Tim Connor Hits Trouble

by Frank Lankaster

  He paused for a moment suddenly apologetic. ‘But you know all that. I shouldn’t keep rattling on.’

  Tim found Henry’s ideas interesting, but was conscious that the afternoon was melting away. He gave Henry a non-committal look. Henry took this as a cue to continue, arguing that the introduction of democracy beyond parliamentary and local government was necessary to control elites, and that once the majority of people had access to ‘real power’ they would surely use it to distribute wealth and resources more fairly. ‘Liberty before equality’ he concluded, ‘and if we can get real liberty, equality will follow.’

  Tim was becoming impressed with the intensity of Henry’s conviction and decided to test him where it counts.

  ‘So is that how you run your department?’

  Henry was quick to reply. ‘Firstly it’s not my department, it’s our department. No, it’s not run in that way but only because Swankie won’t allow it. If you’re in a bureaucracy and you want to radically reform it like I did … do,’ he corrected himself, ‘you have to bide your time to change things. But I have to admit that I’ve spent too long biding my time. The opposition has taken over while I’ve been dreaming.’ A shadow of regret crossed his face. He shrugged his shoulders, returning to the present. ‘To be fair I think Rachel and Erica might like the idea of democratising the department and in fact the whole bloody place. Principles aside, it would reduce Swankie’s influence and even mine, pitiful as it is. Rachel thinks I shouldn’t be in the job anyway.’

  Not wanting to return to the personal stuff, Tim decided it was time to go.

  It was almost as an afterthought that Henry finally gave him a short briefing on teaching allocation for the coming year. The key information for Tim was that he would teach his specialism, the life course, as an option module, using psychological and sociological perspectives.

  ‘I’ll post a final version of the timetable to you,’ Henry concluded. ‘We can employ part-timers to cover any gaps. That’s if they’ll give us the money to pay for them. Otherwise we’ll have to jam groups together. Efficiency savings they call it. They keep citing some piece of research supposedly showing that class size and learning outcomes don’t even correlate. I’ve become highly suspicious of that phrase ‘research studies show.’ Tim was relieved that Henry had a basic plan for the delivery of the subject, however cobbled together it might be.

  He turned down an offer to return home with Henry for a spot of tea or ‘maybe a couple of whiskies,’ making the excuse that he needed to chase up some books and buy a few domestic items in town. They shook hands and Tim left Henry to his paper and pints. ‘Bloody Tories, it looks like they’re going to cut everything in sight now that they’ve got in,’ Henry mumbled into his paper as Tim left the pub.

  In fact Tim did have things to do in town. Relaxed, he ambled back along the embankment. The late afternoon sunlight danced on the water and glowed mellow on the Bath-stone buildings. It all melded gently with his alcoholic high. He felt an urge to poetry. Nothing came. But ‘this is not bad’ he thought, ‘it’s pretty damn good.’

  The centre of the city was lively. Street entertainers and traders, a few lingering tourists and some early returning students as well as shoppers swelled the streets and squares. Apart from a mild addiction to supermarket ‘special offers’ and ‘bogofs’, Tim was hardly an advertiser’s image of a ‘happy shopper.’ Even the prospect of becoming a homeowner had failed to stimulate an interest in furniture and DIY products. He once joked that he had so little interest in the décor of his home – at the time a rented bed-sit – that he couldn’t even remember the colour of the wallpaper, only to realise with a shock that this was actually the case. His indifference to consumption did not extend to books. He spent serious time in bookshops. He remembered noticing that one of the city’s main streets, Miller Street, had a Waterstones and he headed off there.

  As usual, he arrowed towards the Social Science section. Then came a J.P. Hartley moment as he checked the shelves for a copy of his own introductory textbook Psychology for Everyone. There was just one. Tim grunted in annoyance. He pulled the book from the shelves and placed it prominently on a display table. A lone copy was not encouraging. Three copies or more would suggest a decent level of demand. Less than three and he would collar a shop assistant and strongly recommend that a substantial order be made: at least a dozen. He would reassure the usually sceptical assistant that sales would be brisk. In Wash he could be optimistic that this might happen. He intended to list the title under the ‘Essential Texts’ section of his module outlines … if you can only afford one or two books … His students would be beating a path to Waterstones in droves. He hoped.

