Tim Connor Hits Trouble

by Frank Lankaster

  High up the campus she wandered onto a stretch of grassland not visible from the main drive. Students were scattered around in singles, couples and small groups: reading, writing, lost to lap-tops or mobiles, playing cards, conversing, some intently, some light-heartedly. One couple seemed to be making love. No one appeared to be expecting rain. It was a scene deserving of a campus Lowry. A frizbee whizzed towards Aisha. She plucked it nimbly from the air. Applause broke out from a trio of young men. One of them must have launched it.

  ‘Good catch,’ this from a gangly youth with an American accent.

  She threw the frizbee back to him.

  ‘Wow, man. Good throw.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘So why don’t you join in? We need someone that can throw straight. These guys can’t keep it off the ground.’ He gestured dismissively in the direction of his two companions.’

  ‘Thanks but not this time, I’m heading for the music. I’ve walked across most of the campus to get to it.’

  ‘Right. You’re on track. It’s all happening on the other side of that red brick wall, in the ecological garden area.’

  ‘Great. Thanks,’ she replied.

  Aisha made her way over to the wall, threading her way through a gap strewn with a jumble of battered and decaying bricks. The ‘garden’ turned out to be an uneven stretch of semi-cultivated grassland interspersed with shrubs, a few trees and some small beds of flowers. It may once have served as a place of quiet retreat but was now given over to informal socialising. It was quite densely occupied by several dozen students and a handful of older adults that Aisha took to be academics. In the centre of the garden was an ornamental fountain with a stone rim and surrounding patio. The fountain was dried out leaving streaks of oxidised rust across its metal surface. Everyone’s attention was fixed on two figures sitting on the stone pedestal, guitars slung around their necks. Both looked faintly familiar to Aisha. Intrigued she eased her way through the crowd that thickened as she got nearer the fountain. Finally close enough, she recognised Henry Jones and Fred Cohen. Not wanting to interrupt the flow of their performance, she decided to watch incognito. Retreating several yards she found a spot under a cedar tree. There was a pause in the music and some banter started up between the two musicians and a section of the audience.

  ‘Give us When I’m Sixty-Four,’ shouted a youthful voice.

  ‘What! So you think I’m sixty-four,’ responded Henry with mock indignation.’

  ‘At least.’

  ‘Cheeky bugger.’

  Aisha winced at her boss’s language.

  ‘What about The Long and Winding Road?

  Henry turned enquiringly to Fred Cohen who shook his head.

  ‘Appropriate, but not one I can do.’

  ‘All You Need is Love,’ shouted another voice.

  Henry and Fred exchanged a smile.

  ‘Ok, we think we can manage that,’ said Fred, ‘but we might need some help.’

  ‘Right, here we go. Make sure you lot join in, the lyrics shouldn’t stretch you too much,’ shouted Henry.

  After a couple of practice chords the two men launched into the optimistic chant. The students joined in with raucous enthusiasm swelling to total cacophony as they attempted to vocalise the erratic trumpet sequences of the original. They clattered to a chaotic climax as they tried to keep up with Henry and Fred’s manic fade-out. Laughter and ironic applause greeted the end of the song. Merry-making and self-piss-taking hung in the heavy, late-evening air.

  Red faced and panting slightly, Henry began to unhitch his guitar. ‘Ok, that’s it. We have to go somewhere now. Don’t you guys have something going on tonight as well?’

  ‘One more song before you go,’ someone shouted.

  ‘One more song, one more song,’ the rest started chanting.

  A lone voice shouted above the din.

  ‘Henry, Fred, tell us what you think of the banking crisis and the protests. What can we do about those selfish bastards?’

  Henry was about to reply when Fred cut in.

  ‘I’ll answer that, don’t set Henry off, it’s more than his job is worth.’

  ‘Shame! Free speech!’ a voice interjected.

