by C F Dunn
“Why? What did she say?” Matias demanded.
“Ask Elena, she’ll tell you,” I snapped, glaring at her. Several faces turned to watch us. Dancing with Siggie not far from us, Henry gave us a cautionary look.
“Not here,” Matthew said. “Next door.”
“Fine,” I retorted, leading Matthew to the end of the Barn and through the adjoining door to his home, taking every ounce of self-control to plaster my face in a smile.
Once in the privacy of his drawing room, Matthew turned on me. “What did you think you were doing keeping something like this from me? Why did I have to hear it from Elena? Is this how it’s going to be between us: you’re threatened by that excuse for a man and you decide – in your wisdom – not to tell me?”
By now, feeling belligerent, the rancour I stored from earlier in the day threatened to breach my thin reserves of patience. “I told you weeks ago that I wanted to sort this out myself.”
“That was before he tried to blackmail you. I mean, how bad does it have to get before you involve me?”
“I don’t want to come running to you every time I have a problem, Matthew.”
“Why not? I’m going to be your husband in a matter of weeks – doesn’t that warrant a level of trust?”
I faced him squarely, refusing to give an inch, yet sensing the hurt I’d unwittingly caused. I folded my arms across my chest in an attempt to bolster my defences. “Will you tell me every little thing that happens? Because you certainly haven’t in the past.”
He threw an incredulous glare in my direction. “Little? You call your career little?”
“Stop prevaricating. You know what I mean. Would you involve me?”
He stopped. “Of course I would!”
Bingo. I reduced my voice to no more than an accusation. “Why is Shotter afraid of you?”
He whirled round. “Who told you that?”
“Elena did.”
“And you rely on Elena for accurate information?”
I stuck out my chin. “You did. Matias told her you went to see Shotter when Sung was going to be deported. He said that Shotter is afraid of you.”
He looked at me sideways. “Did he say why?”
“No, he didn’t know. Elena reckons it has something to do with Shotter taking the credit for the med fac and knowing you could expose him…” Matthew gave a derisory snort. “But I don’t think that matters to you, does it?” Hooded, veiled, I hadn’t seen an expression like it since the cabin – one I didn’t think I would see again.
His voice had an edge to it. “So what do you think I did?”
“You tell me.” From the set of his shoulders, he had no intention of telling me anything. I resisted the urge to goad an answer from him, and instead used my own silence as a weapon against his.
His rigid stance loosened. “So, you didn’t tell me because you thought I would threaten Shotter. With what – violence?”
“No, but if you had, the maggot would have jolly well deserved it.”
That raised a pencil-thin smile. “‘Maggot’, I like that. Why, then?”
“Because I need to know that I can sort it out for myself, Matthew, for my own self-esteem. I know that the weaker part of me would love you to walk in there and duff him up…”
He gave me an arched look. “Crude, immoral, but possibly effective.”
“But I don’t want to always be hiding behind you. I want to be strong in my own right.”
He came over to where I stood defensively entrenched. “There might come a time,” he said slowly, “when you need my help.” I saw how deeply he wanted me to trust him.
“Then I will come to you and ask for it. But remember, you’re second in the line of reference and I doubt I’ll need to go beyond the first.”
The stubborn line to his jaw relaxed. “As long as you rely on Him you won’t need my help, but in case you do, or in case I’m part of the solution, will you promise to tell me if you have a problem with Calliphoridae?”
“What-ids?”
He smiled. “Maggots of the common blow-fly – unpleasant opportunists like Shotter. Will you tell me if I promise not to intervene unnecessarily?”
That still left too much scope for misinterpretation. “Not to intervene unless I ask you to,” I clarified.
He shook his head. “Too restrictive – give me more credit than that.”
“All right, you’re not to intervene unless we’ve talked it through first and I agree that we tackle it together.”
“That seems… reasonable,” he conceded. “Let’s just pray that it doesn’t come to that.”
Sobered by my outburst, Elena eyed me with a degree of caution a few minutes later, but, as Matthew intimated that she hadn’t broached the subject of Shotter first, I gave her the benefit of the doubt. I suspected he was being chivalrous and that her semi-inebriated state played a greater role in the event than he admitted, but I loved him the more for that, and her none the less. So, by the time we entered the Barn and rejoined the party, we were both smiling.
Matias greeted us with his usual tact. “Took your time,” he drawled, loading as much innuendo as he could into those three words and ending with a meaningful smirk. “Hey, Elena told me about Shotter, the slimy sod. Going to have an accident involving a tree, is he, Matthew?” We both frowned at him and he held up his hands. “Just kidding. Nasty though. But you’re going to sort him out, are you?” he directed at Matthew.
“No,” we both said together. “I am,” I added.
Matias whistled through his teeth. “Good luck with that.”
Elena was making odd faces at me. “I had too much to drink; it made my tongue like this.” She wiggled her finger up and down. “But you have made it up now?” She cast her eyes from my heated face over my hair and back to my slightly crumpled dress. She beamed. “Yes, I think you have definitely made it up.” And she let out a peal of laughter.
