Bums on Seats

by Tom Davies

  “Right, I’ll persuade her. We’ll be there in about 2 hours,” he said, and broke the connection.

  *************

  “Veronica, wake up.” Mark gave her a little shake. She reluctantly opened her eyes. The Range Rover was parked in a lay-by. The escort Jeep and squaddies were 20 yards further up the concrete.

  “Where are we, Mark? Why have we stopped?”

  “We’re only about ten miles from Kumbi, the capital. You’ve got about one and a half hours before your meeting with a junior Minister from the Ministry of Education, a number of Head Teachers, and Simon McGuire.”

  “I feel absolutely drained, Mark. I’ll never manage.” Anyone who knew Veronica at Pucklebridge would have been astounded at the admission. But she felt there was little point of pretence between them. “I don’t know how you keep going, Mark!”

  He thought there was every point in pretence, so he didn’t enlighten her. “I thought you looked all in. You’ll obviously want to do well this afternoon, so I have a suggestion. Have you heard of creatine?”

  “No, what’s that, Mark?”

  “It’s a substance that’s given to athletes to enhance their short-term performance by boosting their energy. It’s not a narcotic, or illegal. Footballers are sometimes given it to help them keep going through a match.”

  “And what’s your suggestion, Mark?”

  “We’re two miles from my army base. I’m a personal friend of the Medical Officer. He would help at my request.”

  “And it’s not narcotic, illegal or habit forming?” questioned Veronica.

  “Absolutely not. It’s given to our army footballers and other athletes from time to time. It will just see you through the afternoon. Trust me.”

  Fifteen minutes later they halted outside the camp medical block. Mark introduced her to his colleague. A few minutes after that he rolled up her sleeve and injected a standard measure. Her meeting was now 45 minutes away.

  “That will keep you going for the immediate future but will progressively wear off. It will have completely worn off in about four hours from now. I hope I have helped you?”

  They thanked him and departed.

  *************

  “Hi, Veronica, how did you get on?”

  “Oh, it was fine, Simon, everything was fine. The teaching staff are very professional; all subject matter well up to standard. The student teachers are bright and dedicated. I’m impressed.” She felt it reasonable to make such all-embracing statements, despite having much stronger recollections about the first of her two visits. Still, she thought, there couldn’t have been all that much difference could there? And who would know anyway? “How did your programme go, Simon?”

  “I visited two sixth form colleges and met lots of final year students. They were a good cross-section of Zombekian A level kids. I’m in no doubt we can do good work with them and that the majority will graduate.”

  As Simon’s co-ordinating efforts were going to be crucial to the success of the project there had been no attempt to misrepresent reality. Consequently, he now knew that Pucklebridge Business School and the Economics faculty would have to work very hard indeed to steer some of the undergraduates to academic success. Mind you, he thought it was a very worthwhile venture into educational engineering. He would be doing his bit for the third world too.

  He was also influenced by an item of personal mail delivered to his hotel that morning. The letter was from a bank in St Helier Jersey. It welcomed him as a customer, thanked him for his initial deposit of £10,000 sterling and looked forward to serving him. Before opening the letter he’d never heard of them.

  Simon and Veronica were shown to their seats in the upper cabin of the overnight jumbo to Heathrow. There was an adjacent pair halfway along the aisle. Simon felt relief. As it happened he’d worried needlessly. Their meeting that afternoon had gone well. By its conclusion the Junior Minister had established a joint working party to troubleshoot any problems that might arise in the Pucklebridge-Zombek project. An official Government car had whisked them and their luggage to the airport. There was no sign of Mark Kwame or an army escort vehicle.

  As the afternoon wore on, Simon had thought that Veronica seemed to tire somewhat. He wondered if her two-day stint had been too punishing for a European woman new to Zombek and its ways.

