Tim Connor Hits Trouble Read online

  The tension was getting to him. His dismal interview track record nagged at his self-belief. Usually laid-back and self-confident, despite his gangly clumsiness, he was becoming neurotic about this pesky blockage to his life’s progress. Yet the fact that he was still called to interview meant that he remained a serious contender. What was he doing wrong? Did he talk too much as one interviewer had unhelpfully implied in the middle of an interview? Or too little? Did he freeze up, sounding wooden and boring? Or, did his attempts at originality come across as too adventurous, even wild? Maybe he just tried too hard. Whatever the answer to the riddle of selection he needed to find it now. An unlikely combination of circumstances had thrown up a real chance, probably a last chance. He’d better take it. He felt momentarily exhausted. He hadn’t slept much the previous night. Then the chaotic journey: what a buffoon to try to walk from the station. A band of tension gripped across his temples. He hooked his glasses over his knee and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes; sweet oblivion!

  The sudden click of a door returned him to the moment. Aisha Khan emerged alone. She smiled at him. Tim smiled back, a blank goggle.

  ‘How did it go?’ he found himself asking.

  ‘Not bad, well ok, better than I expected,’ she replied hesitantly, reluctant to sound too optimistic.

  ‘Well, oh, good.’ He half meant it. It was not easy to wish ill luck on this lovely woman, even if her success was to be at his expense. ‘So you think you might have got…’ He stopped mid-sentence as the door clicked open again. It was Howard Swankie.

  ‘Dr Connor, we’re ready for you now.’ Without waiting for a response he turned to Aisha Khan and said, ‘Don’t forget to pick up your expenses claim form, Ms. Khan. You can get it from Reception.’ With what Tim interpreted as a meaningful smile, he added ‘You’ll be hearing from us very shortly.’

  Tim got up and walked towards the oak door of the interview room. It was at this point at previous interviews that his brain fled to a remote part of his cranium where it lodged irretrievably until the ordeal was over. He breathed deeply, determined to remain if not calm at least coherent. Swankie held the door open for him. As he entered the room he got a whiff of expensive eau-de-toilette. With a gargantuan effort he managed not to sneeze.

  Aisha Khan skipped down the stone stairs two steps at a time, almost losing her balance as she arrived in the Reception Hall. She felt disoriented from the intensity of the interview but high with relief and optimism. The Dean had gone out of his way to sound encouraging, congratulating her on her ‘exceptional performance’ and expressing ‘the hope and indeed the expectation’ that she would accept the job if offered. He added that ‘of course the interview process had to be completed’ but he was confident that he would be able to phone her with firm news within the next couple of hours. They agreed he would use her mobile rather than terrestrial number.

  But suppose she was wrong. Her limbs turned heavy as a wave of anxiety surged through her. So much depended on her getting this post. It could give her an escape from domestic work and boring filler jobs. And Wash University was barely fifteen minutes drive from the house. It was ideal but … She reminded herself there were other candidates – probably with decent publications. Had she read more into the Dean’s parting remarks than he intended?

  She hesitated for a moment in the entrance hall. It was pointless to fill in a claims form for the price of a four-mile journey. She decided to take a walk before returning to the city to collect her son Ali from nursery. In a phrase of her mother’s she realised that she also needed ‘to collect’ herself. Once outside, the fresh air had a sobering effect. She had not seriously expected to get this job or perhaps even to get as far as an interview. Sure she wanted a decent career but initially this application had been little more than a gesture of intent – as much to her sceptical husband Waqar as to herself. Now she was slightly fazed at the stark immediacy of a previously distant goal. ‘Be careful what you wish for,’ she spontaneously mouthed the cliché.

