by Mark Lawson
‘Mocked her, in fact,’ Goswani cut in.
‘Well, teased, I’d say, at most. And not to her face.’
‘And does that make it better?’
‘Well, I think it pretty obviously does, doesn’t it? I mean, a certain amount of gossip and bitching between colleagues is inevitable …’
‘Not in a well-run workplace, no,’ claimed Goswani, whose CV, Ned suspected, must have contained a long sabbatical on other planets before her hiring by UME.
Tom had taken on a conversational determination familiar from the college meetings that were a large part of the reason he was being interrogated in this motel basement. ‘Although I am no more a medical practitioner than I am a psychiatrist, it is my belief, from the dementia of my father-in-law, that V2 suffers from a condition known as “nominal aphasia”, in which the names of people, places and items are forgotten, transposed or misplaced. While potentially problematic in many professions, it is especially so in the teaching of History. The confusion between Thomas Cromwell and Oliver Cromwell, usually removed from history students in the early stages of secondary school, remains a common misunderstanding among students at UME because V2 will often speak for several minutes or even whole lectures about one when she means the other. And markers of Renaissance History papers have become used to reading of the fierce moral scourges of a monk called Savlon-arola, the fault not of their historical illiteracy or pharmaceutical confusion but of the unknowing inarticulacy of their teacher.’
‘Ah. Which is why,’ asked Gibson, ‘you would apparently refer to her behind her back as Savlon?’
‘Yes, I admit I have a tendency to come up with names for people. But, as I say, any of you, if everything you said was taperecorded for even twenty-four hours, there’d be …’
‘So. This might be a good time’ – Goswani rattled transcripts to locate the required page – ‘to focus on your prejudicial terms for colleagues …’
‘Well, I’d say prejudicial is itself prejudicial.’
The inquisitor’s finger on the line she wanted. ‘Let’s take “Special”. That was your cruel term for the Director of History?’
‘A jokey name, I suppose, yes.’
‘The joke being “Special Neades”? So a piece of humour about vulnerable young people with learning difficulties?’
‘What? No,’ Tom said. ‘The target was Neades’ surname and possibly his monumental self-importance, not slow students.’
Goswani’s grimace, closely followed by Ned’s, previewed her reaction: ‘Slow?’
‘I do apologize for that, I’m sorry. It’s quite high pressure, this … this … inquisition. Sometimes one doesn’t use quite the word one wants to. In trying to avoid an out-dated term, I inadvertently used another.’
‘So your head is full of offensive expressions that need to be deleted?’
‘Not full. I have adjusted some of my vocabulary. As most people of my generation have had to.’
Ned was unsure whether Gibson’s extended absences from the interrogations were judicial aloofness or a surrender to his superior in disciplinary procedures. But, as Tom’s observer and supporter, he felt he had to intervene. ‘Professor Gibson, although you have asked us not to make comparisons with certain seventeenth-century events in Massachusetts, it will be increasingly difficult now that your colleague seems to be pursuing the defendant over things that he might have thought about saying and then decided not to.’
This speech made Ned feel as if he were in To Kill a Mockingbird and Gibson responded in similar timbre: ‘I rather agree.’ To Goswani: ‘Jani, can we concentrate on what is actually supposed to have been said?’
A thought of arguing back before: ‘It is the belief of V3 that you called her “Horny” as a sexist joke about her use, as a bereaved woman, of dating sites?’
Ned tried but failed to stifle a laugh, prompting Goswani to ask: ‘I see it amuses you even now, Professor Marriott.’
‘No, no,’ Tom joined in. ‘He’s laughing because it had nothing to do with that. Until we read her Stasi statement, I don’t think it occurred to either of us that she was looking for dates.’ Ned spotted another potential offence, but Tom was already defusing it. ‘I mean, there’s no reason why she shouldn’t but it just never crossed our minds.’
A smile from Gibson meant that amusement had spread to three of the four people present. ‘Would it have been something along the same line – as it were – as V1 being known to you as Daggers?’
