Tim Connor Hits Trouble Read online

  ‘I’m sure Allah will understand,’ suggested Caroline.

  ‘I think so,’ replied Aisha who in any case indulged from time to time.

  If life wasn’t quite perfect it had definitely taken a leap in the perfect direction.

  Chapter 3

  Goodbye, Hello

  Once he had recovered from his hangover Tim enjoyed his remaining time at Peyton College. The perennial schadenfreude of some of his colleagues at his struggle to break into higher education evaporated as they adopted the new wisdom that really he was better suited to that sector. Most were pleased for him and most of the few who weren’t pretended to be. In an increasingly competitive and stressful working environment, he was not universally loved but he had made few real enemies.

  Some mild speculation hung on about why he had found it so difficult to crack higher education. He was better qualified and published than many successful candidates, although the increasing flood of youthful PhDs onto the job market raised the entry bar year by year. His own opinion was that the problem was mainly an image one: he was too easily labelled as ‘potentially troublesome’ at a time when university managers were increasingly wary of trouble. This was not merely a defensive response on his part; his handful of published writings were radical. Out of conviction but also for clarity, he had stated even in his first publication, an introductory psychology textbook, that his beliefs were libertarian and progressive. This was not likely to improve his career prospects. At a time of financial cuts, universities were more likely to appoint staff that would generate income, typically by winning research grants than someone who believed in democratic reform, inclusive of the higher education system. There was no necessary conspiracy about it. There was no need for one. The new finance-driven culture was soon embedded as ‘common sense’. The pressure was to make safe and manageable appointments. Nobody would apply those adjectives to him. Even an open testimonial from a former tutor did no better than describe him as ‘a risk, although possibly a risk worth taking.’

  Despite his strong self-belief, serial rejection sparked occasional paranoia. He began to wonder if even his physical appearance counted against him. At a big-boned, slightly cumbersome six-foot three he looked and moved more like a building site worker than an academic. His interview outfits rarely met expectations that were becoming more standardised as higher education succumbed to the corporate ethos. At eighteen he had reluctantly acquired a suit for his university selection interview and had worn it for interviews ever since. Job interviews in higher education are not fashion parades, but this item, made of ninety-five per cent acrylic, did attract attention. When he sat down the trouser legs would shoot up to his calves while his hairy forearms protruded several inches out of the jacket sleeves. This distracting arms and leg show had probably cost him most of the jobs he had applied for, even before he opened his mouth. Topped off by a sweep of long black hair and usually sporting a pair of leather boots at the other end, he invited the killer observation that ‘I think we’re all agreed that Dr Connor is not quite what we’re looking for.’ Doggedly and with only a twinge of self-doubt, Dr Connor disagreed. He wanted prospective employers to know what they were getting. And he sensed that if he tried to please ‘the suits’ by attempting to look like them he would soon start to think like them as well. His was a perverse kind of integrity but finally luck had sprung him from a catch twenty-two of his own making.

  One of the traditional farewell rituals for staff leaving Peyton College was a one-to-one glass of wine with the Principal Tom Gardner and another was a night out with colleagues at a local pub. Tom Gardner had enough personal strength and vision to make the progressive regime he had introduced at the college work well. Even so he was feeling increasingly constrained by the stream of relentless government initiatives. He could see no end to them; whichever party won the next election. At over sixty he was beginning to find that looking backwards offered a pleasanter view than looking forward – a sure sign, as he well recognised, that it was time to go.

  A bottle of red wine and two glasses were already on the coffee table in the corner of Tom Gardner’s office as he welcomed Tim. ‘Sit down. And congratulations! We’re sorry to lose you but I know from several references I’ve written for you over recent years that it’s what you want. Here, have a last glass of wine at the college’s expense.’ He poured a glass of Malbec and passed it over. ‘Have some salted nuts as well if you want. I don’t eat them myself. They get stuck in my teeth.’ He sat down across the table from Tim.

  ‘Thanks. That’s right. I’ve always liked the idea of working in an academic environment. Also I need a change. I’ve enjoyed this place but I wouldn’t fancy being here for the next twenty-five years.’

