doorbell. Janet answered immediately.

  “Good morning Simon, you’re very prompt. Come on in. Coffee’s ready.”

  “Punctuality is the politeness of kings, Janet,” he said, following her through to the kitchen.

  “Louis XVIII, I believe, Simon.” She smiled at the pleasure
of the contest.

  This was an ongoing game between them, enjoyed by both. Like many other young people, his studies had been career focused. He had a first class honours in Maths and a PhD. But the reality was that he was trained, rather than educated. Janet, however, was from a generation and background that treasured a rounded knowledge, ‘an education’. He used the contest as a catalyst for wider knowledge. On the bookshelf by his armchair, he kept several reference books. There were copies of Brewers’ Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, The Cambridge Guide to English Literature and The Oxford Dictionary of Quotations. He used them as a starting point for a self-imposed reading programme.

  He sat at her table with his coffee and with what he hoped was a carefree grin. She wasn’t deceived. She had come to know him.

  “So, Simon, today’s the day, then? It’s going to turn out well, you know.”

  “Lecturers are rarely invited to meetings of the Board of Governors, Janet. But I’m to answer their questions when they consider my Zombek proposal. What will be their main concerns, do you think?”

  He thought she might say something to do with university income. She surprised him by actually saying, “They’ll want to assure themselves that you’ve got both the ability and resolve to see the project through to success.”

  “But what about the effect on Pucklebridge finances and education for the third world, Janet?”

  “All very interesting, Simon, but second order considerations, regrettably. Once the students start arriving, the income’s assured, anyway. And education for the third world is a matter for nice idealists like you. If the venture is a success, it’s another feather in their caps. Failure, however, might mean their ridicule in educational circles and even militate against a sought-after entry in the Honours Lists. Unthinkable!”

  He sipped and reflected. It was obvious when you thought about it. It was just that he hadn’t! He was word perfect about the facts, figures, syllabus and teaching programmes. He had not considered satisfying their self-interest. He thought it an elementary oversight, considering his own self-interest in the matter. But Janet didn’t know about that, yet.

  “Quote all the factual stuff you like but, above all, project quiet assurance, stability and an air of being on top of everything, Simon. Your suit, shirt and tie are exactly right for that, too.”

  He actually blushed at the reassurance. She really was a very considerate friend. Better, he thought, than he deserved.

  “Thank you, Janet. I shall take your advice. How I shall ever repay you for our friendship, I don’t know.”

  He would have been surprised at the possibilities that filled her mind. This was because he made a common mistake of the young in assuming that senior citizen ladies no longer harboured physical fantasies.

  “Janet, do you mind if I rehearse a few key points with you?”

  “Of course not. Rehearse away.”

  He recited aloud from memory some key syllabus considerations and the lecturing programme implications. He adopted the body language of quiet confidence. She ad-libbed responding questions. It was tremendously helpful. They went on to do the same for timescales.

  Eventually, he said, “I think that’s it, Janet. I feel confident. And I’ll concentrate on an appropriate image.”

  “Good, you’ll do well.”

  “I’m off then Janet. Just an hour to go.” He stood.

  They walked to her door. She reached up and kissed him on the cheek. “Good luck, dear. Remember, ‘Bestir yourself and then call on the gods, For heaven assists the man that laboureth.’”

  He thought about it. How typical! She was playing another round of their quotation game to unwind him. She was saying, ‘God helps those who help themselves.’ But what was the source of her quotation?

  “I’ll come back to you on that, Janet! ’Bye.”

  Simon parked the MGB in a corner of the campus car park. It was near the scene of his midnight encounter with Josie. There hadn’t been much calm and confident projection on that occasion! He made off to the buildings. There was an area marked with bollards near the entrance. A dark Bentley saloon glided to it. As Simon neared, the driver stepped out and opened a rear door. She was dressed in a smart business suit. It was Nadia Jennings. Her boss, Sir Maurice Steyne, Chairman of the Board of Governors, emerged. He handed her his briefcase and strode off. Nadia locked the vehicle, gave Simon a cool smile and fell in step with him.

  “Big day then Simon? Nice suit! Pierre Cardin?”

  “Er, yes. Thanks, I’ve got three of them,” he lied. “I’ve been looking forward to today. Can’t wait to get on with the Zombek project. Lots of kudos for Pucklebridge,” he said and, remembering Janet’s counsel, “Do you always accompany Sir Maurice?”