  Fred carried on. ‘Look, in my view your generation needs to push on from what we did. We freed things up culturally, I mean. But it’s pretty obvious we didn’t manage to do much about inequality. In fact it’s getting worse. Not that it will be any easier for…’

  An agitated Henry burst in.

  ‘Listen. I agree with Fred. But this might surprise you coming from an old leftie, be careful, think before you act. My generation; those of us who were involved, anyway, in the end we threw it away. We fell out among ourselves. Keep your discipline and keep together. Keep the protests going but don’t imagine that violence offers a short cut. We have to win the intellectual and moral arguments, then the system will lose credibility. Look at the Soviet Union, never a genuine socialist society by the way. Look what happened there: the system collapsed because it was rotten from the inside, rotten to the core. It can happen to Western capitalism, not in the same way, but it can happen.’

  Some of the audience broke out in spontaneous applause. Others looked uneasy.

  Fred came in again. ‘Yeah, Henry’s right. One thing we oldies can contribute is to help you avoid the mistakes we made. It’s that old cliché - the value of experience, but unfortunately it doesn’t always stack up well with youthful idealism. I hope we don’t sound too parental. In any case the world in the next thirty or forty years will be the world you make. The best of luck with it.’ He hesitated for a moment, unsure whether he was connecting with the crowd.

  A spare looking youth with closely cropped hair dipped in with a comment. ‘You guys sound more like poets than revolutionaries. We have to be realistic. In the sixties and seventies you could move in and out of the system, more or less when you wanted to. Lots of us guys can’t even get into the system in the first place except into low-paid, shitwork. Places like this just keep us in storage for three years.’

  A young, hippie-looking, woman interrupted. ‘Don’t be so negative, man. It’s bread and roses. Can we get back to some music? It’ll soon be dark. Give us one more song? Do either of you guys know anything written after nineteen seventy-five or did the Beatles have the last word?’

  Henry and Fred grinned at each other self-deprecatingly. Fred decided to take the opportunity to tie things up.

  ‘Well, we’re not exactly rap specialists. We can probably just about do Common People if you all join in with the lyrics. Is that cool?’

  There was a murmur of approval.

  ‘Ok,’ said Henry, ‘but I don’t really know it.’ He looked out at the audience. ‘Can any of you guys hack out a tune?’

  A student sat on the rim of the fountain waved his hand.

  ‘Great.’

  ‘Anyone want to take over from me?’ asked Fred.

  The hippie woman waved enthusiastically.

  The ageing minstrels passed over their guitars to the two volunteers. Fred found a place to sit a few feet away inside the bowl of the fountain. Henry must have noticed Aisha arrive because he went straight over and sat next to her.

  ‘Terrific stuff,’ she smiled, ‘the music, I mean, I’m not sure about the teach-in.’

  ‘Good to see you again. The whole thing is for fun really but it was good to have a bit of political rap. I guess you didn’t expect to meet up again quite like this.’

  ‘Not really but you’re right, people really seem to be enjoying themselves and for me it’s interesting. It is a bit different.’

  ‘Look, it’s great to see you here. By the way you remember Fred from the interview panel. He’s here for the party, creature of pleasure that he is. He’s staying at my place for a couple of days.’

  Henry shouted to Fred to join them. His voice was lost as the crowd hit the chorus of Common People. Eventually the message was passed to Fred who squeezed his way over. He greeted Aisha w
ith an enthusiastic double kiss. Slightly taken aback, she managed a smile.

  ‘Time to go time,’ said Henry. ‘It’s getting dark and anyway I’m in serious need of a drink. Let’s get to Swankie’s party. Is that ok with you?’ He turned towards Aisha.

  ‘That suits me fine. I’m in your hands,’ she replied, hoping that she didn’t sound too keen to please.

  Henry left a message for the two musicians to leave the guitars at the main reception. Fred who had a sentimental attachment to his old guitar looked slightly concerned but went along with it.