  ‘You’re lucky that you’ve been able to make a change. You’d be surprised how many people here have tried to move on and not been able to, especially older colleagues, the younger ones do usually find it a bit easier. Anyway I’m glad you got the job.’

  Gardner paused, getting up from his chair he walked over to his office window. He gazed out thoughtfully, ignoring by dint of long habit the grey expanse of the staff car park. ‘Actually I thought of moving on myself a few years ago but it’s not easy to get a good promotion outside of this sector and there are few better jobs than mine within it. Most of the higher-paid jobs are in national or local educational bureaucracies and these days they don’t seem to be appointing progressives of my ilk.’

  Tim listened in mild surprise. He’d come to regard Tom Gardner as a permanent and essential fixture at the college, almost as a part of its foundations. It hadn’t occurred to him that Gardner too might feel career blocked. He left his seat and joined his senior colleague at the window, a gesture of egalitarian solidarity he would have hesitated to make on any previous occasion. Allergic to hierarchy he nevertheless respected this man’s personal authority as well as his achievement in establishing a liberal educational regime in contrary times. ‘I doubt that I’ll work under such an enlightened boss again. Not many would have given me the opportunity to develop that you did ten, almost fifteen years ago.’

  ‘I don’t know about that but times are changing, as they always do,’ said Gardner. ‘The pressure is to produce results and to a prescribed format. There isn’t the scope now to shape things according to your own vision.’ Glancing at Tim he added ‘I should warn you that’s also becoming the case in higher education as well.’ Then dropping the serious tone he looked directly at Tim and grinned. ‘So, don’t imagine you’re going to escape into an ivory tower paradise, young man.’

  The conversation moved briefly to more personal matters. Gardner expressed concern about the break-up of Tim’s long-term relationship but didn’t want to pry. He suggested that once Tim was established in his new job he might come back to explain the mysteries of higher education to the college’s students. They drained their glasses in unison, shook hands and said a warm goodbye.

  The farewell booze-up was on the last day of term. The Highwayman rocked as excited voices competed against the thudding music. A premiership game between Manchester United and Liverpool showing on the pub’s giant television screen added to the hubbub. Tim was sat with a group of sports-types who had launched into a rowdy argument about which of the two teams had the best claim to the nickname of ‘The Reds’. A chunky northern émigré, the college’s first team goalkeeper, offered an opinion:

  ‘Whichever one of them but not those clowns down the road.’

  ‘And who might they be?’ This came from an indignant-looking female student wearing an Arsenal shirt.

  ‘Depends which way you’re facing: Southend to the East or the Arses the other way.’

  ‘Stop insulting my favourite team! Arsenal is called after guns not bums. As for Southend United, they don’t count. People only watch them when they want a break from football.’

  A sudden roar swamped their conversation. The group’s attention swung to the big screen as a dubious penalty was awarded to the Ma
nchester side, a regular occurrence at Old Trafford. Tim’s attention was distracted from the kick as someone pushed a fourth pint into his hand. He looked up. It was from Ted Sidebottom, the bluff, diminutive Head of Physical Education.

  Tim’s attention was drawn back to the screen as the crowd erupted again, divided by reactions of pain or relief as the ball smacked against the crossbar and sailed impotently into the stand. Tim was in the relieved camp. There was a riff of laughter as the camera caught United’s managers hopping about apoplectically in the technical area.

  Grinning Tim turned again to Ted. ‘Hey, Ted, I haven’t finished this pint yet.’ He gestured towards a half-empty glass. ‘I don’t want to get too blotto, I’m on my way tomorrow.’

  ‘Come on … I’ve bought it for you now. It’ll soon disappear down a big lad like you. You’ll be as fresh as a daffodil tomorrow.’

  ‘Daisy’

  ‘You’re no daisy.’

  ‘I’m no … Listen this is a silly discussion. Sit down for a minute and say something sensible to me.’ He turned to the students. ‘Can someone give their chair to Ted for a few minutes so we can have a chat?’