CHAPTER
14
Security of Tenure
He thrust the paper in my face, his eyes black with contempt. “Don’t think I’ll accept this from one of my students. I’m disappointed in you, Emma. You’ve failed me; you’ve failed him.”
Words stumbled from my mouth. “But, Guy…”
His lip rose in a sneer. “Your work is mediocre, you are overrated, and you don’t belong on this course. You don’t belong here.” The faces of the other students echoed his disdain, enjoying my humiliation, my fall from grace.
“I did my best. I did everything you told me to, everything. I’ll do anything you want, anything at all, but don’t fail me, don’t send me home.”
“Your best isn’t good enough. There is nothing in you that raises you above the pedestrian. Let’s face it, Emma, you have nothing I want.” And with that he turned his back on me.
“Emma, wake up – come on – we’ll be late.” Guy shook me until I opened my eyes and rolled over. Remnants of the dream clung to the fringes of sleep. I didn’t recognize the room. Guy dragged on black trousers and did up a belt with a buckle made of silver. I had seen it before. He was impatient.
“Come on, hurry up. The water’s hot if you want a shower.”
Something wasn’t right. I rubbed my eyes. “Where are we going?”
“The car’ll be here in a minute. Your father’s downstairs waiting.”
“Dad?”
He buttoned his shirt, a burgundy shirt stained darker in patches, like blood, where the rain had fallen. I didn’t like his shirt.
“What’s the matter with you? Get a move on, will you – your dress is on the back of the door.”
“I had a dream…”
He whipped the blue cover from me, revealing my vulnerability. I tried to cover myself with my arms.
“Here.” He threw the dress bag onto the bed beside me.
I looked at it. “Why are we here?”
His look became disparaging. “You little fool, why do you think?”
I pulled the dress bag towards me a
nd slowly unzipped it. A stark, white dress with a cheap lace trim and layer upon layer of net lay crumpled in the bag. I stared at him in disbelief. “I’m not marrying you!”
Grey eyes, dead eyes, eyes that never blinked. “Of course you are; it’s what you want.”
“No, it’s not. I’m marrying Matthew. Where is he?” I jumped from the bed and ran to the door, half expecting to see him behind it. “Matthew!” I called, but found nothing but the empty corridor and blank-faced doors stretching into the distance. “Matthew!” I cried, my voice rising in despair. “Mat-thew!”
I don’t dream. I daren’t dream.
I shot upright in bed, gasping. Fear threaded my veins and into the drumbeat of my heart. I listened: nothing in the room except darkness and the rhythmic tschk, tschk of the battery-powered clock. I reached over and fumbled for the bedside lamp, driving the terror back into the night. The triptych waited patiently. “I’m marrying Matthew, I’m marrying Matthew,” I repeated over and over like an invocation until my heart steadied its restless beat. I climbed out of bed and went to make a hot drink. Sleep wouldn’t return tonight.
It neared the end of April, and the nights were still cold, even if the warmest of days held a promise of summer in between the frequent showers. I pulled my blue blanket around me and settled on the sofa with my students’ latest batch of work and my own paper I needed to complete. Work and tea would offer the best solution. My mobile sat next to my steaming mug. I stretched out a hand, then made a conscious effort and picked up the tea instead.
Matthew sometimes worked during the night. Not leaving until I slept, always there when I woke, he mostly covered staff absences at the medical centre, but occasionally, as tonight, it was so he could complete an investigation into something thrown up by his latest research. Once, I asked what he had found in the samples of blood taken after my cardiac arrest, but he had looked thoughtful and said that the tests proved inconclusive, except that I needed a little more zinc. Always there when I went to sleep and when I woke – except for tonight when I needed him to reassure me he wasn’t a dream.
I scrambled out of the blanket and went into my bedroom and found my engagement ring, slipping it on and feeling immediately within its warm band the security of tenure it offered. Back on the sofa, I sorted the papers in order of priority, sending a prayer of thanks that I was now in a position to do so.
After our engagement party I had paid Shotter a visit, and that it was unexpected showed in his surprise when he opened the door. He removed the napkin covering his waistcoat. The remains of his lunch waited on a tray on his desk.
“Dean,” I said more brightly than I felt, “I’m so sorry if this is inconvenient; we need to have a little chat.” I walked past him and waited until he closed the door.
“Professor D’Eresby, I was in the process of having lunch…”
“Yes,” I stated, without moving.
Interpreting my mood, he wiped his mouth and threw the napkin beside the tray. He didn’t ask me to sit down. “I expected you to take more time to consider my proposal…” he began.
“Did you?” I interrupted, and went on before my courage failed. “I’ve had a good think about what you said, and we talked it through and concluded that it doesn’t matter anyway, as we’re both looking forward to a change of scene.”
Despite his irritation, he asked, “Both?”
“Yes, Dr Lynes and I. We had been contemplating a move in a couple of years or so; however, if you insist that I take extended sick leave there’s no point waiting. This has just brought our plans forward. Matthew will miss the college of course – especially after the huge personal investment he made in it – but he won’t find it difficult securing another position, not with his reputation. We come as a package, you see: where one goes, so does the other.”