  They arrived at the main building to the sound of a party already in full swing. To Aisha’s surprise security insisted that they produce their identity cards before entry. She had imagined academics were not subject to such inconveniences. To get Fred in at all required a couple of minutes’ lively negotiation. He was issued with a visitor’s card only after being primly advised that he ‘ought to have arranged this ahead of the event.’ Finally, they were inside the entrance hall.

  ‘Ms Khan … Aisha Khan isn’t it?’ A high falsetto rose above the din.

  Dropping an octave the voice continued, ‘and oh, Henry, Fred, glad you managed to make it.’ An innuendo of disapproval implied that somehow getting themselves to the party might have been beyond them.

  The owner of the voice, a tall, expensively dressed, middle-aged, women emerged through the crush. Aisha took her outstretched hand and answered her question.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. I’m one of the new appointments.’

  ‘Welcome, I’m Heather Brakespeare; I’m married to Howard. We use our birth names for most purposes. I’m delighted to meet you.’

  ‘It’s good to meet you, too.’

  A further exchange of pleasantries established that Heather Brakespeare worked at the University as Director of a recently established research and teaching unit on health and nutrition. While this brief conversation was going on, Henry and Fred contrived to disappear. Heather took the opportunity to offer what Aisha interpreted as an oblique warning about Henry.

  ‘Henry’s a bit of an old roué, you know. Apparently he created some serious trouble for the previous Dean. I think he imagines he’s still living in the nineteen sixties. I heard from one student that he can scarcely operate a computer,’ she added unnecessarily. ‘Anyway, don’t let me hold you up from enjoying the party. I must go and welcome a group of colleagues that have just arrived. The food and drinks are by the wall on your left and afterwards you’ll no doubt want to join in the dancing. Oh, by the way, I can see Dr Connor by the food on his own looking rather neglected. As you probably know he’s also a new appointment. Why don’t you go over and say hello to him?’

  Aisha watched Tim for a few moments. He was leaning against a wall clutching a plastic pint glass in one hand and a plate piled high with food in the other while trying to kick away a chunk of salmon mayonnaise that had dropped onto his shoe. Aisha was about to go over and suggest that he put down his plate and pint before trying to remove the mayonnaise when a familiar voice broke in.

  ‘Aisha Khan, here you are… How good to see you.’

  It was Howard Swankie.

  ‘I hope you haven’t been on your own for long. I must introduce you to some colleagues.’

  Aisha tensed slightly as she braced herself for more formalities. She would have preferred to chat with Tim Connor who she was beginning to find oddly diverting.

  ‘Oh, good evening Professor Swankie. No, I’m fine. Actually I’ve just been talking to your wife. I was about to go over and say hello to Tim Connor, my fellow initiate,’ she said attempting to sound relaxed.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll catch up with him later. Perhaps I can find Rachel Steir or Erica Botham for you to chat with.’

  He looked around the room in an unconvincing attempt to spot one or both of them. The more appealing thought that he might spend a few minutes with Aisha had occurred to him. She would meet other colleagues soon enough. He had better be careful though. He had not completely outlived his old reputation as something of a philanderer, even though it was several years since he had risked serious indiscretion. His affair with a young and exotic postgraduate student from Brazil had almost broken his marriage as well as undermined his performance and credibility at work. The liaison had begun light-heartedly enough but had become increasingly passionate and out of control. It had dislocated both their lives. Despite or rather because of the intensity of his feelings he had decided that such dalliances were simply not worth the possible fall-out.

  Since then Heather had been on permanent orange alert and he was keen to avoid trouble from her direction. He needed her to be on side. And it was not only Heather he had to think about. Sexism had become a cardinal sin in academe. Rightly so as he had come to understand, though he believed that the policing of behaviour could be as oppressive as the problem it was intended to solve. In any case, he could not afford to behave ambiguously. According to his own progress chart he was about ready to launch a bid for a career defining promotion, possibly, given his increasing prominence on the national scene, at Deputy Vice Chancellor level. Still, a few moments with a new appointment hardly amounted to a capital offence. With a bit of luck it would go unnoticed.

