Tim Connor Hits Trouble

by Frank Lankaster

  Self-destruction, driven by excess or narcissism, still less through the slow drip of existential despair had no appeal to the younger Henry although he found the phenomenon interesting in archetypal others. Back then life was too much fun for him to seek an early exit. Better to be a campus king than a rock god worshipped by the adoring but amorphous mass. More than thirty years on, contrary thoughts occupied his mind. Self-awareness was catching up with reality and reality was not quite what it used to be. As Oscar put it, he had a great future behind him. Judged by the definitive Freudian tests of achievement in work and love, the unavoidable verdict was that he’d messed up. Or, in the brute win or lose terms of his re-set profession, he had failed his assignment. At sixty-two there was no chance of a resubmission. He had no children, his relationship was sliding into mutual loathing, and he had virtually nothing solid or permanent to show from his long professional life. Set against that litany of absence and inadequacy, an extended period of youthful and early middle-aged self-indulgence seemed flimsy in the balance. More so now that it was over.

  To start again! But start what again? As far as women were concerned his easy charm of yesteryear had turned into a reverse charisma apparently so boring that few stayed around long enough to grant him a decent conversation let alone indulge him in the pretence of flirtation. Not much mileage there, then. Work was not quite such a dead end. Even if it was too late for him to publish he still sporadically enjoyed teaching. He could still put in a fair shift as long as the new model army of smart arses didn’t try to tell him how to do it. He liked the students and he knew most of them liked him. Probably, most of them did. That was it! He would end his career on a teaching high. He’d show his detractors that he could still hack it. Fuck the technology! Fuck the jargon! Fuck the new fangled, bone-brained directors of this, that and the fucking other! He’d fucking show them! Then he would retire at peace with himself. The voice in his head was at full throttle: but not quite loud enough to drown out a quiet whisper – Henry, you’re kidding yourself.

  ‘Henry, stop talking to yourself.’

  It was Bradley Purfect.

  ‘You Brits are so eccentric. You were definitely mumbling to yourself. No doubt profound stuff. Why don’t you share it with me? I’m in need of a good conversation. Why don’t I join you for a walk and a chat?’

  In normal circumstances Brad Purfect was not Henry’s idea of someone likely to throw up a worthwhile conversation. He almost preferred the over-earnestness and aggressive egocentricity of American business people to the same qualities packaged in the form of a crude, Marxist pedant. Strident self-promotion elided with cultural myopia seemed to affect even American lefties and Brad more than most. But today Henry was willing to be more welcoming, if only to escape his own gloomy thoughts. He fell into step with Brad.

  ‘Hi Brad. I’m sorry you’re feeling neglected. So what have you been up to?’

  ‘I’ve been trying to get a handle on the left in this country. I thought Britain was the home of real socialism but nobody seems to talk seriously about getting rid of capitalism. Oh, yes. I hear lots about how greedy capitalists are, but not much about how to replace the capitalist system or even what to replace it with. What we need is a good old fashioned revolution.’

  Henry had no wish to discuss this issue, but any distraction, even in the form of Brad, was better than being left with his own company. He’d go along with it for a few minutes. Brad’s gung-ho, roll on the revolution attitude had the unaccustomed effect of making him feel quite moderate and sensible. He made a few perfunctory remarks about the almost certain futility of attempting violent revolution in Britain: it wouldn’t work and the vast majority wouldn’t support it. Brad grudgingly conceded that ‘the conditions weren’t yet quite right’ but was reluctant completely to dismiss the possibility.

  They continued to bandy ideas about, Henry taking the opportunity to launch into a monologue on his pet theories of ‘institutional democracy’ and ‘the industrialisation of the education system.’ Unaware that he was doing most of the talking Henry almost felt that he was having a half-decent conversation with Brad.

  He glanced at Brad, who wasn’t used to being out-talked.

  ‘Sorry, Brad, you’ve started me off. Let’s drop the serious stuff. You didn’t answer me when I asked you what you’ve been doing in your time over here.’

