‘Umm… that’s interesting. I’ve been thinking about agency in relation to the subjects in my research sample. I know ten women is not a sufficient basis on which to generalise, but contrary to some people’s impression of Muslim women, most of my subjects were quite assertive in searching out their life options. I’d like to develop the agency theme more when I expand my work. Maybe you could recommend some key literature in the area?’
Swankie was about to confirm that indeed he could make recommendations and would shortly email her accordingly, when he noticed his wife and Ruth Steir emerge through the French windows. Heather looked agitated. Instantly the smile of friendly engagement disappeared from Swankie’s face. Abruptly he leaned away from Aisha and gave a pre-emptive wave to attract his wife’s attention. Spotting his gesture, the two women walked briskly towards them.
‘Howard, no wonder I couldn’t find you. The Vice-Chancellor has dropped in for a few minutes. I’m sure he’d like a word with you. He’s just inside the French windows talking to Henry Jones and that ancient bohemian friend of his. They seem to have cornered him. They’re making rather a nuisance of themselves. Do go and prevent them from doing anything too embarrassing. We’ll stay here and chat with Ms. Khan.’
The two women, one large and wide and the other tall and thin sat down on either side of Aisha.
‘Lovely to see you again,’ said Rachel Steir. ‘It’s absolutely wonderful that the department has recruited another woman and doubtless, as I picked up from your research, another feminist. You’ve probably realised that Henry is somewhat unreconstructed and we tend to look to younger colleagues to supply energy and inspiration these days.’
They were interrupted by the crash of breaking glass and crockery from inside the building.
‘That’s probably Henry falling over,’ she commented smiling sweetly at Aisha. ‘Let’s leave them to it and chat.’
Chapter 6
An Unexpected Start to Term
The start of term was even more hectic than Tim had anticipated. An initial surge of energy carried him through the sessions of introductory guidance he was expected to deliver to students, even though at first he scarcely knew more than they did about how things worked.
Like most higher education institutions, Wash was in a period of cost cutting through the use of technological innovation, ‘strategic’ redundancies, and whatever ‘efficiency gains’ looked viable. Along with restructuring came a flux of new rules and procedures: ‘ebureaucracy’ Henry dubbed it. Tim could see Henry’s point and itched to get started on ‘the real job’ of teaching. Difficulties were magnified in smaller institutions as managers and administrators sought to match the sector’s big hitters. As the Wash system struggled to cope, Tim spent much of his time chasing up confused and distressed students, some the victims of his own mistaken advice. In a couple of cases he found himself negotiating the return of students from their parental homes where they had fled in panic. Generating calm and confidence was challenging when he doubted his own assurances that it would all get sorted in the end. But on the whole, for most, it did.
Things slowly settled once teaching got under way. Most of his work was in preparing and delivering lectures and seminars, although administration was almost as time-consuming. As he had discovered in his previous job, email was not always a time-saver. Time saved from face-to-face communication and phone calls was lost sorting through jargon-ridden emails from the bureaucracy. On top of official stuff, his in-box was swollen by frequently unnecessary and incomprehensible emails from students, although these became more coherent as term went on. Then there was the spam: spectacular legacies from unknown benefactors; get-rich-now deals and offers of sex with self-proclaimed beautiful if distant and impoverished women. In the end he zapped his email arrival alert system and set aside a couple of dedicated periods each day to deal with work-related emails. Serious problems he dealt with face-to-face.
Somehow he managed to make some progress with his book on generational conflict and resolution. The topic had become a hot one as the media picked up on a sharp debate between some prominent intellectuals of the ‘baby boomer’ generation and a group of young professionals. The latter blamed the boomers for many of the difficulties of young people. He pushed himself to keep writing, hoping to get the book out before public interest subsided. His view was that blaming the boomers for the problems of the current younger generation was simplistic. The real issue lay with the concentration of wealth and power in the hands of selfish national and global elites. To that extent he agreed with Henry. He was getting to like his older colleague whose eccentric ‘couldn’t give a damn’ behaviour was an antidote to his own busy intensity. They had struck up a budding friendship and occasionally met for a wind down or barn storming session about whatever came to mind.
