Tim Connor
Hits Trouble
Frank Lankaster
Table of Contents
Title Page
1. Getting There
2. The Interview
3. Goodbye, Hello
4. Out of the Frying Pan
5. The Beginning of Term Party
6. An Unexpected Start to Term
7. The Team Meets
8. A Place to Live and a House Warming
9. Home Again
10. Henry on the Rocks
11. Mending and Upending Fences
12. The Psychology Lecture Interrupted
13. Thank You for Coming
14. Henry and Tim Play Golf
15. The Fight
16. Henry Receives an Invitation
17. Aisha’s Party
18. Thank God for a Conference
19. Ladies Evening
20. Decisions Have to Be Made
21. In Some Other Lifetime
22. The Grand Tour Begins
23. The Lord and the Lady
24. The Grand Tour Continues
25. The Calm: Phoney or Funny?
26. The Great Disappearing Acts
27. Moment of Truth
28. There’s a Price You Pay
29. It’s Staring You in the Face
30. On Bognor Sea-Front
31. A Get-Together at Rachel’s Place
32. Great Transitions
Copyright
Chapter 1
Getting There
He wiped a splatter of sweat from his forehead and glasses. He was hot, late and lost. He tried again to relate the map in his hand to the surrounding countryside, shifting it about urgently. No chance. Whatever angle he chose failed to match to what was around him. Cursing, he hurled the map into a nearby field.
Not by habit punctual, Tim knew that on this occasion he had to make it on time. He had good reason. He had been trying to get a job in higher education for almost ten years. Averaging roughly one rejection a year, morale and belief were beginning to dip… But this was his best chance yet. The job description played to his strengths; he could almost have written it himself. Unusually at university level this job required teaching experience in psychology and sociology, the subjects he had been teaching to senior high school students.
Time was running out; he was thirty-eight years old and part-time tutoring with the Open University was his only higher education teaching experience. This was his first interview in nearly two years and his chances of getting a full-time job as a junior lecturer were fast disappearing. He was already too old for ‘new blood appointments’. This one he had to get. The alternative was to reconcile himself to a career in school teaching: worthy, maybe, but as he was beginning to discover, dull. He had drifted into school teaching after a succession of bit jobs and it now threatened to turn into a life-sentence. A separation from his partner, the maintenance of his daughter, and his own rising life-style expectations meant that a return to the semi-bohemian lifestyle of his twenties was no longer realistic. Besides, as he reluctantly acknowledged, he was beginning to feel just a bit older.
He looked around for help, few people were about. Wash University was a couple of miles outside of Wash City, but where exactly? He began to curse himself for not taking a taxi from the station, indulging an idiot notion that a brisk walk would sharpen him up for the challenge ahead. The bright countryside around him seemed to mock his frustration. Suddenly he spotted what looked like a student passing on a bicycle. He flagged the helmeted androgyne down. The cyclist, a young woman braking suddenly, almost cannoned into him. For a moment she looked annoyed but replied helpfully enough to Tim’s enquiry.
‘No problem. Cross the roundabout, carry straight on along the big hedge and you’ll come to a large ornamental gate on your left, go through and it’s a couple of hundred yards to the main university admin centre. It used to be a country house but it’s been modernised now. You can’t miss it. You ok?’ She added as Tim spluttered his thanks.
‘I’m fine now,’ he said. ‘I was just a bit lost.’
‘I can see. Don’t worry. It’s easy from here. Follow those instructions and you can’t go wrong. Straight and then left.’ She smiled, re-engaged the stirrups and swiftly moved off.
Tim watched her lycra clad rump rotate into the distance, too stressed to register even routine appreciation. He set off to follow her directions. It was already past two o’clock, the time he was expected to arrive. He broke into a jog, gasping in relief as he reached a large wrought-iron gate. To one side was a notice board, the college’s name emblazoned above a list of sponsors, mainly large corporations, their names almost as prominently displayed. He quickened his pace as he turned into the drive, barely noticing the parkland on either side, still substantial despite chunks being sold off to private developers. Following the drive through a cluster of trees he arrived within fifty yards or so of a complex of older and newer buildings. The drive morphed into a circular strip with an ornamental fountain in the middle, providing a one-way loop for traffic. A more recently built road, angled off to the left sign-posted to a car park and teaching area.