  He approached an assistant, a tall, spare young man who in his pale, hirsute way sported a passing resemblance to Che Guevara. Odd, Tim thought, how often young male bookshop assistants resemble Guevara.

  ‘Scuse me, I’m a local lecturer. Do you mind if I recommend a couple of books you might order for my students?’

  ‘No, no, we like suggestions from academics, it helps us in selecting stock. Please, go ahead.’

  ‘I notice you’ve only got a single copy of Connor’s excellent Psychology for Everyone. It’s a book I intend to use as a core text. You might order a dozen or so copies of it. Oh yes, and could you order a few copies of Mills’ classic The Sociological Imagination?’

  Sub-Guevara looked surprised.

  ‘Psychology for Everyone,’ he repeated apparently struggling to recall the book. ‘Ah, yes, I do know the title. It doesn’t sell that well Sir. Are you fairly sure we will be able to move that kind of quantity? There’s a text by, er… Harry Ambulance that’s…’

  ‘Ambulant,’ Tim corrected him. ‘Yes, I know that’s popular but you’re overstocked. I mean, you’re well stocked with that already. Connor’s text really is …’

  ‘Yes, it really is a useful book,’ the voice came from behind Tim. He spun round. Instant embarrassment. It was Erica Botham.

  ‘Oh, it’s Erica Botham, isn’t it? I’m… eh… just suggesting a couple of titles for my courses next term.’

  ‘I noticed,’ she smiled slightly mocking but not unfriendly. ‘What else were you going to suggest besides your hero Mills’ book and your own… er… blockbuster?’

  ‘Well,’ Tim spluttered his mind suddenly blank of any title. Erica Botham rescued him from further embarrassment.

  ‘Listen, you’re not the first author to push their own work. Make sure this guy has got your recommendations and then why don’t we have a coffee? I was going to contact you anyway. It seems we’re teaching on some of the same modules.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ve got the recommendations,’ said the Guevara look-alike battling a smirk. Straightening his face he added brightly ‘By the way, there’s a coffee and cake shop upstairs.’

  Tim was grateful to exit from the ludicrous situation he had created.

  ‘I could use a coffee. Why don’t we give upstairs a try?’

  ‘Ok, let’s do that. I know the place. It’s a bit twee but quite pleasant.’

  ‘I’ll buy,’ said Erica as they entered the coffee shop, ‘why don’t you grab that table by the window before it gets taken. What would you like?’

  ‘A double espresso.’

  ‘And a cake?’

  ‘I feel more like a sausage roll if that’s ok?’

  ‘It’s ok, but you look more like a cake.’

  They both smiled, Tim ruefully fearing that Erica had decided that he was, indeed, a bit of a cake-head.

  ‘A double espresso and sausage roll it is then.’

  ‘Actually I could manage a couple of rolls.’

  ‘Just this once, then,’ her lips pouted in simulated disapproval.

  Usually he preferred to take the initiative with women he was attracted to, but he found himself drawn in by the confident way Erica teased him and took control. It helped that she was every bit as beautiful as he remembered from his interview.

  Tim watched h
er as she waited in the queue. Her physical impact aside, she seemed quite different than in the semi-paranoia of his interview. Then, she had come across as coldly beautiful, a not quite human, perfect replicant. Now she was engaging and weirdly enticing. Her hair, a pure, natural blond, was streaked pink and green to the nape of her neck from where, caught in a tight band, it cascaded half way down her back. It was so thick and glossy that Tim found himself wondering how it felt to touch. Her eyes were a light metallic blue under violet make-up. She wore a tight purple synthetic jacket and matching skirt. The gleaming fabric stretched against the high points of her breasts and buttocks. Christ Almighty that is a shape from heaven… Lifting his gaze he found himself looking straight into her translucent eyes. She winked and smiled, her mouth a purple-painted rosebud on a bed of pearls.