  ‘No, don’t worry. I agree with a lot of what you say. At least you’ve got some idea of how we might move forward. But talk about ‘a long revolution’, gradual change – I mean real change - could take forever or more likely just not happen. There’s a need for leadership, some sort of vanguard, not violence necessarily. I’d go a lot further than…’

  Brad was about to expand on how much further he would go when Henry abruptly stopped walking, giving him a perplexed look. As far as he could see the American had scarcely ‘agreed’ with anything he had said: rather the opposite. He remembered why he avoided arguments with Brad. It was not so much that the discussion went round in circles rather Brad’s logic was highly linear and rigid, as if concession in argument personally undermined him. Henry decided to change tack altogether.

  ‘Let’s talk about something else. I’m taking time off from planning the revolution at the moment, “temporally like Achilles”, as someone said.’

  ‘Achilles?’

  ‘Yes, you know, Achilles?’

  ‘Not personally but I think I know who you’re referring to. Wasn’t he some ancient who had something wrong with his foot? Anyway who said they were temporally like Achilles?’

  ‘Dylan.’

  ‘Thomas?’

  ‘Bob.’

  ‘Bob Dylan?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘It sounds like the sort of thing he’d say or rather croak.’

  ‘Don’t tell me you don’t like his Bobness. If it helps, Abraham Lincoln might also have said it.’

  ‘I doubt that. It’s not the sort of remark he’d make. But if he did he would have meant something different than Bob Dylan. Not that anyone can work out what Dylan does mean, assuming he means anything, which I doubt.’

  The two academics had resumed walking. Henry was glad they’d dropped the testy topic of revolution but didn’t particularly want to stay with the Dylans or Abraham Lincoln either. Typically Henry’s conversation veered between the highly intellectual and the lowly vulgar. Deciding that the first was beyond Brad and the second would be seen as beneath him, he made a rare effort to hit the bland middle territory that he imagined was Brad’s natural habitat.

  ‘Brad,’ Henry spoke with exaggerated emphasis as he tried to redirect the conversation, ‘have you seen much theatre since you came over here? It’s about the best cultural experience this country has to offer. Or what else have you been doing to entertain yourself?’

  ‘Oh, the usual things.’ Brad paused as if the switch in the conversation had sparked a reminder. ‘By the way have you picked up your invitation to the party that Aisha Khan is putting on at her place? I must say it’s very kind of her, quite a sociable gesture, especially as she’s only been working here for a few months I believe. In the States it’s usually senior colleagues that host departmental get-togethers.’

  Henry was interested. He liked Aisha Khan but hadn’t seen much of her other than when they had chatted in the so-called staff-room.

  ‘No, nothing has come my way yet. If it had, I would have noticed, I checked out my emails last night.’

  ‘The invitation came as a card. I picked up mine from my tray. You’re sure to have been invited. In fact the card is a general invitation to all of us - partners and kids are welcome too. I’m sure your card will be in your tray.’

  This piece of news gave Henry a convenient exit opportunity. ‘Brad, as always it’s been a pleasure to talk with you. Right now though, I want to check that I’ve been invited to this delightful young woman’s party.’

  ‘Sure, you’re invited and you better behave yourself you old rogue. You r
ealise she’s married.’

  ‘I’d be surprised if she wasn’t.’

  ‘How about a cup of coffee once you’ve picked up your invitation?’ Brad called after the departing Henry.

  Already well on his way Henry was almost out of hearing range. He decided to pretend that he was.

  Henry used to look forward to checking his in-tray. As well as work- related bumph and publishers’ catalogues, it served as a conduit for the odd personal message or letter. Now even personal communications came as emails – when they came at all. Sometimes he failed to spot them in the dump of official rubbish and global spam. Maybe he should get a mobile phone and learn to text properly. Otherwise he risked losing his younger friends and contacts.

