The Allegations

by Mark Lawson

  Ned imagined a news helicopter hovering above Snape Maltings, with forensics officers glimpsed through windows shaking open Britten’s scores in case incriminating notes or photos should fall out. And demands for the Royal Shakespeare Company to lose its middle name would be swift if an academic identified the topic of a sonnet as an underage male.

  The pursuit of historic allegations, as Ned severely felt, raised doubts about the possibility of establishing guilt from distant and conflicting memories. What hope, then, for supposed offences even deeper in history?

  It was an excellent subject for a documentary. When his name was cleared, he would suggest it to Ogg.

  Upminster

  Sitting side by side with the man in the afternoon in the lobby of a Buckinghamshire motel – a scenario until recently inconceivable – now felt almost routine. Hunting scenes and screen-printed still lives of pies and chips hung on the wall behind a youthful check-in desker – blue-tinted spectacles and an artful tangle of blonde hair – who, Ned was certain this time, was a student and possibly even one of theirs. He wondered if any academic adulterers had been rumbled by this flaw in the venue’s promise of discretion.

  Although the nature of Ned’s role was undefined – somewhere between best man and death-row chaplain – he felt it fell to him to take the lead. When he gave their names, the receptionist issued directions to the meeting room where the others were already waiting and then said: ‘We all hope you, like, sort this shit out and you’re back soon, Dr Pimm.’

  The kindness of the comment did not prevent a terrified look in Tom’s eyes. Ned guessed that it was the first time during his controversy that he had been identified. But after a moment of Germanic pleasure that Tom was suffering a fraction of his own ordeal, he became distressed that either the history student had only identified one of her lecturers or did not believe in the innocence of the other. On reflection, he blamed the efficacy of his baseball cap.

  Decor in the basement room was hotel-regular: carpet of Neapolitan ice-cream vomit, Turner-wannabes framed behind glass sun-spotted by angled ceiling lights. On a sideboard stood bottles of still and fizzy water and silver pots with black presstops, labelled Coffee and Hot Water. A pair of chairs had been arranged on either side of the meeting table: a job interview scenario or, as Ned guiltily thought, in this case no-job interview. He wondered why there were three laptops but only two interviewers.

  The witch-finders were fussily fixing their hot drinks. Turning at the footsteps, the woman from HR put down her cup, exclaimed ‘Dr Pimm, Professor Marriott!’, then held out her hand and said: ‘Jani Goswani, Workplace Harmony.’

  ‘Yes. We’ve met before,’ Tom said coldly, but the comment went unacknowledged. Ned wondered if she had genuinely forgotten the encounter or this was bureaucratic hygiene, each stage of the process supposedly discrete. Then he understood that the blankness was to avoid the revelation that she had also met Ned when he gave evidence.

  Next to her was a slight and wiry fiftyish man, grey mop and goatee combining with his almost albino-pale face to make him resemble a photographic negative. Scruffy jacket, jeans and dust-encrusted Nikes advertised that he had come to Academia via Bohemia.

  Professor Henry Gibson had puddled water and milk on the table during his attempt at refreshment and dried his hands with a napkin before exchanging skin-stinging shakes. It seemed to Ned that he made a condolence face to both men. Tom’s best hope, Ned had told him, was that the Gibson might have been vaccinated against becoming a full UME management Moonie by artistic humanity and the brevity of his tenure.

  Place-cards had been set on the table and, once they matched the bodies, Gibson said: ‘Although it may sound like writer’s wank’ – Goswani flinched and didn’t commit this sentence to her laptop – ‘while this is called a formal hearing, I’d like it to be as informal as possible. I’m supposed to confiscate your phones and the like but I’m not going to.’ His colleague recoiled at this defiance of guidelines. ‘Just show me they’re off or show me you’re turning them off and then you can put them back in your pockets.’

  This flight-mode moment over, he explained that he would lead the questioning, with Ms Goswani supplementing and taking notes. Professor Marriott, he explained, was essentially present as a supporter and observer but could intervene if he had any concerns or ‘useful elucidations’, a phrasing that Gibson seemed to relish as he said it. He sought and received permission to use first names in the conversation, then asked if they had any questions.