  She must know the effect she creates. His balls stirred appreciatively and his cock began to stiffen. Not now, he tapped the bulge in his trousers reprovingly, not appropriate. The response was stiffer still. He buttoned his jacket and shifted his chair further under the table in search of cover. He picked up the menu and began reading it with fierce concentration.

  Erica made her way from the counter and placed the coffees, cake and sausage rolls on the table. ‘We’re lucky to get a table by the window. You can see most of Miller Street from here, right down to the cathedral.’ She noticed that Tim appeared more interested in his sausage rolls than in the prime view of Miller Street. One carnal appetite had taken over from the other.

  ‘You look like you’re ready for those.’

  ‘Yeah … I had a couple of pints earlier on an empty stomach. Beer always makes me feel hungry. I met Henry Jones in the Mitre for a chat about next term’s teaching. We didn’t talk much about work but at least I got a rough outline of my timetable.’

  ‘That sounds like Henry. He’d still be doing his teaching in the pub, like he did thirty Years ago, if he thought he could get away with it. He and Howard Swankie don’t get on, as I’m sure you’ll find out. Rumour has it that they got involved in a brawl a few years ago, but that was before Swankie was elevated to Dean,’ she sounded disparaging about both men. ‘Anyway I’ll leave you to form your own impressions of your new colleagues.’

  ‘By the way’ she continued ‘have you received one of these?’

  She produced a large white envelope from her bag.

  ‘What is it? No, I don’t think so. Maybe it went to my old address in Peyton.’

  ‘Well it’s a surprise of a kind. It’s a notification from Howard Swankie that he wants to meet with the Social Science team in week five. Usually the meeting with him is much closer to the end of term taking the form of a review of how the Social Science group has performed over the period. This seems a bit different. Maybe it’s because of the two new appointments – you and Aisha Khan. And Rachel and I have only been at the Green Park site for a few months. So there’s been a lot of change and maybe Swankie felt he had to give feed back earlier than usual. But maybe it’s something else. I guess we’ll just have to wait until later to find out. He must have something big on his mind to notify us so early.’

  Taking this as a cue to change the subject, Tim waved the remnants of a sausage roll in the direction of the street.

  ‘You’re right about the view. You can see some of the most impressive sights of the city from here. It sure beats South Essex, at least the part I lived in. The A13 out of London passes through the armpit of the country. The other is the A12 which isn’t much better. And it gets worse. Both roads end in Southend, home of candyfloss and permanently incontinent sea-gulls.’

  Because of his recent family traumas Tim was keen to avoid too much personal chat with Erica and, for that matter, with other new colleagues. He was still feeling his way at Wash, finding out rather than giving out. In any case Erica seemed happy to do most of the talking, filling him in on some of the less obvious aspects of life in and around Wash. She showed no inclination to reveal anything about her current personal life, but it wasn’t long before she began to talk quite openly about her life before Wash.

  She was the only child of wealthy parents, her father a defence contractor and her mother a fashion journalist. Amongst their careers and moneymaking, they found little time for her. They also found little time for each other. Her father was often abroad setting up deals which he considered to be of the utmost urgency, and her mother was an obsessive participant in a London literary set of bohemian tendencies. Erica usually found herself at home with at best one or other parent, rarely both, and sometimes with only a paid minder.

  Things changed as a result of an incident between herself and her father. She did not specify what exactly this was and Tim did not press her. He guessed that some kind of abuse was involved. The incident provoked a fierce row between her parents and precipitated the messy dismemberment of a long-dead marriage. By this time Erica was fourteen and when fully painted up, could pass for three or four years older. Her mother began to take her on a circuit of high living rather than leave her alone in the large house now occupied only by the two of them. This was no solution to either of their problems, expanding Erica’s worldly experience at the expense of her stability and education, and hampering her mother’s increasingly frenetic and hedonistic lifestyle. Her father for once intervened effectively and stumped up the money for a Catholic boarding school, Catholicism being his nominal religion.