  Did she really want all this? To teach? To write? For it to be assumed that she was ambitious? To compete with smart, confident types who never questioned their motives? What might be the effect on her family life? On her friends? It was seven years since she had started her part-time degree in Social Science. She had gone on to complete an M.A. in Ethnicity and Gender Studies. Part of her dissertation was to be published as a chapter in a collection on the experiences of third generation Muslim women. Write about ourselves – that’s what we feminists do, she mused. And if we’re Muslim we write about our Muslim selves. The interview panel had been impressed with her plans to develop her research. She would increase her research sample from ten to sixty Muslim women and stratify into three distinct age groups. There might even be a book in it.

  Yes, this was what she wanted. And so much the better if it came more quickly and easily than she had expected. But Waqar was a problem. He was ambivalent at best. He had not been keen for her to do the part-time degree, arguing that a better way to fill her time would be to manage one of his restaurants. She doubted whether he was really serious, even about this suggestion and in any case it had little appeal for her. But his concerns about her taking on a full-time academic job became stronger as the possibility became more realistic: it would take up too much time, they had a young physically handicapped child, he needed her support with clients as his business continued to expand, they didn’t need the money. She had quietened him by insisting that the chances of her getting an academic job were remote, especially as she would only take one within a thirty-mile radius of Wash.

  Ten Years ago she would have organised her life according to Waqar’s wishes. She was twenty-two when they married, fifteen years younger than him, impressed by his vitality and apparently effortless material success. A princess in her own home; becoming the richly indulged wife of the besotted Waqar had involved minimal transition. He loved to show her off, although the trophy wife phase satisfied neither of them for more than a few years. In the longer term what he wanted and expected from her was a ‘good wife and mother.’ He conceded that when the time was ripe she might develop a career of some kind, but it was not a matter he gave much consideration.

  He was still a dominant figure but she had changed. She was now almost as old as Waqar was when they married and by now she had accumulated her own experiences. She quickly concluded that trophy status offered diminishing returns, but the seismic shift came when she realised that being a wife and mother might not be enough for her either. Yes, crucial to her identity but not the whole of it. And yet it was the experience of motherhood that first jolted Aisha out of her naïve youthful narcissism. They had found having children difficult. The doctors were unable to discover why. Their one child had been born prematurely at seven months and had suffered bleeding from the brain. Now four years old, Ali’s left side weakness showed in a pronounced limp and a limited ability to grip with his left hand. Mercifully his language development had not been affected and his basic cognition seemed to be intact. Aisha had lived every moment of his perilous and often painful existence. The early discovery of the extent of his physical weakness had been an agony but the gradual evidence of his lively brain and personality, her greatest joy. But if she was always to put herself second to Ali, she knew that it would be better for everybody, including Ali, if she also had a life outside the home. Yes, she wanted this job alright.

  Lost in her thoughts, Aisha abruptly realised she had also lost her way. She had wandered well beyond the campus boundary onto a lower stretch of land. Turning round she was unable even to spot the university. Getting back to a higher point, she looked towards the City. The view was unfamiliar, but Wash despite its city status, was no bigger than a medium size town and she could just make out her own neighbourhood. Why not walk the remainder of the way home? As she set off her mobile burred lightly against her thigh. Her hand trembling, she took the phone from her pocket.

  Chapter 2

  The I
nterview

  Members of the interview panel were sat on the far side of a long polished wooden table. Tim took the lone chair opposite them. His head was buzzing but he felt slightly more focused now the action was about to begin. He made an effort to remember the names of the panel members as the Dean introduced them. It was unlikely he would forget Swankie’s, but recalling the latter’s reputation for vanity he decided to give both his titles of ‘Professor’ and ‘Dean’ a good airing.