  Veronica toyed with her dinner on the plane and only drank one glass of champagne. After a brief visit to the loo, she reclined her seat, kissed him briefly on the cheek and settled to sleep in her own corner. She hardly stirred until they started the fifty-mile glide down, after crossing England’s south coast. And so, accreditation of Zombek’s educational standards was confirmed.

  CHAPTER 17

  “Good morning. Simon McGuire here. May I speak to the Vice-Chancellor please?”

  “Would you hold please, Mr. Mcguire?”

  “Good morning Simon. Mison here. What may I do for you?”

  “I returned an hour ago from Zombek, sir. I thought you should be the first to know that Veronica Hamlyn and I are entirely satisfied with their educational standards. As Academic Registrar she will affirm their accreditation. As your Principal Lecturer on the project, I endorse her findings.”

  “Splendid, that’s splendid, Simon. No doubt I shall receive a formal report from Mrs Hamlyn. But it’s good of you to keep me aware at the earliest. You’ve done well.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Look, its Friday morning now. No doubt you’ll need to rest up until Monday. These trips are superficially attractive, but one finds them so wearing. I’ll ask Mrs Mison to invite you to dinner in the near future. Then you can tell us the detail of your trip at first hand. We did so enjoy your last visit.”

  “Thank you, sir. Goodbye then.”

  Mison broke the connection. Simon replaced the handset and settled back, coffee pot to hand, in his recliner. Despite the attractions of the delightful Sally Mison, he might prefer to avoid the dinner invitation. In retrospect, he’d felt part of a plan he didn’t understand on the last occasion at their house. Also, looking back to the recent past, he felt that Veronica Hamlyn had just indulged a personal gratification with him on the Jumbo. These thoughts were a surprise. Like most young men of his generation, Simon had been indoctrinated to believe that men searched for sex. Women, on the other hand, sought romance. And yet again, what about the episode with Josie in the Volvo? That bore out his new thinking. She had been the pro-activator. Perhaps the ‘talking head’ pundits on TV and elsewhere were all speaking cobblers?

  It was a leisurely day. He slopped around in jeans and t-shirt, listening to music and catching up on mail. He’d accumulated a week’s worth of mail before going to Zombek. It was a considerable pile. A preliminary sort revealed that half was easily spotted junk mail. He recalled a lecture by the management guru, John Harvey-Jones. The great man had advocated pinning a plastic shopping bag to the inside of the front door and simply jettisoning unsolicited post immediately on its arrival. Great, simple, bugger the wasted rainforests! In any case, when personal email and the electronic office really took off, there’d be a glut of unused paper, or too much forest!

  When he’d sifted, the most interesting item to emerge was a follow-up from the bank in St. Helier, assigning him a pin number, an account code and a cheque book. By this time, Simon had opened a bottle of red and smeared a couple of buttered, toasted slices of whole-grain bread with great dollops of Brussels pate. He squeezed a quarter lemon over the delightful result, went back to the recliner and sank his jaws into the knocked-up lunch. Heaven!

  I’m committed now, he thought. Reputation, livelihood, fortune and future pledged to the success of the Zombek project. He recalled a valuable lesson learned as a 10-year-old from his late father. They were on a seaside holiday. All week he’d pestered Dad to take him on the big scenic railway ride. On the Friday, Dad agreed and they clambered aboard the first car. The thing clattered and chuntered, up and up, to the top of the structure. As it climbed and cli
mbed, Simon began to feel unsure. When it reached the top and poised, revealing the first terrifying plunge, he’d whispered, ‘I don’t think I want to go on after all, Dad!’ His father said, ‘We’ll be all right, Simon,’ and put a strong arm around his shoulders. When the ride ended, his Dad said, ‘Sometimes, Simon, you start things in life and there’s no getting off till the end of the ride. You just have to prepare yourself beforehand, and then see it through to the end. And it always helps to have a friend nearby.’

  On impulse Simon picked up the phone and dialled Janet. “Hello, Janet, it’s me. I’m back. I wonder if you’re free to come up here for lunch with me on Sunday?”