Relieved not to have been a target of the phone-hacking scandals, Ned realized that he and Tom had suffered a different and perhaps more systematic surveillance of their conversations.
‘As I’ve already said’ – Tom was addressing Gibson directly – ‘I don’t think anyone would have a very happy afternoon defending their gags and gossip over a period of more than a quarter of a century.’
‘Indeed,’ said the novelist, who was fumbling in an inside pocket of his jacket. When he removed and opened his wallet, Ned’s first thought was that they had some sort of compromising photograph of Tom. But he waved what at first looked like a credit card but turned out to be a similarly-sized reproduction of the London Underground map on shiny plastic.
Grinning, Gibson said: ‘Am I right in thinking that Daggers is short for Dagenham? Whereas Horny stands for Hornchurch, another destination on the District Line?’
Tom rubbed his hand across his mouth, as if signalling or attempting to induce speechlessness. Ruefulness was the mood Ned was trying to project.
Gibson consulted his route map while saying: ‘So the joke is that Professor V1 has gone either three or four stages beyond Barking, depending on whether “Daggers” stands for Dagenham Heathway or Dagenham East? Whereas Dr V3 – “Horny” – is six beyond Barking.’
‘Well, it’s hard to answer,’ said Tom. ‘Because we don’t, of course, know who V1 and V3 are.’
Gibson moved his head up and down, Goswani hers from side to side. ‘Even so, to call anyone these terms was rude and cruel.’
‘As I said earlier, it was said about them not to them.’
‘So behind their back is better?’
‘As I also said before, Ms Goswani, yes, I think it is. I fear that – through a combination of political piety and social media – we’re coming dangerously close to a culture in which everyone is expected to speak at all times as if they’re a politician wearing a live lapel mic. I think once you start trying to prosecute chat between chums …’
Gibson again seeming to favour the defence: ‘Well, it’s certainly ruder than calling a bear Paddington. But the wider point is well made.’
Imagining, perhaps, the private gibes that might be revealed by the future publication of The Letters and E-Mails of Henry Gibson. But his fellow arbiter was not to be persuaded. ‘You’d see these kinds of remarks as banter, would you?’ she asked, her delivery suggesting reference to an extreme sexual perversion.
‘The word I’d prefer is persiflage.’
Gibson nodded, Goswani looked confused. Ned translated for her: ‘It’s an Old Etonian word for banter. Well, not merely OE: public school, generally.’
She frowned and turned to Tom: ‘Are you comfortable, Dr Pimm, with that reference to your educational background?’
Ned’s laugh overlapped with Tom’s. ‘There’s really no cause to give Professor Marriott a V-code. He frequently takes a pop at me over my elitist education and I respond in kind in relation to his studies at a superior Catholic state school. And, before you call in reinforcements of the thought police, he doesn’t mind my ragging him for being one of the Pope’s battalions either.’
Goswani’s fingers on the keyboard seemed to be playing one of the more complex stretches of Rachmaninov.
‘We’ve become stuck on the District Line,’ said Gibson. ‘London residents insert your own jokes here.’ A final look at his map card before putting it away. ‘I dread to think which of your colleagues was Upminster or have you – or, indeed, they – not gone
that far yet?’
A judge’s jokes are always laughed at, but, in this case, there was no perjury in the men’s response, which Goswani overrode: ‘Did you, by any chance, have a jolly little nickname for Professor Padraig Allison?’
Professor Prick Anything. ‘No,’ Tom was saying. ‘No.’
‘I think we should address,’ Goswani said, ‘the complaints made by V4 …’
‘Professor Daniel Kempson,’ Tom said.
‘By V4, which, I should inform you, include a charge under the code of Insubordination.’