  He reached the bank of trays at a brisk geriatric jog. His tray bulged from neglect. On top was a bunch of publishers catalogues. He tossed them towards a nearby waste bin missing it by a handsome margin. Underneath he found a large mauve envelope with his name embossed on it in large gold italic script. Never since he had seen it inscribed on his PhD certificate had the name of ‘HENRY JONES’ looked so pucker. He opened the envelope carefully to avoid tearing the invitation card. Inside there was the expected invitation and an added personal message from Aisha saying how much she had enjoyed their recent conversation and that she hoped that they would talk again soon. Henry flushed with pleasure.

  Chapter 17

  Aisha’s Party

  Tim Connor had decided that Aisha’s party offered him a rare opportunity for a public display of his credentials as a family man, diminished, as he conceded, though they were by recent events. After much hesitation, Gina agreed to come over with Maria. Reluctantly she also agreed to stay over-night at Tim’s place. Tim was pleased, though less so when she emphasised that she would be sleeping in the spare room with Maria. Still he had no serious expectation of a recall to favour, temporary or otherwise. And there was his slow burning relationship with Erica to consider. On reflection he realised that Gina’s insistence on keeping a distance between them made sense. In any case, her loyalties now lay elsewhere. It was just that somewhere in the back of his mind he kept hearing a barely audible whisper, ‘you never know’.

  The afternoon of the party found him making a determined effort to dress smartly – more for the sake of Gina and Maria, who was beginning to notice and comment on such matters, than to impress his assembled colleagues.

  ‘What do you think I should wear for this party? I still have most of my clothes from when we were together.’ Tim shouted for sartorial advice from his bedroom to Gina who was with Maria in the guest bedroom.

  ‘It’s not a formal do, is it? Wear something clean and comfortable. You used to look presentable in that white cotton smock and beige linen trousers. Wear them with those open strapped sandals you bought in Turkey.’

  ‘I don’t want to look too hippie, there’ll be a squad of the suit and tie boys there, certainly the Dean and maybe others. Aisha Khan has been pretty inclusive in her invitations. And she and her husband are Muslims of some kind so this isn’t going to be a let it all hang out affair. At least I’ll be amazed if it is. There may not even be any alcohol.’

  ‘Wear a suit and tie yourself, then, if you’re that concerned.’ Gina sounded terse. She still found everyday chat with Tim a strain. But she was determined to keep to their agreement to avoid post-break-up bitterness and sniping. And she wanted Maria to be able to maintain a relationship with her father. She reverted to faux cheerful mode.

  ‘Tim, we’re ready now. It’s time to stop prettying yourself up. Maria, go and show your father how nice you look.’

  Maria took a couple of steps and then hesitated. ‘Why can’t he come and see me instead.’

  Tim overheard Maria’s remark and quickly went over.

  His daughter was dressed in a blue and red party dress with her hair tied back with a striped ribbon of the same colours. Her skin, almost as dark as her mother’s, shone against the silk dress

  ‘Wow! You look great, as pretty as your mum.’

  Maria gave him an uncertain look but was drawn by the compliment. The moment hung in the balance. Then she tumbled towards him. ‘Pick me up Daddy, I want to give you a big kiss.’

  Tim swung her off her feet lifting her high in the air. They exchanged noisy kisses.

  ‘Put me down now Daddy, you only deserve one kiss so far.’

  ‘So far what?’

  ‘I don’t know, you might get another one after the party. Can we go now?’

  Gina drove them to Aisha’s place in Tim’s car. There were already several vehicles, some luxury class, parked in the wide semi-circular drive. She managed to squeeze the old Volvo in between a gold Mercedes and a gleaming jet-black four-by-four.

  ‘Well done, a scratch on either of those could cost the thick end of half a grand,’ said Tim.

  A tall Asian man with a head of hair like a lion’s mane greeted them at the door. He was wearing a dark suit, white shirt and bow tie.