  “What a lovely thought Simon. I’d be delighted. Can you bear to toil over a hot stove after your Zombek marathon? Tell you what, you provide the main course and I’ll bring the pudding. You’ll need to tell me what you’re cooking and I’ll bring something suitable to follow.”

  “Janet, you’re a wonder. I’ll do fish pie made with fresh salmon and serve it with a simple green salad. OK? How about one pm to eat?”

  “Fine, I’ll see you then. I’m dying to hear about your adventures. Thanks for your card by the way. And, as of now, I’m stopping eating until Sunday!” she laughed.

  “What pudding will you bring then?”

  “Ah, that would be telling!”

  “That’s not fair. I told you my menu.”

  “I never said I’d be fair if you did, though.” She laughed again. “’Bye Simon.”

  Janet was more than just a good friend. She was a substitute for much loved and missed parents. He resolved to talk everything out with her after their lunch.

  On Saturday, Simon shopped for the ingredients for his lunch date with Janet. Later he sat at the word processor and drafted a report, to the Senior Management Executive Committee, on the Zombek trip. That might be amended after he’d talked things through. He drifted through the rest of the day.

  At one point he called up his investment package on the computer. Both his current selections were climbing nicely. Should he start to invest the money from his new windfall? This was a problem he wouldn’t share with Janet. He’d already resolved to speak with no one about that. His father, again, the font of so many of his attitudes to life, had told him, ‘Share a secret and double the jeopardy.’ Some actions and events in life, he said, might be so risky or discreditable that, if they really must be embarked upon, they should remain one’s sole and personal responsibility.

  In the early evening, Simon made the rich sauce for his fish pie. He gently fried shallots in butter then added a couple of glasses of white wine. When it was much reduced he added some fish stock and boiled it to reduce again. Finally, he stirred in a carton of double cream and simmered it until the consistency was about right. He strained the lot through a sieve into a jug and left it to chill in the fridge overnight.

  In the late evening he watched, for the nth time, the old James Bond film Diamonds are Forever and concluded that, by and large, it was his favourite from the entire series. He especially enjoyed the cameo performance of the two murderous mini baddies, Wint and Kydd.

  Before going to bed, Simon dipped into a Reference Bible and tracked down Janet’s quotation about labour of love, committing it to memory.

  Sunday morning and he felt completely recovered from Zombek. After a light breakfast he put on tracksuit and trainers and jogged the mile to the newspaper shop. He stuffed a copy of the Sunday Times and a box of Belgian chocolates for Janet into a plastic bag and jogged the return journey. He’d been right, he was back to his normal condition, not huffing or puffing too much from the practical work out. He settled in the chair with the business supplement and a glass of orange juice for an enjoyable hour before starting preparations for lunch.

  Time for action! Simon propped up his computer-printed recipe and methodically worked through the stages. Granny had shown him this dish during a school holiday when he was sixteen. A decade later, he’d added the recipe to his collection on hard disk.

  Check that the ready-made puff pastry is at room temperature.

  Check that the sauce is back up to room temperature.

  Cut the skinned salmon fillet, and skinned cod fillet, into chunks.

  Heat some oil and sauté some shallots and button mushrooms.

  Roll out the pastry until it’s bigger than the pie dish.

  Trim off a strip to use later to seal the pie rim.

  Mix the fish chunks together with some chives in the pie dish; add seasoning to suit.

  Pour the shallots and mushrooms in.

  Add the pre-prepared rich sauce.

  Stir the whole together.

  Brush the rim of the dish with beaten egg yolk and water.

  Press the spare bit of pastry round the rim and brush this too.

  Put the rolled-out pastry over the lot, trim and crimp the edges.

  Use the rest of the egg and water to brush this all over. Cut three short lines across the middle, put in fridge to settle.

  Simon felt, as usual at this point, a little glow of satisfaction. It was probably because Granny had always been lavish with praise in return for effort. He pressed on, washing, cutting and mixing the salad. Finally, he combined a little olive oil, wine vinegar and mustard as a simple dressing. Three quarters of an hour to go! Just time to shower and change while the oven came up to temperature.