As Gibson found the right page in his pile and shunted it across the surface, Goswani was already reading it aloud. In contrast to her colleague’s detached delivery, she spoke the testimony like an actress auditioning for a Greek tragedy: ‘I was tasked by the Director of History, Dr Kevan Neades, with leading the steering group to formulate a “Tariff of Expectations” – or agreed teaching and research requirements – for each departmental member. Despite my misgivings, based on his reputation and prior attitude towards me, Dr Tom Pimm finished sufficiently high in a ballot of teaching staff to be invited to serve on this steering group. In meetings, he was consistently negative and aggressive towards my approach and proposals. Although the Tariff of Expectations had already been set as working practice going forward by Director Neades – and the role of the steering committee was merely to devise and implement it – Dr Pimm consistently questioned and even attempted to overturn the Tariff. As well as verbally challenging my authority and judgement, he also frequently sighed – or, on other occasions, seemed to be stifling a sigh – as I set out my suggestions and decisions. The acceptance of authority and seniority is fundamental to decision-making in any organization and it is my belief, after discussion with Director Neades, that Dr Pimm was not only himself guilty of Insubordination but also encouraged Insubordination in others, delaying the successful roll out of the Tariff of Expectations’’.’
Goswani stopped, removed and re-sheathed her reading glasses in a green pouch. ‘What is your reaction to that, Dr Pimm?’
A noisy out-breath from Tom, followed by a pause and then the beginning of a similar sound, abruptly swallowed. Gibson seemed to fight a smile. Ned admired his friend’s insolence – yet more weight – but feared for its consequences. It was unclear whether Goswani had translated the charade but she sounded to be dampening exasperation as she said: ‘Dr Pimm, do you accept that you have given wide offence to colleagues?’
‘No.’
‘Do you accept that offence has widely been taken?’
‘I would have no control over that. Any more than several of my colleagues presumably intended to provoke the fury, bemusement and exhausting extra workload in which they have frequently resulted for me.’
‘Even so, as it is clear that offence has been taken, would you be prepared to apologize unreservedly to anyone who has taken offence?’
Gibson noticeably frowned at this proposal, which was promising because Ned knew that it was a solution Tom would never accept. ‘Without invoking any particular historical parallels, I do not see how I can be expected to sign a confession for something I do not accept that I have done.’
‘The point I’m making, Dr Pimm, is that, if someone felt you were being insensitive, then, to all intents and purposes, you were.’
From Tom, the longest sigh yet. Ned provided lyrics to the tune: ‘Can that really be so? I hope you never become a divorce lawyer or a car insurance company, as, in either case, it seems unworkable to have a system in which, if someone thinks it’s your fault, then it is.’
‘You understand,’ Goswani asked, ‘that your refusal to make an apology and accept censure may count against you?’
‘Fully. Can I ask you something?’
‘If it relates to the process, I can see no reason why not.’
‘Have you got on with every colleague you’ve ever had? Have you really never worked with anyone you thought was incompetent, or malevolent, or untrustworthy?’
‘Though entirely understandable in this situation,’ Goswani interrupted, ‘emotion can complicate the process.’
But Tom carried on: ‘And, when you read the testimony in Traill, does something not strike you as odd? That every single one of these employees is a paragon of equable temperament, a model of impeccable professional judgement, punctuality and understanding. None of them apparently has ever made an error, a sarcastic remark or an enemy of a colleague, or even to have sighed or rolled their eyes. I will admit to one mistake, which is to have found myself employed in a workplace staffed entirely with saints, against whose impeccable personal and professional standards I could only ever, in comparison, have been found wanting.’
Gibson nodded. Goswani shuffled her papers. ‘Might I repeat an earlier question, Dr Pimm? Is it fair to say that you can be short-tempered?’
Outing
To: [email protected], [email protected], [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Outing?
