Tim Connor Hits Trouble

by Frank Lankaster

  Swankie regarded himself as a progressive reformer, committed to working within the system to improve it along with his own prospects. He was an enthusiast for what he termed ‘techno-administrative led’ change. He believed violent political action within a democracy was illegitimate, tending at worst to what he referred to as ‘left Fascism.’ Tim sensed that Swankie was more interested in flushing out where he, rather than Mills stood on these matters. His response was careful but uncompromising. He stated his agreement with Mills that there were circumstances in which violence could be justifiable as a means to change. He gave a few examples from British history and from the developing world where violent regime change appeared justified. Swankie looked thoughtfully at Tim.

  Trying to get on a roll, Tim moved quickly on to pick out a put-down that Swankie had slipped into his question. ‘And no, I don’t think academic hero worship is very helpful. In fact it can mislead. Actually that was one of the worst things about the sixties; the tendency to generate cultural idols. It’s got even worse now with the cult of celebrity. At least then there was sometimes a relationship between heroes and causes. Some popular heroes were also meaningful role models, like Martin Luther King but also a boxer like Muhammad Ali or a musician like John Lennon. They didn’t merely articulate their principles, they acted on them. Today there is little meaningful link between the celebs and their followers. The celeb’s lifestyle is disassociated from most young people’s lives … irrelevant … It has little or no positive role model value at all. The celebs distract young people from the good and useful things they might do. It’s often little more than mutual cultural masturbation. Pointless.’

  He stopped, immediately he realised some of the panel might find his ‘masturbation’ analogy inappropriate if not offensive. He could be talking himself out of a job.

  Swankie shot a concerned glance in the direction of the two women. Both looked less concerned than Swankie himself. ‘Hmm … perhaps I can move us on. Dr Steir, I think you wanted to ask Dr. Connor a couple of questions about teaching methods?’

  ‘Yes, indeed, Professor Swankie, moving on seems a good idea. Dr. Connor, you’re no doubt aware that in an institution such as ours teaching has become an even more important yet difficult task than in the past. What can you bring us from your extensive experience with younger students?’

  She paused for a moment, moving her head rapidly up and down in apparent approval of her own question, her hair gyrating like a giant tomato plant caught in a crosswind. ‘By the way I was surprised that you didn’t use PowerPoint for your presentation, it makes things easier for both the audience and the presenter.’

  Tim had anticipated a tricky ride from Dr. Steir, but this was decidedly hostile. For a moment his concentration faltered and he flannelled to buy time. ‘I wouldn’t presume to tell colleagues here how to teach if I were appointed. I’m sure most of them have developed their own methods. Of course, these days there’s an expectation colleagues will exchange ideas, and I’m sure I’d be part of that.’

  Regaining momentum he gave a routine run-through of his use of a variety teaching techniques and resources, concluding with a more subjective note. ‘What I try to do is to keep a working dialogue going with all students or as many as possible. There are many ways of doing that. Face-to-face is usually best but I use whatever means seems appropriate to the student or students in question.’ Again he had the odd sensation that although his comments were sincere, they felt strained and even false. Momentarily distracted by this thought he barely noticed the Dean bringing Erica Botham in.

  Her tone was prickly and challenging. ‘Dr Connor, that all sounds quite plausible but I’d like to return to the issue of gender, have you considered that teaching itself might be a gendered activity? And, if so, how do you respond to that?’

  So far Erica Botham had been up-staged by her more substantial and (Tim assumed) senior colleague. He focused fully on her for the first time. Despite her attempt to adopt an impersonal, business-like persona, he found it impossible not to notice she was startlingly beautiful. This was a Bridgitte Bardot, an Ana Ivanovich moment. The film or the game of tennis becomes subsidiary even irrelevant in the face of the overwhelming beauty of the performer. Despite himself, what gripped him about Erica Botham was not her question but Erica Botham herself. It got worse. From a remote part of his over-stimulated mind sprang an image of her dancing in a swirl of diaphanous veils with no under-cover back up. He was in severe danger of becoming terminally distracted. Mercifully his instinct for survival asserted itself and he managed a shot at answering what he thought might be her question. He battled on as the surreal image lingered. ‘A gendered activity? Of course. Most activities are. I aim for a balance of involvement from both sexes. I mean all genders,’ he said, swiftly rephrasing to avoid any offence to the two women who he suddenly and for no apparent reason intuited might be lesbians.

  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.