  The young Arsenal supporter got up and perched herself on the knee of an athletic looking mixed race guy. ‘You don’t mind do you?’ He didn’t. ‘No problem, stay as long as you like,’ he said shifting her into a more central position on his lap.

  Ted was the physical opposite of Tim who on balance was glad things had turned out the way they had. He was barely five foot six, bandy legged and bald in the style of Bobby Charlton. But he was strong and nimble with low centre of gravity that enabled him to bustle past opponents when playing his favourite game of hockey. Unfortunately Ted failed to recognise his inability to achieve a similar level of performance at football by far the most popular sport at the college. He was as bad at football as he was good at hockey. Therein lay the cause of a recurrent clash with Tim. Bizarrely Ted fancied himself as a striker, countering the fact that he almost never scored with claims that he was a creative fulcrum responsible for numerous assists. Mysteriously these remained unobserved by others. Tim also preferred to play striker and had a decent goal tally. Crucially Ted picked the staff-student team that played in a regional league. Faced with their comparative goal statistics Ted had little choice but to play Tim as striker. That was until the team got hammered, physically as well as in the score-line, by Thunderstone Police. Ted saw his opportunity, blamed Tim for the defeat and dropped him from the squad. He moved himself to striker from his previous position that he described as ‘libero’ and from which he had orchestrated havoc for the rest of the team. Wherever Ted played, it seemed impossible that he could inflict even more damage on the team. This proved not to be the case. The change of position precipitated a ten-match losing streak in which Ted scored one goal, a world-class header that left his own goalkeeper helpless. Frank opinions were exchanged during and after this match. Finally Ted announced that he would give Tim ‘another opportunity’. The next game was a 1-0 victory in which the proud goal-scorer was Ted. Never mind that the ball had cannoned off his backside from a defender’s clearance. ‘Told you so,’ he said, ‘I saw it all the way’.

  A minor source of needle between Tim and Ted was about the correct pronunciation of Ted’s surname, Sidebottom. Ted insisted that the correct pronunciation required the separate enunciation of four syllables: thus, ‘Sid’-‘e’-‘Bot’-‘tom’. Tim refused to oblige. In the spirit of taking the piss he usually pronounced the ‘Side’ and ‘Bottom’ parts of Ted’s unfortunate name separately. He insisted that this was the only sensible pronunciation. By serendipity this pronunciation evoked Ted’s oddly lateral gait, no doubt caused by constant stooping to connect with a myriad of hockey pucks. The two men never quite resolved this matter although Tim eventually conceded that Ted had a right to have his name pronounced as he wished however ridiculous it might sound.

  In a mood of putting past differences aside, Ted had approached Tim. Well tanked up he was in expansive mood, his Yorkshire accent even more pronounced than usual, ‘Ye know Tim, you’re not such a bad bugger as ye crack on.’

  Always ready to listen to an opinion about him-self for good or bad, Tim encouraged Ted to go on.

  ‘How’s that then, Ted? I’ve didn’t realise you’d become one of my fans.’

  ‘No, ye’re right there. I ‘aven’t. Ye can be a bit of a tart. I mean why are ye leaving yer Gina and yer young daughter. Everybody likes Gina, ye know.’

  ‘Listen Ted, you don’t know what happened between us … As a matter of fact …’ Tim was about to defend himself when Ted backtracked.

  ‘Look … sorry … I came over to pay ye a compliment, not to criticise.’

  ‘Ok. Go ahead?’

  ‘Right … The truth is that the reason why ye get sum flack is that a lot of the guys envy ye a bit. Not in a nasty way, though it can come out like that. I mean you’re a free floater. The system doesn’t seem to have grabbed as much of ye as it has of sum of uz. Ye do what most of uz only think about doing, if that. Ye write books, seem to pull attractive women, and instead of serving yer life-sentence out ’ere like the rest of uz idiots ye go and get a job in ’igher education. That’s what I mean, yer not afraid to be different, ye go yer own way and show it can be done.’