  ‘Yes,’ said Tom. ‘In the Traill Report, witnesses and alleged victims are V2 this and W5 that. But presumably I can speak of the people behind the armaments and post-codes?’

  As this was mere procedure, the chair facially deferred the question to his right.

  ‘Well, no,’ said Goswani. ‘The process is anonymized to protect victims …’

  ‘Alleged victims,’ Ned interrupted, echoing his solicitor at his own interrogations.

  ‘To protect victims and witnesses. So you can’t use their “real” names because you don’t know them.’

  ‘But I do,’ said Tom, jettisoning early on Ned’s coaching note about being less stubborn. ‘V1 is Professor Desmond Craig-Jones, V2 is, er, Dr Henrietta Langham …’ Ned could see Tom struggling to use passport names in place of his own caustic cast-list. ‘V3 is Dr Alexandra Shaw …’ Goswani had both palms held out like someone frightened of walking into a wall in the dark but Tom ignored her. ‘V4 is Professor Daniel Kempson.’

  ‘For the purposes of this process,’ Goswani said, ‘all speakers will remain codified. You may think you have identified individuals but you do not know who they are.’

  ‘Look, I’m not trying to be difficult’ – Goswani’s look refused Tom’s excuse – ‘but part of what we do in our day jobs, when not suspended from them, is working out whether anonymous or pseudonymous statement B might also have been made by known protagonist A, which we do partly from patterns of language. And, actually, most people, after knowing someone for twenty years or so, could easily tell which was their Christmas card, even with the names redacted, as I believe you guys say.’

  Gibson was nodding, which encouraged Ned’s first intervention. ‘As perhaps Professor Gibson, Henry, above all, understands’ – Claire had advised Ned to flatter the arbiter where possible – ‘people have a sort of spoken or written fingerprint. Catch-phrases don’t just happen in sit-coms. I was with Dr Pimm at the documentation stage and it was reasonably clear who most of the speakers were.’

  Goswani openly showed irritation that the rules were being debated rather than applied. But Gibson played sceptical cop to her dogmatic one: ‘Tom, I appreciate that this process may seem Kafkaesque to you.’

  ‘No, actually it doesn’t.’

  ‘Oh. I’m pleased to hear that,’ Goswani said.

  ‘No. Josef K knew that he was on trial; he just didn’t know what for. I didn’t even know I was on trial.’

  Gibson smiled and nodded, in the way that batsmen of the gentlemanly generation sometimes did when they received a particularly good ball. ‘However,’ the novelist said, ‘for good or ill, the decision has been made to give very heavy protection to those making the complaints. All I can say is that I am aware of their advantage and will weigh it in my considerations.’

  If ending up as a defendant is a standard human nightmare, a common fantasy is becoming a judge and Gibson was relishing the role, although also showing hopeful signs that he accepted the responsibilities. Ned made a mental note to check if a legal sub-plot figured in Gibson’s next book, alongside the campus narrative already rumoured to be included.

  ‘I am pleased to tell you, Dr Pimm,’ Goswani said, ‘that no claims of sexual misconduct were sustained.’

  ‘Although,’ Tom objected, ‘the formula you use implies that some were made.’

  Goswani ignored him. Gibson coughed the court to order.

  ‘So,’ he declared, vocally donning wig and robes, ‘Dr Pimm, are you a bully?�
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  Ned felt the tactician’s vindication of having coached his man for just this opening, fashioned to trap him into an angry dismissal that would serve as confirmation. He was pleased to note that Tom took the agreed breath and five-count before replying: ‘Well, on the given definition, everyone from Mother Theresa of Calcutta to Zebedee in The Magic Roundabout might be. Not to mention almost all of the UME History department. I wonder if either you, Professor Gibson, or even your colleague here would survive if everyone you’ve ever worked with were given the opportunity to say anything they wanted about you without their name being attached to it.’