Hello, fellow parents. Through a source, I have managed to secure five tickets for the home game against Chelsea at the Etihad on Saturday September 11. Jordan, Seb and Oscar have previously been included in our match-day squads and Toby has selected them again. As before, I’d imagine we’d get a ten-something am Virgin from MK to Piccadilly and then a six-something pm one home, so the boys should be back in Bucks by nine-ish. Lunch at a high end Mancunian burger joint will be included and Virgin snacks on the return journey. The only caveat is that, as our party will be in the home seats, they must only publicly celebrate City goals, regardless of affiliation, at risk of ejection from the ground. Please let me know – within, say, a week – if your son can come. Ned (Toby’s daddy)
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Gosh, that would have been nice. Sadly, Sebastian is otherwise occupied that day. Their diaries! Soz. Julia Landrose
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Dear Professor Marriott. We’re finding that Jordan is quite bushed on Saturdays now as they seem to drive them increasingly hard at Abbey Grove. At least that means good value for the fees, unlike some preppers we could mention! But the current policy of the parental committee is that our little chap should take things easy at weekends. Thank you very much for thinking of him, though. Best wishes, Kate and Tom A
PS – we do perhaps wonder if ‘jokes’ about Virgins are ‘appropriate’ in the ‘circumstances’
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Hi, Emma. This is a tricky one, so, as is my way, I’m going to be quite straight with you. I’ve seen plenty of people go through this kind of thing in universities and so I am absolutely making no judgement until the process is over. However, without using terms such as ‘duty of care’, I also have to think as the (single) mother of Oscar. Is your partner taking the boys alone or might you (as I hope) be going along for a spot of shopping / yart in Manc? I hate to ask this but, unfortunately, history shows that you just can’t be too careful. Penny xx
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Fuck Off
My husband (actually) has been accused of trumped-up ‘historic’ sexual offences against adult women, which he absolutely denies and is in the process of disproving. The suggestion that this means he might be any kind of risk to nine-year-old boys is astonishing, illogical and grossly defamatory. I will say nothing about this to Toby, so that his friendship with Oscar can continue if they wish it to. I wouldn’t hold your breath, though, about ours. Emma Marriott.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Ya Ya?
Hi T. Through an old mate at BBC Sport, I have three tickets for Man City v Chelsea on September 11. Fancy coming with me and Tobes? N x
To: nmarriott@historym
an.com
From: [email protected]
Subject: Ya!
Love to, Nod. And love to Emma. In which regard, H is keen to see the Damish Dane at the Exchange (see link) and wonders if E wants to be Rosencrantz to her Guildenstern, or vice versa? T x
The Lady Doth Protest
Helen was nervous of being alone with Emma but keen to see Hamlet played by a woman and so agreed to the trip. She had suggested making a weekend of it, perhaps in the Pennines, but Tom’s desk was stacked with spreadsheets projecting the impact of forced early retirement, so he was reluctant even to pay for Weekend First upgrades on the train, as was Ned, although, when Emma won that argument, it would have been rude for the Pimms not to join them.
Toby was wearing a replica Man City shirt and scarf, although the previous extent of his territorial connection had been another football trip to the city. He was so pale – not from worrying or being bullied, she hoped – that even the light blue of the favours made a contrast. Helen worried that Tom might tease his godson about not supporting the team of his birthplace, although personally it seemed entirely sensible to her to choose a big club over Wycombe Dons or whatever, according to Tom’s puritanical rules, it should be. But, since the shock, her husband seemed warier of teasing people, aiming his humour more broadly towards, for instance, as the train drew into Crewe, a riff about other roles apart from Hamlet that actresses might colonize: ‘Long Jean Silver? Henrietta the Eighth and her six husbands? Tammy the Tank Engine?’
The presence of a nine-year-old, sitting next to his mother at the table for four, with Ned on the other side of the aisle, gave a welcome excuse not to discuss the situations; a restraint continuing when they had lunch together in a pleasant enough Japanese restaurant with prices that seemed strikingly cheap to southerners. When the boys caught a tram to the match, Helen and Emma walked to the Exchange, talking about, on the way, the education of the younger children and the love lives of the older ones, and, when they arrived, discussed the unusual design of the new theatre, with the stage in a central pod, supported on stairway legs that resembled a lunar module. In the interval, they agreed that the cross-gender casting was interesting but confusing: Maxine Peake, as Hamlet, was supposed to be a man, although clearly remained keenly female to adolescent boys in the audience who nearly expired with scandalous arousal when Hamlet kissed Ophelia. Yet the actress playing Polonius was portraying a female version of the courtier, given in the credits as Polonia.