Getting to and from Peyton once a week to see Maria, pushed him at times close to exhaustion. Sometimes the effort seemed entirely wasted and left him feeling empty and ineffectual. At first having a ‘part-time’ dad intrigued Maria but the novelty soon began to wear off. Gina was keen for Tim to maintain a relationship with his daughter but her new partner, Rupert Eccles, was less enthusiastic without openly opposing it. He was coolly polite, but made it clear he did not want Tim to remain around the house with Maria for more than half an hour or so. Predictably, soon after Tim’s arrival he would ask some version of the question ‘So where are you taking your daughter today, then?’ On some occasions, Tim didn’t even get as far as the house. Instead Maria was dropped off at whatever venue Tim had decided to take her to. He did his best but soon visits to adventure playgrounds, parks, movies, and, in desperation, even McDonalds began to appeal less and less to both of them.
The lack of a stable base where they could spend time together began to take its toll. Maria became increasingly moody and temperamental. She wanted to know why Daddy had gone to live so far away, and why Mummy and Daddy didn’t like one-another anymore? After several weeks she asked whether he was still her Daddy or if she’d got a new one now? Her confusion turned into sullenness and withdrawal. It didn’t help much when Gina assured him that Maria was getting on quite well with Rupert. It even felt double-edged when she added that domestic disruption had apparently not adversely affected Maria at school. It all made Tim feel marginal and irrelevant. Slot in, slot out dads. He understood Maria’s happiness was what mattered most but that didn’t lessen his own hurt and anxiety. Understanding was not enough. He determined that whatever else he had lost, he was not going to lose his daughter.
One Thursday evening about half way through term the build up of stress suddenly imploded. It hit physically. A wave of darkness surged across his consciousness. His eyes lost focus. His chest went momentarily into spasm. He clutched his temples as he struggled to regain stability and control. The episode lasted no more than a few seconds. Slowly he massaged his face and head, calming himself. He opened his eyes. The computer screen stared primly back, neither mocking nor concerned just stubbornly, unflinchingly there. He got up from his chair leaving the icy machine suspended in mid sentence: ‘The two generations have more in common than…’ Time for a change of scene.
He decided to respond to this scary moment by taking a walk into town. It might clear his head. Then he would wash away the accumulated tension of recent weeks with a few drinks. If he was honest with himself, he had to admit that he was lonely, just a little. He thought of calling Henry to join him, but decided he was in no mood for one of his colleague’s more baroque performances, diverting though these could be. He needed to get away from anything and anyone connected with work. He wanted to ground himself again, to get back in touch with what passed for the real world. As he walked through Wash the city seemed solid enough. It was the space between his ears that had taken an ethereal turn. Not that he entertained the possibility of anything so time-consuming or self-indulgent as a breakdown.
He deliberately let himself get lost, wandering over to the eastern outskirts of the city and
then meandering haphazardly through the back streets. The suburban sameness of this part of the city felt reassuring. Here the housing was plain and unpretentious, mainly red brick or concrete rather than the sandstone or granite of the city centre and wealthier neighbourhoods. By now, most adults had returned from work and children had gone in off the streets, curtains were being drawn as people closed up against the encroaching night. A few teenagers were still hanging around waiting for something to turn up, but without much optimism that it would. A handful of couples were making their way into the city centre. Arm in arm, a pair of young women passed him, their tall shoes clicking briskly on the hard paving stones. A freshening wind ruffled his long hair. The haunting melody and lyrics of Van Morrison’s legendary ballad drifted into his mind - the cool night air like Shalimar.
Pensive and reflective, his mood was rudely broken.
Two young lads, short of something to do, decided to amuse themselves at Tim’s expense. Noticing that his trousers stopped an inch or so above his ankles one of them shouted, ‘Aren’t ye a bit old for short trousers?’