  ‘Look, it’s impossibly loud in here. Why don’t we pop out for a minute onto the terrace? I need to catch a breath of fresh-air, I’ve been pressing the flesh for the last couple of hours,’ his invitation hung awkwardly but he knew that Aisha Khan had little option but to agree.

  That was how Aisha saw it, too. They threaded their way towards the French windows that opened out onto the broad terrace. Swankie gestured Aisha ahead of him, stumbling slightly as he followed her through. As he guided her towards a carved wooden bench his hand rested fleetingly longer than appropriate on her slender shoulders. It occurred to Aisha that Swankie might be drunk; no more than slightly she hoped. When he sat a little too close for comfort, she got up on the pretext of straightening her dress and sat down again a good couple of feet from him… If there was a problem this seemed to kill it. Swankie stayed put and resumed the conversation in impeccably bland terms.

  ‘This is one of the great advantages of a rural campus. We have this splendid view across the countryside with the city lights in the distance; magical really. The urban campuses have nothing to match it. Few of the out of town universities are quite as richly endowed. Aesthetically I mean. They talk about Keele as “the dream on the hill” but its landscape is a little contrived and now more or less obliterated by the decision to build so intensively. And beyond its campus, the terrain doesn’t compare to what we’ve got. But, of course, as a local resident you’re familiar with the natural beauty of the locality.’

  Swankie was beginning to relax again, confident that he was erasing any impression of over-familiarity. He conceded to himself that Aisha was also more at ease now that civil distance was re-established. Still he did feel slightly light-headed, due no doubt to a combination of three or four glasses of wine and what he sensed was a slightly raised heartbeat. He continued with friendly, if less than compelling conversation.

  ‘Have you always lived in this part of the country, I can’t quite recall from your CV?’

  ‘No, not at all. We – my husband Waqar and I only moved here about ten or twelve years ago shortly after we married. I’m a Londoner, from Southall originally. My parents came from Bangladesh in the seventies. We were quite poor when I was very young but my father built up a small chain of restaurants. I met my husband through the restaurant business; he owns a much larger chain than my father ever did.’

  ‘So what brought you down here? People usually leave the great metropolis in late middle-age, if at all.’

  Aisha continued, happier now the prospect of futher awkwardness had receded. ‘We visited the West-country for a holiday and fell in love with it. The idea of living in Wash was to have a family life as far away from work as was practically possible. Waqar, both of us that is, we haven’t even opened up a branch
of the business in Wash. We don’t want the distraction. It’s worked out quite well but Waqar does have to spend a lot of time in London which is difficult for us. We have a flat there.’

  Swankie interjected in what he hoped was the measured tone of a helpful senior colleague. ‘Yes, I can see the problem; some people would find that situation a little lonely. But at least you’ve used your time effectively, admirably in fact, in view of what you’ve achieved academically.’

  He felt a sudden urge to flutter his academic feathers.

  ‘What you describe is a nice example of what the poststructuralists refer to as contingency: the unpredictable effect of one event or circumstance on another. Or, in more everyday terms an unexpected positive outcome has emerged out of a difficult situation, namely your academic success achieved in time fortuitously made available by the absence of your husband. Of course that formulation doesn’t address the issue of agency, the ability of individuals to make a difference. Not many people would have turned ill fortune to such excellent effect. You did. And of course many other good things might flow from you doing so.’ What these ‘good things’ might be, Swankie opted not to suggest.

  He was concerned that his flurry of poststructuralist theory was over the top for the occasion. He wanted to sound interesting, learned even, but not pompous. And anyway he wasn’t quite sure that he fully understood the ‘post’ theories. He hoped that Aisha Khan was not about to rumble him.

  He needn’t have worried. Aisha had listened intently to his remarks. Having come into academia the hard way, she was eager to learn more, and Swankie was supposed to know.