  The answer, though combative, fell within the spectrum of Tom being Tom, which might be fine, unless Tom being Tom were the matter under challenge. But the even beside Goswani’s name was unnecessarily provocative and had its effect. Completing her catch-up typing, she sighed. ‘We are here to discuss the outcome of the process, not the process itself. And, in my experience, that process generally works better with just yes and no answers.’

  ‘Well,’ Gibson queried. ‘I teach my students that detail is key.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Tom. ‘In that case, No. No, I am not what you say I am. Although the witches of Salem gave the same answer to little end.’

  Gibson nodded again. ‘I acknowledge that historical metaphors may be a habit. But maybe if we stay in contemporary Middle England where possible? Do you accept that some of your behaviour may have made some of your colleagues or customers unhappy?’

  ‘When it comes to what I persist in calling students, it’s like, I imagine, a doctor with patients: they can’t all be given the outcomes they want. Or at least they couldn’t; I’ve missed some departmentals while suspended. And so some of them will be unhappy with you. When it comes to colleagues, I’m sure there were times some of them wanted to kill me and I can tell you as fact that there were times I wanted to kill some of them. Which makes it an ordinary workplace.’

  Goswani grimaced as if chewing a boiling coal. ‘But – to be clear – you are not suggesting that you ever employed or threatened violent behaviour against a colleague or customer?’

  Tom’s expression told her that there was now a hit list of at least one name. Gibson smiled. ‘I think I understood the homicidal reference to be a figure of speech. Tom, you were asked about the existence of – and possible causes – for unhappiness in History? I realize that sounds like an impossibly general essay question but …’

  Tom smiled: another piece of prior advice that he had so far failed to take. ‘I think probably all offices are the same. Every time a job is given to someone, those who didn’t get it are left angry, bitter, jealous, plotting. And, especially these days, we spend more time in meetings than teaching. A lot of this rubbish about me, as I understand it, involves meetings. And, by their nature, it’s hard to imagine a meeting that everyone leaves happy.’

  Goswani’s shaking head. ‘If the meeting is well run, then they should.’

  ‘Well, I disagree with you in theory and, more importantly, in practice in our department. If Sir Richard Agate, Kevan Neades and Joanna Rafferty had presided over the first council of the Pilgrims on Burial Hill, I doubt that anyone would even have heard of America now.’

  ‘Are you sure it’s wise to personalize this?’ Goswani asked.

  ‘Well, their decision to sack me feels fairly personal,’ Tom replied.

  Ned was uncertain how to read this meeting. From the perspective of an employment lawyer, it was almost certainly going badly; but Sir Thomas More or Giles in The Crucible would surely admire Tom’s refusal to accommodate authority. More weight.

  Gibson bent over typed foolscap, reflecting. Goswani’s tone and folded arms suggested that she was showing the Creative Writing guy how it was done. ‘Dr Pimm, do you accept that you could be intellectually intimidating?’

  ‘Wouldn’t that be an extraordinary accusation in a university?’

  ‘You haven’t answered my question.’

  ‘You haven’t answered mine. I hope I was intellectually intimidating.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Otherwise, there truly would be grounds for my sacking.’

  ‘I find that an extraordinary answer.’

  ‘I found it an extraordinary question.’

  ‘Would you describe yourself as a trouble-maker?’

  ‘No. But then who would? Except possibly a wrestler or darts player, who might have it emblazoned on their jacket? Tom “The Trouble” Pimm.’

  ‘Okay. Do you think other people would describe you as a trouble-maker?’

  ‘Possibly. Probably, if that other person were Kevan Neades.’

  Goswani typed lengthily, ending with a wriggle of the wrists, like a pianist completing a cadenza. She turned to Gibson, in a gesture that felt more despair than teamwork.

  The novelist said: ‘Okay, I want now to go through some specific allegations. One complaint is that you used obscene language while teaching.’

  ‘I find that highly unlikely.’

  The purpose of the third laptop was now revealed. Goswani spun it round to show a frozen image of Tom in mid-shot at the front of the Tuchman lecture theatre, the heads of the first rows bent low over their keyboards or notebooks. When she hit a key, the pause symbol dissolved and Tom said: ‘one fucking thing after another.’