Tim made no response.
‘Don’t ye think you need a haircut Mate?’ asked the second youth.
No answer. The lads had kept a wary distance from Tim and he reckoned he could get out of this spot of bother by ignoring it – cautiously. Something along the lines of ‘talk quietly and carry a big stick’. All he lacked was the stick. Maintaining his pace he continued to walk on. The lads trailed after him without much conviction.
‘Give us a fiver, mate, and we’ll leave ye alone.’
Irritated, Tim abandoned his strong silent strategy. He turned to face the lads. They looked no more than fifteen or sixteen years old and quite small and skinny. Both had carrot coloured hair, aggressive freckles and features that were too large for their thin faces. They were clearly brothers and probably twins. He guessed they were jokers rather than thugs. It was no great risk to face them down – unless, of course, they were carrying a weapon.
‘You guys taking the piss?’
‘Looks like ye’ve already had the piss taken out of ye mate.’ It was reassuring that this remark was made as the two were backing away from Tim, ready to beat it should Tim go for them.
‘Very funny… You two are not contributing much to my evening. You could do worse than go missing.’
‘Posh ain’t we? Do you mean you’d like us to fuck off?’
Tim bristled. He didn’t like the ‘posh’ comment. It disturbed some distant, unpleasant memory. But by now he had concluded that the boys were not a threat. He kept his cool and decided to redirect their surplus energy.
‘Look I’ll give you a fiver if you can take me to a pub with decent beer,’ adding after a moment’s thought, ‘and maybe a few decent looking women as well.’
The offer had instant appeal to the carrot heads. ‘Yeah,’ they knew a couple of good pubs, though they couldn’t often afford to drink there themselves. Tim sealed the deal.
‘Ok, two quid now and three when we get there.’
The ill-sorted but picaresque trio set off towards the city centre. They exchanged names or, as the lads announced themselves as ‘Light-bulb’ and ‘Dipstick’, in their case, nicknames. Tim had attracted a few nicknames in his time, the one he was most coy about being ‘Spare Parts.’ He decided to pass on mentioning it on this occasion. The banter continued in a more friendly tone as they approached the river. They stopped just short of a bridge leading into the main commercial and entertainment area.
‘We’ll leave you here, Sir, if that’s ok,’ said Dipstick the noisier of the two, suddenly respectful as the pay-off moment neared. ‘When you cross the bridge you’ll find yourself in a main street, follow it round for about fifty yards and you’ll come to a pub called The Bombadier. It sells real ale, the stuff people like you like.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Can we have the rest of our money now, Sir?’
Tim searched his pockets for three-pound coins. Nothing doing. Keeping a tight hold, he pulled out his wallet from an inside pocket and extracted a fiver.
‘Give me two and I’ll give you this.’
Dipstick hesitated. ‘How about we give you one back so we get three each?’
‘You drive a hard bargain.’
‘Definitely… one of them.’
Tim handed over the fiver and was half surprised to get a pound back.
‘Ok, see you around.’
‘Not if we see you first,’ said Dipstick.
‘He’s only joking, he doesn’t know when to stop,’ was Lightbulb’s farewell contribution.
Tim walked briskly to the pub. His head was clearer now, and his thirst sharper. The Bombardier faced flat-fronted onto the street. From outside, its only notable feature was a large pub-sign that sported a muscular red-coated gunner about to fire a cannon gun. It seemed an odd image for a student city. Then he recalled the army garrison that he’d noticed while house searching.
Inside, the pub was half empty. The décor maintained the martial theme with garish pictures of miscellaneous British military victories on the walls that were also festooned with ancient rifles and cutlasses. This did not appear to be quite his scene. Only a pressing thirst prevented him from executing a quick about turn to search out an alternative watering hole. It was no wonder the kids made sure they got their money before he’d seen this place. He scanned the portrayals of martial glory wondering if the artist’s intention was perhaps ironic. Looking around the notion of parody seemed plausible, the pub’s clientele appeared more boho than military.