Tim slowed as he approached the buildings. A gust of wind lifted a tiny spray of water from the fountain, splashing it coolly onto his face. ‘Good omen,’ he thought, as he reached inside his jacket pocket for his tie. He fastened the top button of his shirt, knotting the tie round his neck. It felt uncomfortable, tight and obdurately off centre; it would have to do. He regretted not buying a fashionable kipper tie instead of exhuming his old bootlace one. Knackered from his shuffle-sprint from the station, he felt like a sack of spanners tied with a piece of string. For a second he contemplated ducking his face into the fountain to clear the sweat and flatten his hair. Common sense prevailed and he hurried towards the main building.
Several students were hanging around on the front steps, some of them smoking. Still breathing heavily he was caught in the acrid fumes. His allergy to cigarette smoke flared into a sharp sneezing fit, his mucus membranes instantly pricking and swelling. According to his doctor the allergy was psychosomatic. Just now that diagnosis seemed perverse, though he knew the mere sight of someone lighting up could trigger an instant reaction. Wheezing and dishevelled he leant against one of the columns that flanked the steps. This was not how he had intended to arrive. The students eyed him with mild interest.
‘You alright, then?’ A tall Asian young man asked.
‘Yeah …well … err … no … I’m a bit late for an appointment. Can you direct me to Reception?’
‘Sure. Go up these steps and it’s pretty much in front of you. You can’t miss it. Maybe you should take a breather before you go inside?’
‘No … No … That’s ok. Maybe after I’ve registered at Reception.’
‘You here for the Social Science job then? I think I saw a couple of other candidates arrive about half-an-hour ago.’
Tim gasped his thanks. He stumbled up the steps with all the poise of Jarvis Cocker on ice. Clattering his way through a pair of period doors, he found himself in a large hall. The angular Georgian elegance of the room and its cool pale blue and white décor had a calming effect. He reminded himself of his determination not to let the tension get to him. Nothing definitively awful had happened so far; he had not even met the interview panel yet. He looked around for Reception. It was neatly signed directly in front of him, sitting between two wings of a double stairway leading to a balcony that in turn accessed the building’s first floor. He wiped his face with the back of his tie and smoothed down his jacket. Adopting a composed and purposeful demeanour he approached Reception and knocked firmly on the door. Off-balance, he found himself lurching towards a startled
receptionist. The door had been slightly open. ‘Sorry …’ he began.
Startled, the receptionist, a severe looking woman swiftly reasserted her professional poise.
‘Oh … You must be Mr. Connor,’ she said, quickly correcting herself, ‘I do apologise, I mean Dr. Connor. We’ve been expecting you.’
‘Yes, I’m here for …’
She scrutinised him more closely adding ‘If you want to use it there’s a gentleman’s comfort room under the left-side stair way.’ Tim decided to remain uncomfortable rather than risk further delay. Funny word – comfort room – one of the odder American euphemisms.
The receptionist’s directions took him to the first floor balcony and from there into a large room at the back of the building. Its solid but worn furniture was more early twentieth than eighteenth century, failing to match the impressive Georgian interior. It was only on a second scan of the room that he noticed an Asian woman sitting on a high-backed, heavily upholstered couch towards the end of the room. She looked about thirty, perhaps slightly younger.
He blinked in surprise. From his extensive experience of the job circuit he assumed there would be two or three other candidates waiting for interview. On a bad day, and he’d had a few, even more. Buoyed at the prospect of this depleted opposition, he approached the young woman.
‘Hi, my name’s Tim Connor. You must be one of the other candidates.’
‘Oh, hi, that’s right. I’m Aisha Khan. ‘Nice to meet you. I’m glad you’ve made it. Are you ok? I think they’ve almost given up on you. They seem quite concerned.’