  ‘Good afternoon, my name is Waqar Khan, I’m Aisha’s husband. I assume you must be Tim Connor. Aisha has talked about you from time to time. She mentioned that you are rather tall which is how I recognised you.’

  ‘That’s right and this is Gina and our daughter Maria.’

  ‘I’m delighted to meet you. I’ve been looking forward to putting faces to the names Aisha has mentioned.’ He smiled down at Maria, ‘That’s a lovely dress you’re wearing, beautiful colours.’

  ‘Thank you, Mummy bought it for me,’ Maria’s face lit up.

  ‘The party is in the extension at the back of the house and spilling out into the garden,’ Waqar continued. ‘We thought we would keep it as open as possible – there are a few children here and we want to give them space to play in. And on a decent day like this people enjoy gathering round the pool.’

  The noise of the party got louder as they followed Waqar through the house. After passing through several rooms they arrived at a large glass extension that opened out onto a spacious garden area. Both were crowded, mainly with people Tim didn’t know. Waqar called his wife over to welcome the new arrivals. She quickly left a group of women who were engaged in an animated discussion. Waqar then made his excuses, bowed politely and moved off to join a group of similarly formally dressed men.

  ‘I’m so pleased to see you all,’ Aisha smiled, opting to greet them with hugs rather than handshakes or a two-cheek kiss. ‘As you can see there’s plenty of food and there’s lots to drink; non-alcoholic over there and there’s some alcohol on a separate table if you want that. But I’d be interested to hear what you think of my homemade fruit and herbal drinks. Waqar is planning to trial them in the restaurants if we get a good reaction from our friends today. So far the feedback has been positive. But you must tell us what you really think. And please, no English politeness.’

  She turned to Gina, adding by way of explanation, ‘Oh, I should have said, my husband runs a chain of restaurants and we’re always trying to think of new ideas to improve the business. My homemade drinks idea is probably a bit optimistic given that most Brits like a lager with “an Indian.” Anyway let me take Maria outside so she can join in with the other children. My friend Caroline will look after them so Maria will be fine. I won’t be a moment.’

  Momentarily subdued by the occasion, Maria took Aisha’s hand without complaint. They disappeared in the direction of a large French window.

  ‘What a magnificent house,’ said Gina, raising her voice above the noise, ‘and our hosts seem to have thought of everything.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Tim agreed, ‘they’ve made it a real family party.’

  Tim was impressed with Aisha’s fluency as a host. At the university she quietly and un-fussily got on with the job but today, in her own home there was an easy confidence about her that he had not previously noticed. She was less reserved than he thought. On reflection he realised that her demeanour at work was also well measured. By working hard but being open about her lack of
experience in an academic institution, she attracted the support she needed, sometimes more than she needed.

  She was back with them within a couple of minutes.

  ‘That’s worked out well. There are one or two other children of Maria’s age as well as my son Ali. He really loves playing the young host so she won’t be short of attention.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Tim, why don’t you pop over to the group I was with when you came in, a colleague of yours was asking where you were. I’ll have a chat with Gina and show her round the property.’

  ‘Ok, thanks,’ said Tim. ‘I’ll just grab myself some food and a drink first.’

  Having loaded up Tim took in the crowded scene. He hesitated for a moment. He was keen to locate Henry rather than join the group Aisha had indicated. Erica, Rachel and Annette were engaged in noisy and excited conversation and he decided not to interrupt. He could catch up with Erica at a better time.

  Henry wasn’t in the extension. Looking out onto the garden Tim spotted him just beyond the far end of the pool. He was astonished to see that he was sat almost knee to knee with Howard Swankie apparently in animated conversation. However their stiff body language did not suggest a love-in. Tim tensed. He had phoned Henry before the party to warn him not to spoil the occasion by indulging in another bout of his vendetta with Swankie. He pointed out that it would embarrass Aisha whom Henry claimed to like.

  He stepped out of the extension and made his way along the edge of the pool. Noticing the children playing in a sandpit on the the far side of the pool, he waved to Maria.