He made his way to the bar. Behind were two burly bartenders wearing identical yellow tee-shirts printed with a pink-coloured cannon gun with pink cannon balls on each side. The image did not suffer from over-sophistication.
One of the bartenders approached him, smiling broadly.
‘Lovely to see you Sir. What can I get you?’ His voice was an octave or so higher than Tim had expected and sweetly pitched.
‘A pint of your best bitter and do you do cooked food?’
‘Certainly Sir… We’ve still got curry left or sausage and mash. Green salad if you want it. Oh yes, and in the spirit of multiculturalism we’ve adopted a hybrid dish called toad in the chapati.’
‘I’ll have a curry please, the salad and a round of bread on the side, brown if you’ve got it.’
‘No problem. Except that the bread would be white, sir. Is that ok?’
‘That’s fine, I don’t discriminate.’
‘I’ll bring it to you, Sir.’
Tim found a seat at an empty table. As he glanced around his impression that the pub was gay friendly was confirmed. Several people wore tea-shirts with gay pride slogans and one muscular young man wore a jacket proclaiming his support for Stonewall. Nobody had gone for the cannonball t-shirt favoured by the bartenders and prominently on sale behind the bar at twenty-five per cent off half-price. Most of the couples seemed to be same-sex but a number of apparent cross-dressers made it difficult to tell.
Tim was beginning to feel his dip into the real world was taking a decidedly surreal turn. Not that he considered queers surreal. He was simply bemused by the gap between his intention at the start of his ‘sortie’ and what was emerging. But bemusement was a lot better than the bombed out state he’d been in earlier.
His musings were interrupted by the arrival of the bartender with his meal. ‘There you are Sir. Is there anything else you might want?’
Tim took in the bartender’s fifteen stone of beef packed into a frame of about five feet six inches. Nothing you can give me - was the un-P C thought that popped up. Out loud he said, ‘No. That’s excellent. Many thanks.’
When eating alone in a pub Tim usually read the newspaper. He found the two activities relaxing although they did not always combine elegantly. On this occasion he didn’t have a paper with him and couldn’t spot one in the pub. No matter, there was plenty here to interest him. As he ate he peered into the pub’s soft rose light. He amused himself by tryin
g to establish the biological sex of the cross-dressers. He did so to his own satisfaction in about half-a-dozen cases. Eventually his attention settled on three people at a table a few feet from his own. Two were definitely males. Occasionally they touched and fondled each other more freely than Western heterosexual norms usually allow to adult males except in peak moments in sport and some other entertainments. He assumed they were partners.
Where did the other person fit into the dual system of biological classification he had adopted: male or female? He or she had achieved a highly convincing cross-dress whatever the biological starting point. The fine, long dark hair and strong, regular features would sit attractively on anyone. The clothes offered few clues; a long, embroidered shirt hanging over a pair of baggy trousers obscured the contours of the body. Tim was torn between embarrassment at his clunky need to categorise this individual and the intriguing challenge of doing so. He genuinely could not decide. Subliminally – very subliminally - he sensed the answer to his question might explain some riddle in his own identity. He leaned forward to get a better view.
‘Hi, can I help you? Have you lost something?’ Tim had managed to make himself the object of attention of the object of his attention, the observer observed.
‘No … no, not at all. I’m just looking around the pub. I’ve never been here before.’
‘So, what do you think?’ The tone was friendly, even encouraging.
‘Well it’s certainly got its own character. It’s a bit different than my usual watering hole. I don’t usually…’ He stopped mid-sentence.
‘You look a little different yourself. Do you mind if I come over for a minute and take a closer peep?’ This was said with a teasing and, Tim had to concede, despite his category dilemma, gorgeous smile.
‘Be my guest. My name is Tim.’
‘Hello Tim. I’m Georgie.’
No clues there then.
Tim Connor Hits Trouble Page 8