‘I’m fine, just had a few problems getting here.’ Tim looked around the room again. ‘So you, me and whoever’s being interviewed now are the only candidates?’
‘Yes, I’m pretty sure. Two of the short-listed candidates have withdrawn. They’ve got jobs elsewhere apparently. There are only three of us now. The other candidate is Barry Hobsbawn, you know? The social psychologist. He’s written something on the psychology of racism. He’s in there now.’ She gestured towards a dark panelled door some yards adjacent to the couch.
This information revived Tim. Two withdrawals seriously improved his chances of getting the job. One in three from one in five was a massive shift in the odds. He eased into an armchair opposite the couch. He’d briefly considered sitting next to Aisha Khan but quickly decided against. Better to keep a civil distance from a competitor. And getting too near her might well distract his focus. She shone with a well-groomed but unaffected beauty: cascading jetblack hair and long glossy legs bare to above the knees. Glancing into her face he found that her eyes were not dark brown as he expected but almost hazel. She returned his gaze with a look of unapologetic intelligence. His optimism dimmed again. He sensed serious competition. Professional qualifications aside, she was way ahead in the personal presentation department. He felt a tremor of paranoia, not for the first time wondering why he persisted in believing that by looking downbeat he was somehow showcasing his integrity. There’s not a snowflake in hell’s chance I’ll get this job if the men on the panel fudge the rules of gender impartiality.
Even if the panel avoided a Sharon Stone moment, the clause in the job advertisement that women and minority ethnic candidates would be preferred (other relevant matters being equal) could leave him adrift.
His mood dropped another notch as he suddenly remembered why Barry Hobsbawn’s name had seemed vaguely familiar. He was the author of a recent, well-reviewed book on ethnic relations. One chance in three or not, he would still need a ton of luck to get past Hobsbawn. He looked again at Aisha. Sat just a few feet away he found it difficult completely to disengage from her. His over-sensitised hooter swam in a haze of subtle perfume that inconveniently threatened to fire his imagination as well as precipitate another sneezing fit. Determined to keep his focus he was about to make an attempt at polite conversation when Aisha remarked, ‘Your nose looks rather red. Would you like to borrow a lightly medicated tissue? I have some Vaseline as well if you think it would help.’
The panelled door abruptly opened, sparing Tim the need to reply. Two men emerged. He assumed the younger one was Barry Hobsbawn. The other, exuding executive poise, Tim guessed was Howard Swankie, Dean of the Faculty of Social Science. He moved quickly towards Tim, his hand outstretched. ‘Ah, you’re here. I’m glad you’ve made it. Transport from the station can be a bit tricky. Even taxis are not always readily available at this time of day. I’m Howard Swankie, Dean of the Faculty of Social Science. I’m chairing the panel today. This is Dr. Hobsbawn,’ he briefly laid a hand on Hobsbawn’s shoulder, a little patronisingly Tim thought.
‘Anyway, welcome. There’s an automatic drinks machine on the ground floor should you need it. That’s where the loo is too. You’ve got twenty minutes to half an hour before we call you in.’
Swankie turned to Aisha Khan.
‘And no doubt you’ve already introduced yourselves,’ he said, smiling at Aisha a little too enthusiastically for Tim’s comfort. Fucking done deal, he cursed to himself.
‘Ms Khan, I take it you’re ready for the next interview as we agreed?’ Turning back to Tim he added, ‘And then it’s you Dr. Connor.’
Aisha Khan followed the Dean leaving Tim with a drained looking Barry Hobsbawn who wearily lowered himself onto the couch. At this point Tim usually pumped a rival candidate for information on the interview set-up but Hobsbawn started talking first.
‘Shit! That was a nightmare. Easily the worst interview I’ve ever had. I completely lost it.’ He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I’ve absolutely fucking blown it.’
Tim looked studiously sympathetic. ‘It was that bad, was it? Maybe it wasn’t as awful as you thought? What do you think went wrong? Are they asking really tough questions?’ Maybe he could nudge Hobsbawn into spilling some useful information.