  “I do whatever he feels he needs done,” she replied enigmatically. “At Governors’ Meetings he likes verbatim notes on some key issues.”

  As they walked the corridor Simon had to move faster to match her athletic stride. When they reached the meeting suite he went to an anteroom, until summoned for his agenda item. Nadia joined her boss and others in the boardroom.

  He was alone. Janet had said, ‘Project quiet assurance and stability’. So that’s what he’d do. He’d once read a book where the author recommended those wishing success to conjure up a strong mental image that personified their desired qualities.This, apparently, would provide a focus for behaviour. By an hour later, when Nadia came to collect him, he envisaged himself as an implacable Christian Crusader in full body armour and chainmail, his huge shield decorated with the Cross of St. George.

  He clanked alongside her to the boardroom, right hand grasping his battle sword, left arm through the holding straps in his shield. He would persuade them of the merits of his devout beliefs by reasoned argument. But he would leave them in no doubt of his ability to deal with any erstwhile Saracen, so to speak. God would be with him!

  “Simon … Simon,” Nadia took his arm and said, “sit here.” He blinked hard, smiled and sat at the end of the boardroom table. She assumed he had a touch of stage fright in the presence of the Board. People sometimes reacted like that. She poured him a glass of iced water and returned to her seat just behind Sir Maurice’s right shoulder.

  Simon recognised nobody apart from the Chairman and his PA. The Vice-Chancellor was absent. Sir Maurice started the proceedings. He was brief. “Good morning, Mr McGuire, Simon. We’ve read your proposal. Now we’d like you to highlight issues, whenever you’re ready.”

  Simon psyched himself up, took three deep breaths, set his body language and launched in.

  “Good morning, sir, ladies and gentlemen. In essence I see my proposal as the next step in university-education evolution. It would put us at the forefront. It would enhance our already considerable reputation. Tailoring and delivering a course of education to a foreign country’s needs fills an emerging market niche. Foreign students already come here but at the moment they follow courses of study designed for general consumption. From our point of view, we would be collecting together, in a way that suits the customer, modules that we already deliver on various study courses. An additional benefit to us would be that the fee income would be outside the influence of the UK Government. Ultimately, other universities would catch up with us. But, in the medium term, we could reasonably expect to develop follow-up contracts with other countries.” Simon stopped, caught the Chairman’s eye and cued back to him.

  “Thank you Simon. Who would like to start, then?” He looked around the table.

  All the Governors had small signboards in front of them giving their names. Lady Caroline Blackmore made the running. She was a local doer of good works and champion of the underdog. She looked a sprightly 70-year-old and proved to have an immaculate Oxbridge accent.

  “Thank you. It seems to me that most of these children, students, will be leaving Africa for the first time. It will surely be stressful for some. We might cope with one or two youngsters feeling homesick, or not understanding our ways. But how would
we help two hundred?”

  “I’ve thought of that, Lady Caroline.” Simon hoped that was the correct form of address. “I proposed to the Zombekians that they send two mature people to reside here throughout the project. We would engage two local people to work alongside them. The team would be there to address all pastoral matters. Together they would be able to understand students’ concerns and deal with them within the context of British university life. The Zombekians have agreed to pay for the team.”

  Lady Caroline looked impressed and one or two others nodded approvingly. She didn’t follow up. Simon thanked God he had taken up Sally Mison’s suggestion for a pastoral team.

  “Next?” Sir Maurice offered.

  Brett Sandersley, a local industrialist, said, “I applaud the university staff for being outward looking. But are we sure we could cope with the Zombekians’ learning style? We’d look fools if we couldn’t. They come from a small developing country. In Britain we have a long history of structured academic learning. What do they have?”

  “In working up this proposal I’ve involved colleagues as appropriate. Our Academic Registrar has confirmed the academic accreditation of Zombek, for education in general and for A levels in particular.” He crossed his fingers under the table as he spoke. If he’d noticed, he’d have been surprised that Sir Maurice also tensed.

  Sandersley, a millionaire several times over, was astute and cautious. He came back on the issue. “That, if I may say so, is a good start that needs following up. I see this as crucial. I don’t wish to be associated with anything other than outstanding success. And that’s what I want for the university. I have a suggestion Chairman, if I may?”

  “Of course, Brett, please suggest away!”