  Surprisingly, the school worked out quite well for Erica. She had emerged from the rough waters of her sink or swim childhood with a maturity that was not mere precocity. Amongst the other girls she was a leader, on one occasion successfully organising a protest against the school’s attempt to extend ‘out of bounds’ to include the nearby village, that sixth formers had previously been allowed to visit without a ‘chaperone.’ By the time she was in her final year she had passed well beyond the influence of the nuns. When she was discovered in bed with another girl in what the nuns coyly described as ‘suspicious circumstances’ she was asked to leave, but with the concession that she could return to sit her ‘A’ levels the following summer. Her results were exceptionally good.

  Deliberately choosing not to go to a traditional university Erica opted to apply for and got accepted at Oxford’s modern university of Oxford Brookes. It proved the better choice. She graduated with a first and followed it up with an M.Phil at the same institution. After that she took a year out to travel and write. On the strength of a couple of pieces in national newspapers on gender relations in pre-modern cultures and one well received academic article, Rachel invited her to apply for a job at Wash. Erica was already aware of the emerging feminist group there and this was a major reason in persuading her to apply. The job was formally advertised but the process was essentially a headhunting exercise and she was duly appointed.

  As Erica and Tim talked, an undercurrent of mutual attraction began to develop. At least Tim felt it was mutual and in matters of sex and love he usually trusted his feelings despite recent discouraging outcomes. As they concluded their conversation, Erica gave a hint that her interest in him might extend beyond his literary achievements.

  ‘You must come round to dinner sometime after you’ve settled in. Maybe I’ll invite one or two other colleagues as well.’ She gave an arch smile. ‘But maybe not.’

  Tim wasn’t quite clear whether ‘maybe not’ referred to his invitation or to the colleagues’. He preferred to go with the second interpretation.

  They said goodbye outside Waterstones. His inhibitions lowered by alcohol, Tim felt an urge for physical contact. He could risk no more than a handshake. To his surprise Erica took his outstretched hand, raised it to her lilac lips and slowly and he thought sensuously kissed it twice. The roots of his hair pricked up in unison with his reactivated John Thomas.

  ‘Thanks,’ he gasped. ‘I mean goodbye, see you soon.’

  ‘Bye Timothy,’ he had never heard the three syllables of his name pronounced with such erotic suggestion.’ Could she be taking the pis
s?

  Tim gazed after her as she walked quickly away, her athletic legs and muscular behind, utterly magnificent. Just shows that first impressions can be misleading. I’m beginning to enjoy this place, and the job hasn’t even started yet.

  Chapter 5

  The Beginning of Term Party

  Aisha took a taxi onto campus for the beginning of term staff party. The idea behind the occasion was for staff to meet up in an informal setting before work took over. Well before the cab reached the university gates she heard snatches of guitar music and youthful singing. This was unlikely to be her new colleagues. She guessed that some kind of student event was also taking place. As the taxi drew up outside the main building she felt a shiver of excitement very different from the hyper-anxiety of her interview. She wanted to belong here and was eager for things to begin. The journey cost the thick end of ten pounds. Aisha handed the driver a note waving aside his feeble fumbles in search of change. Pleased, the driver decided to be helpful.

  ‘I think the student do is in the Union – that’s the big building over there, Miss. You’re a bit early though.’ He pointed to a square concrete and glass structure some fifty yards behind the main administrative centre.

  ‘Many thanks.’ Aisha was flattered to be mistaken for a student. She checked her watch. It was almost an hour to eight o’ clock when the party was due to begin. In her eagerness to be on time she risked being amongst the first to arrive and perhaps not knowing anybody. She could hear the music more clearly now and decided to pass the time by tracking it down. It had been a hot day and a soft haze was beginning to settle over campus. Several buildings were already lit up, their light merging with the sun’s early evening glow. She was happy to be part of this enclave of civilised enquiry and human relations. Or so she supposed it to be. She glanced towards the student union and near-by residential blocks. The music was not coming from that direction. She turned to look further up the campus. Beyond the teaching blocks on an open stretch of ground was a period-built mansion circled by a high, solid wood fence. She guessed that this might be the Vice Chancellor’s residence. The voices and music seemed to come from some way beyond. As she strolled up the campus the fragments of music began to cohere into recognisable melodies, unexpectedly more sixties than noughties.