  At five minutes to one Janet gave three short rings on the bell. He bounded down the stairs. “Hi, Janet. Great to see you. You look wonderful!” He leaned forward and kissed her cheek.

  “That’s nice dear, thank you. You’re very thoughtful. I’ve tried to dress casually.” And she had. But she’d also taken immense care to make the very best of herself, without making it obvious, but she wasn’t going to tell Simon that.

  “What shall I carry, Janet?”

  She passed over a tray with white linen cover. “You carry the dessert. I’ll bring the flowers for the table.” She stooped and picked up a vase from between her feet. It contained spring flowers from the garden, but not yet any water. Simon led the way back up.

  In his kitchen they swapped roles. Simon ran water in the vase, and then took it through to the table. Janet uncovered two tall sundae glasses ready for the fridge.

  “That looks superb, Janet. Does it have a name?”

  “If it does, I don’t know it. It’s made from fresh peaches, grapefruit and mandarins, marinated overnight in rum. The layer of chocolate mousse is made from bitter chocolate, egg whites, cream and caster sugar. The cream topping has just a little more than a hint of kirsch. If you find you really like it, we’ll call it Simon’s Surprise!”

  Lunch was a huge success. The dishes were stacked in the sink. The empty Chablis bottle consigned to the pedal bin. The percolator had bubbled its way to a perfect brew.

  “Kick your shoes off, Janet. Pull that lever and recline. I’ll do the same if you don’t mind.”

  She complied, gave a luxurious wiggle of released toes and said, “Well, you wrote that Africa is always producing some novelty, was Pliny right?”

  “Well done, Janet. I thought you’d soon suss that one out. The proverb was made in allusion to the Greek belief that Africa abounded in strange monsters, you know.”

  “I thought you took your own strange monster with you on the plane, Simon?”

  “Ouch! Miaow, Janet!” They both laughed with gusto. “Actually, once we reached Zombek, I hardly saw La Hamlyn at all. And coming home she barely said a dozen words.” Simon hoped Janet wouldn’t ask about the outward journey. Happily she didn’t pick up on it.

  “And was the trip a success, Simon?”

  “There were two outcomes and I’d like to hear your views on them. More coffee?”

  “Simon, dear, I’ve been all agog for two days. I decided before you rang, that if you didn’t tell me, I’d cancel your tenancy and have you evicted onto the street, furniture and all,” she twinkled. “I’d love more coffee, please.”

  He guf
fawed at the unlikely eviction prospect, and topped up both cups whilst sorting out the starting point in his mind.

  “Well, I went to assess the potential undergraduates. I was given complete access to dozens of A level, final year students. Based on that experience, I’d say that Zombekian youngsters are, in general, good-natured, hard-working and nearly an academic year behind the equivalent student in this country. In other words, their A levels are not equivalent to ours.”

  “What did Veronica Hamlyn think, Simon?”

  “She went to a couple of teacher training colleges to assess the quality of teachers and the content of their syllabi. She states her complete satisfaction and will affirm the accreditation of Zombek’s academic standards for Pucklebridge’s purposes, Janet.”

  “And what will you report, Simon?”

  “Well, since I want the project to proceed, I’ll say I’m satisfied with the prospective undergraduates. Then what I’ll do, Janet, is devise a plan of studies which will help them get up to speed. In other words, I’ll fudge it and deal with the consequences.”

  “That sounds decisive, Simon. Will you get a professorship out of it?”

  “The Vice-Chancellor has implied so.”

  “Well then, Simon, ‘There is a tide in the affairs of men, which, if taken at the flood leads on to fortune’

  “If Shakespeare had been alive today, Janet, I guess he’d just have had Julius Caesar say, ‘Sometimes, you’ve simply got to go for it’.”

  “Well done. Is there anything else you want to tell me, Simon?”