  On the extreme left of the panel sat Henry Jones, Head of the Social Science Department. Sociology was the largest subject but recently a degree in psychology had been set up in response to growing demand. Jones himself was a sociologist. Tim had already talked with him on the phone so remembering his name should not be a problem. He had been mildly concerned that he had never heard of Henry Jones before applying for this job. On asking around it turned out that Jones had published little, despite his relatively senior position. Now in his early sixties, he had been a youthful high flyer, getting a first class degree at the London School of Economics and going on to do research at the same institution. Although he had completed his doctorate he had never published anything from it. Eventually he had found a job at Wash College of Arts and Technology where he had acquired the reputation of something of a sociological savant and a brilliant if erratic lecturer, very much in the old discursive style. When WCAT amalgamated with a local college of higher education Jones found himself leading a small sociology team within a sprawling Faculty of Social Science and Humanities. Chance, the Buggins principle and a slightly higher salary had trumped his disinclination to take on any managerial work, however modest. If Tim got this job, Henry Jones would be his immediate boss. He quickly took in Jones’ long thinning hair, thick glasses and purple mottled nose, prominent against the light raspberry colour of his face. A drinker. Tim was not too displeased, preferring characters to careerists.

  Next to Jones was someone Tim did not immediately recognise. It turned out to be Fred Cohen, who had written widely on youth and crime. Cohen was of the same generation as Jones, but much better known. Some of his interests overlapped with Tim’s and he might be a potential supporter. Cohen, in all denim with matching blue shades, looked even more of a sixties throwback than Jones. What was left of his hair was dyed an aggressive shade of bright chestnut, set off with highlights of sunset orange. He gave Tim an encouraging smile as Swankie did the introductions. It occurred to Tim that if he could win over either Cohen or Jones, the other might sway in his direction too.

  If Cohen and Jones were a possible mini-bloc vote for him, the two women sitting to the right of Swankie looked set solid against. Or so he imagined. Physically they contrasted sharply. The one sat closest to Swankie, though perhaps deliberately not that close, was the older by a good fifteen or twenty years and by far the larger. Her tent-like dress increased the impression of volume. Her eyes and complexion were dark and her grey-flecked, curly copperish hair shot out almost at right angles but was oddly flat on top. A touch ethnic Tim thought, maybe Eastern European, or perhaps Celtic. Her expression on being introduced to Tim was not exactly a scowl but it was certainly not a smile of welcome either. The other woman was equally striking, although in a quite dissimilar way. She was wearing a sharply tailored, slim-fit, dark blue suit and had pulled her thick blond hair tightly away from her face. She barely acknowledged Tim as she was introduced to him, seemingly preoccupied with the papers in front of her.

  Swankie introduced the older women first. ‘This is Ms. Rachel Steir, a senior member of the department.’

  Rachel Steir’s brow corrugated in annoyance. ‘Dr. Steir, please, Professor Swankie. It took me eight years to earn my doctorate so I think I will insist on the title if you don’t mind. Good afternoon Dr. Connor,’ she added attempting a softer tone.

  ‘I do apologise, Dr Steir,’ Swankie gave exaggerated emphasis to her title. ‘Dr Steir,’ he repeated before continuing smoothly.

  ‘And this is Ms. Erica Botham, at least I think Ms. is her correct title unless she’s also been a recent recipient of a doctorate.’ He smirked, appreciating his own sarcasm.

  ‘No, that’s correct,’ she replied brusquely, un-amused.

  ‘Good, glad I got that right,’ said Swankie.

  Having then introduced Henry Jones and Fred Cohen, he continued briskly. ‘Now that the introductions are over we’ll move onto the main business. I believe you have a brief presentation for us, Dr Connor.’

  Tim’s topic was ‘masculinity’ or ‘masculinities’ as social scientists usually refer to it, recognising that there is no single form of ‘masculine’ behaviour. This was not his main area of research, that was youth as a period of psychological and social transition. He had chosen to talk about masculinity, anticipating that it would interest a mixed gender panel. Glancing at the two women, both keenly poised to decide his fate, he wondered if he should have opted for a safer topic.

  He had time for a second fleeting regret before beginning his presentation: his choice to use overheads rather than PowerPoint. He attempted to pass this off with a nonchalant opening quip. ‘Err … well … they say that if you want to avoid being up-staged don’t work with animals, children or PowerPoint. So I won’t.’ He paused briefly to allow for tension-breaking laughter. A chill silence rippled across the room. He looked up quickly to see a row of puzzled expressions. Not a great start.