‘No, well yes… I can’t really remember. It was me. My head was swimming. I don’t usually panic. Not to that extent. I’ve seriously blown it,’ he repeated.
Tim was well aware that candidates often understate their performance immediately after interview: a superstitious avoidance of hubris. But Hobsbawn’s angst seemed real enough. Tim’s response was mixed. He certainly didn’t want a tough interview. But if Hobsbawn really had blown it, then his own chances had soared to a tantalising fifty-fifty, always assuming that Wash did decide to appoint. But Aisha Khan was still in contention. Short of her having an unexpected seizure, she was almost certain to get the job. There seemed no other outcome.
He wondered vaguely if he should try a vote-winning, politically correct pitch hinting that he was gay. He rejected this on the ethically and factually sound grounds that he wasn’t gay. Probably best to play it straight and be himself, whatever that was. Looking at the disconsolate Hobsbawn, he felt a pang of sympathy. He knew well that totally trashed feeling in the wake of a catastrophic interview. ‘I’m sorry you had such a tough time of it. But you can’t always tell what impression you’ve made. You might have done better than you think.’ He sounded blandly unconvincing even to himself.
Reverting to the hard win-lose dynamics of the situation he probed again for information, trying to keep the optimism out of his voice. ‘Are you sure it was that bad?’
‘Believe me, there’s no way back from that. I blanked out on my specialist area. And then the Dean threw me a question about some Eastern European theorist whose name was completely unfamiliar to me. It sounded something like ‘Scissors’. He probably came across him in Sunday supplement. I’m ditched as far as this job is concerned.’
Tim pumped Hobsbawn once more. ‘Was it only Professor Swankie that was difficult? What were the rest of the panel like?’
Hobsbawn shot a quick glance at Tim as though only just connecting with him. Why should he help out a competitor? Fuck it! He’d nothing to lose now.
‘Henry Jones, the subject leader was ok. In fact he tried to be supportive until I got hopelessly enmeshed in intellectual spaghetti-land. There are a couple o
f women academics on the panel that kept banging on about teaching methods. That’s not my thing. I didn’t go down well with them at all. They seemed to think that using a sheet of A4 as the only aid for my presentation was a bit feeble for a media specialist. The external, Fred Cohen was friendly enough but he went for the light touch. He left most of the heavy questioning to the others.’
He paused weary and disconsolate. ‘Look I’m frazzled. I don’t know whether they intend to let us know the outcome while we’re here but I’m not hanging around. They can give me the bad news by phone. In fact I might as well withdraw – more dignified than being dumped.’
He got to his feet. ‘Anyway, best of luck to you. Watch out for those two women.’ He left the room, his stiff leather interview shoes squeaking plaintively on the hard, stone floor.
‘Best of luck,’ Tim called after him. He checked his watch. He had about ten minutes to figure out how to use Hobsbawn’s information.
Teaching methods? This was an area where academics were often at their most opinionated and dogmatic. Whatever he said was likely to offend someone. But maybe his experience with the sixteen to eighteen year olds could be made to count. His strategies for keeping mid-teenagers engaged or at least occupied for two-hour sessions might translate well into higher education, now that it was almost fully comprehensive. What were the buzz words and ideas? There were plenty of them: student centred education, resources based learning, individualised learning. Tim had tinkered with all these approaches but what he most enjoyed was face to face interaction with the students, trying to spark and respond to curiosity. He knew this could sound old-fashioned; not the image he wanted to create, but perhaps he could put his own views as an add-on after he’d spouted all the ‘best practice’ patter? Risky. It was the techno rather than the humanistic line that usually went down well these days. The education mechanics were taking over. He decided he would cover both angles, appealing to the nuts and bolts lobby but also defending divergent and critical thinking. Should he risk a joke referring to his ‘default survival kit of read, summarise and discuss among your-selves?’ Forget it! Don’t go there.
Tim Connor Hits Trouble Page 1