Shotter understood the implicit threat. In the intervening seconds as he calculated his options, the temperature plummeted. He made his way to the window overlooking the grounds and stood with his hands behind his back. A ride-on lawnmower hummed across the grass, leaving a pale swathe in its wake.
“And you have discussed all of this with Dr Lynes?”
“Yes, of course. We both believe in complete honesty; it’s integral to a good marriage.” His back stiffened – so he didn’t know. “Matthew would have come with me today, but he’s making some final arrangements. He wishes to make clear that he doesn’t want there to be any misunderstanding.” Actually, Matthew had said nothing of the sort, but I let the suggestion hang in the air.
The Dean’s fingers twitched. He turned around. “Your visit is quite fortuitous, my dear.” A stench of hypocrisy displaced the fresh scent of cut grass. “Just this morning I received assurance from a senior medical advisor that, given your miraculous recovery, you will not require leave of absence.” I said nothing. “Your position is secure,” he added.
“Marvellous,” I said, “and Matthew will be so pleased. He does hate having his medical opinion questioned. I’ll leave you to finish your lunch; I hope it’s not cold.” As the door began to close I remembered one last thing. “Oh, since we’re staying, if I’m too late to intercept it, please disregard Matthew’s letter of resignation, won’t you?”
The insincere smile on the Dean’s face evaporated, but I didn’t hang around long enough to see what replaced it.
“How was it?” Matthew asked as soon as I entered the refuge of his office.
“Horrible, but for some reason he’s had a change of heart. I’ve had a reprieve.” I paused and decided I had to confess. “But I’m afraid I used your name as leverage. I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Come here,” he said, enfolding me in his arms. “That’s my clever girl, don’t worry.” He kissed my hair and I breathed in his clean scent to rid me of the foul taste the exchange had left.
I was under no illusion that Shotter wanted me to stay to retain Matthew. I didn’t like the thought that I had nothing to offer professionally that Shotter considered worthy of keeping, but more than that, I didn’t want to use Matthew as a threat.
So here I sat at three in the morning, afraid to sleep, with a pile of work to keep me company and a mug of tea to keep me warm. We were on a tight schedule to get the presentations complete before the middle of May. Thereafter, once back from our honeymoon – honeymoon, the mere thought of it sent wiggles of pleasure to my very core – my students would be on independent study and we would have a few weeks in which to iron out any wrinkles that might become evident before the conference. So far, they were on track. Three of them at any rate. Hannah was proving to be a problem.
I had always suspected that the determination that had served her well to date might one day thwart her ambition. I had followed her research closely: groundbreaking it might be, but it was also flawed. Our last meeting in my tutor room had been tense.
“I understand what you’re saying, Hannah, and there are aspects here with which I agree, but your theory is not borne out by evidence.”
She clamped her overshot jaw. “But, Professor, you said that this was a good line to take. You said it’s under-researched. If Abbott argued that the establishment of the system can be dated to 1648, I can’t see why I can’t use the same argument to assert that it was established a decade earlier.”
We had already covered this ground at length.
“Because you have no evidence, Hannah.”
“But I can prove it.”
I clapped my hands. “Great. How?”
The stubborn chin again. “I know it’s right, Professor.”
I did my best not to let my exasperation show, but she pushed her luck taking this line. “Hannah, come on, that’s not good enough. Knowing it and proving it are two completely different things. You have to maintain your integrity and the only way you can do that is to be completely honest with the facts. If you make a statement, you must be able to back it up with hard evidence; otherwise it will take just one snipy student in five years’ time to come along and
discredit you. One wrong move and it can ruin your career. The short-term gains aren’t worth it, believe me; I’ve seen it happen.”
“But if Abbott can do it…”
“You’re not Abbott. You don’t have his decades of experience and knowledge to back you up. You’re letting your theory drive your research, and it’s a classic mistake to look only at the facts that support your hypothesis. If you present your paper based as it is on selected evidence, there will be a dozen historians in that audience ready to take you down.” I pushed my laptop to one side and leaned forwards on my desk. “Look, the research you were doing before you went off on a tangent was good, solid, and above all, provable.”
She thumped her folder down. “Anybody could do that.”
I closed my eyes and counted to ten before opening them. “I know it’s not going to set the world alight, but it’ll stand you in good stead. It’s no mean feat to produce a paper based on original research in a year, Hannah.”
She snorted. “Yeah, well nobody’s going to remember me for it, are they?”
“More to the point, you won’t be remembered for the wrong reasons, either.”
“Neither will you,” she snapped back.
Ah, now that I wouldn’t accept. I sat back and observed her dispassionately. We had always rubbed along fairly well. She came across as being self-contained – that was something I understood – but she could also appear rather superior towards her peers, a status she had not earned. True, I would rather not be associated with poor research and a weak argument, but my own stood up to scrutiny, and had done so for nigh on a decade. By the time I completed my undergraduate study, I had already tackled independent research, had it authenticated, and seen it published to some acclaim. Guy might have been a bastard in some respects, but he made sure that the execution of my work met the exacting standard of his own. It was the least I could do to ensure that my students benefited from the same level of expectation, even if it meant breaking Hannah on the rack first. I opened my laptop and switched it on. “Right, Hannah, that will be all, thank you.”