  The pop-up box apparently containing only those five words, the screen faded to black. The filming of lectures had officially been introduced to increase the value of the ‘teaching offer’ by giving ‘customers’ the chance to catch up or revise on the department website, but had soon been used to provide online courses for remote students. The unions had pushed unsuccessfully for extra payments, but no fears had been raised of the footage being used as evidence.

  ‘Presumably you’re not going to deny that this is a clip of you lecturing to first-year students?’ the woman asked.

  ‘No, but it’s a quote from Alan Bennett’s play – and, indeed, film – The History Boys, in which a student complains that history is just one fucking thing after another.’ The HR woman shuddered at the curse-term. ‘I’ve used it in my freshers’ lecture for a few years.’

  A Sherlock Holmes moment for Goswani. ‘And you consider that appropriate language in front of vulnerable young people?’

  Ned laughed aloud. ‘I don’t know whether you’ve done much teaching. But it’s considered a triumph these days if you get through a class without one of the students dropping the f-bomb on you.’

  ‘Wouldn’t one damn thing after another have been equally effective?’ Goswani asked.

  ‘No. Because that isn’t what Bennett wrote. And the rhythm and impact of the joke are simply less without fucking.’

  Goswani flinched at the word again. Ned was struck by the improbability that, five decades after the Lady Chatterley’s Lover trial, the dynamic was being repeated in this hearing: a puritanical judicial establishment and an academic elite speaking different languages.

  Recklessly pedagogic, Tom expanded his case: ‘And, in fact, the irony – and, against fashion, I am using the word correctly – is that the joke does partly depend on the incongruity of a student using that word in class. I gambled that our intake here was sufficiently mature and robust to enjoy that fact.’

  ‘Well, it seems that V7 disagreed with you. Do you not consider the possibility that some of your students may come from sheltered and protective environments?’

  ‘It’s – historically – a strong statistical possibility. But surely they come to university to be exposed to a wider range of influences. I now fully expect that incomplete quotation – they come to university to be exposed to – to be lopped off and circulated out of context as evidence of my record of indecent exposure.’

  Ignoring this, Goswani dealt a new piece of paper to the top of the deck and said crisply: ‘V6.’ Ned waited for a copy to be shunted across the table but the HR director said: ‘I think I will read this one aloud.’

  Like an actress at a poetry
reading about to deliver an extract from a children’s classic, she seemed physically to shrink and, when she spoke, her voice was a parody of a young woman in a documentary about child abuse: ‘In my second year as a student in the History Department, I took the option of Dr Thomas Pimm’s course on the American Presidency. We were set an essay asking us to compare and contrast the “New Deal” and the “Great Society”. Subsequently, I received an e-mail from Dr Pimm asking me to attend a thirty-minute appointment during his office hours.’

  The vocabulary and tone – amplified in Goswani’s rendition – were those now familiar from television documentaries as the preface to a sexual allegation. A tactical ambiguity that Ned had introduced into his own evidence now seemed on the verge of being proved true. But then Goswani, role-playing late-teenage distress, said: ‘He made an elaborate show of leaving the door open, which I found suspicious and which unnerved me.’

  ‘Objection!’ Ned heard himself shouting. Gibson and Tom laughed in ragged overlap. ‘Sorry. Too many episodes of The Good Wife. But, seriously, is the ducking of witches the model here? If Dr Pimm had closed the door, it would doubtless have proved his malign intentions; but it turns out that so does doing the opposite. Can we set on the record that the teaching guidelines for staff advise leaving the door open during individual tutorials?’

  ‘Objection noted,’ said Gibson. ‘I won’t call you “Counselor”, though. Ms Goswani?’

  Like a theatre Cleopatra interrupted by a mobile phone or a fatality in the audience, she re-accessed her character with fussy breaths and flutters. ‘He reached down and aggressively pulled out … my essay. He sarcastically told me that it was too poor to be given a grade and that I stood very little chance of completing the module successfully. He suggested that I might find another course that suited me better. As I am a hard-working customer, whose family made great financial sacrifices to send me to UME, this was deeply upsetting and demotivating for me. I fled from his room in tears.’