  The pressure was on to make sure that the rest of the presentation went well. In an attempt to get the two women on side he was careful not to over-egg his main argument that in certain ways gender relations are as difficult for men as for women, especially for young men. He acknowledged that young men are generally far more violent than young women but pointed out that most of their public violence is directed against each other. A sizeable minority spend much of their time knocking each other about and otherwise winding each other up in an edgy friendly-competitive but combustible kind of way. Smiling wryly he suggested that if this was patriarchy, it is almost as damaging to the budding patriarchs as to women.

  Glancing up from his noddy-sheet he noticed that the two women were not smiling with him. He decided to dispense with any further attempts at humour. Hastily moving on, he stressed that the violence of young men, particularly in domestic and relationship contexts, is disastrous for young women, not only because of the reality and threat of physical damage but because it controls and traps them. He added that over the life course, patriarchy can systematically oppress and block the opportunities of women of any age. Dr. Steir nodded wary assent. Tim sensed that despite his genuinely felt arguments he was creating an impression of insincerity. He was never at his most convincing when mouthing what he dubbed ‘political correctitudes’ even when he agreed with them. There was something in his character and appearance that didn’t square with conformity, any kind of conformity.

  Erica Botham leaned forward eagerly, about to ask him a question.

  Swankie cut in before she could get started. ‘Right perhaps we’ll come back later to Dr. Connor’s… em…’ his hesitation seemed contrived, ‘interesting if challenging arguments.’ He paused, holding centre stage for a moment before turning to Henry Jones. Henry, will you kick off the next part of the interview?’

  It soon became clear that Jones intended to give Tim an easy ride, going out of his way to feed him questions on topics Tim was likely to be well informed about. A dolly question on the iconoclastic nineteen sixties American sociologist Charles Wright Mills enabled him to showboat from his Master’s thesis that dealt with Mills’ influence on the American New Left of the nineteen sixties. Playing the interview game, he also took the opportunity to make reference to his recently published journal article – his second so far - arguing that Mills’ work was still relevant in 2010. Mills’ rebellious and confrontational style was not to the taste of all his professional colleagues neither then nor now. He guessed that Swankie was likely to be in the anti-Mills camp. Without doing a disservice to Mills’ ideas, Tim
made sure his account of Mills’ damning analysis of the ‘American power elite’ was not uncritical. However he concluded by suggesting that a similar analysis to Mills’ might be applicable to the rich and powerful contemporary global elite. Henry Jones nodded agreement. Howard Swankie listened with close but inscrutable attention.

  Tim’s tension eased and his head cleared as he talked about his favourite social scientist. Fred Cohen seemed genuinely interested and picked up the thread of questioning from Henry Jones.

  ‘So what do you think is the main similarity between the America power elite of the sixties and seventies and today’s global elite?’

  Tim paused for a second. Cohen was probably trying to be helpful but was leading him into controversial territory. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Swankie lean forward, anticipating his response. Swankie’s patrician manner, bordering on arrogance, suggested to Tim that he might be some kind of an elitist himself. Tim’s gut response to Cohen’s question was that both the American post-war elite and today’s global elite were ‘greedy’ and ‘selfish’. He was not going to say otherwise, but he could use other language.

  ‘The main similarity is that both elites exercise power in their own interest at the expense of the public good, the contemporary global elite especially. For instance in Britain and the United States inequality is greater than at any time since the nineteen thirties. And the richer people are, the faster they are getting even richer. It’s a combination of technological and financial control that …’

  ‘Have you any criticism to make of Mills’ ideas,’ Swankie interrupted, adding sarcastically ‘or is the great man beyond criticism? Remember, he was regarded as ‘the big daddy’ of the nineteen sixties New Left and that ended in a mess, partly a violent mess, in the early seventies.’