  Tim looked at Ted in surprise. The half-cock eulogy seemed genuine enough. It hadn’t occurred to him that the jocks among his colleagues might subliminally admire and envy him. It had taken Ted in a mood of drunken reflection to work it out. In so far as Tim thought about the jocks at all, he took them pretty much at face value. He had never aspired to be one of them, gathering to play cards at break time or getting pissed together when they could get collective dispensation from their wives. They took his demeanour and life-style as an implicit rejection of their own. In response they were often jocularly aggressive towards him. Occasionally this triggered a frisson of irritation, but that was a small price to pay to maintain the identity boundary. He tagged them ‘the fat table’ and to them he was ‘a bit of a weirdo’. It came as a shock that he might be their subterranean role model. But he enjoyed the irony of it and even felt slightly flattered.

  ‘Your wife’s just come in Tim,’ a voice shouted above the noise.

  Ted lurched to his feet. He spun forward, almost landing in Tim’s lap as he attempted to clap him across the shoulder. ‘That’s it, sunshine. Enjoy the rest of yer life. Look after those ye’re supposed to.’

  ‘Thanks, you too.’ Tim’s attention turned towards the disembodied voice.

  ‘I doubt if she still believes she is my wife.’

  ‘Partner, then.’

  ‘I haven’t got one of them either, ex-partner. Where is she?’

  He looked towards the pub entrance. Standing up he spotted Gina’s head of curls bobbing through the crowd.

  ‘Relax, man, she’s heading your way.’ The disembodied voice again.

  Tim waved, hoping Gina would pick him out.

  ‘Gina, over here,’ he shouted into the crowd.

  He caught sight of her, as she returned his wave followed by a hand-signal that he interpreted to mean that she was pausing to exchange a few words with friends. Keeping me on a string even tonight. Gina always dressed smartly even on less formal occasions. Physically she benefited from her mixed race heritage of African, French and Portuguese. The colourful clothes she liked to wear enhanced the sheen of her light coffee-coloured skin. Tonight she had put on a favourite blue satin dress matched with shiny maroon heels. As usual she wore several bracelets and more rings than Tim had ever bothered to count, her lean bare arms catching the gleam of silver and gold. A thin chain bracelet accentuated the fineness of her ankles.

  Finally she reached him. With difficulty she resisted his usual smothering embrace. Now that their relationship was over, she was determined to maintain her distance. She kissed him lightly on the cheek and gently pushed him away. He looked crestfallen.

  ‘Tim, are you ok? You look a
bit drunk.’ She was already adopting what had become her default tone of concerned disapproval.

  ‘Well, this is my official send-off so I’m allowed to get pissed. Anyway, thanks for making the effort to come. I guess that you got Joy in to look after Maria. Let me pay for that. What can I get you to drink?’

  ‘Tim, I’m aware it’s your send-off. That’s why I’m here. Don’t worry about the child minding, it gets done on an exchange of favour basis. I thought you knew that.’ She paused for a moment, scanning the crowded pub. ‘They’ve really turned out for you. You must be more popular than you think,’ she added partly reassuring, partly teasing.

  ‘Not really, it’s not just for me. Don’t forget it’s the end of term. Anyway, you haven’t said what you want to drink.’

  ‘I’ll have a glass of red wine, just one drink. It looks like I might be driving you back – to your digs that is, not home,’ she added, keen to avoid any ambiguity.

  They had promised each other not to argue about their relationship problems tonight. This was not the time or place. There was much that was unresolved between them, far more than they yet recognised. They had blundered into a break-up through a series of mistakes and failures of communication. Who was wronged and who was guilty remained ambiguous as they spiralled downwards into chronic mistrust. Gina had become convinced that Tim was having a full-blown affair with a woman he had met at a conference. He swore that what had happened was a romantic flirtation that both parties had decided to pull back from. But self-indulgently and confusingly for Gina he kept open the possibility of further involvement in the weeks following the conference. Gina tried to believe his protestations that it was ‘just a friendship’ but was eventually unconvinced. The messages she read on his mobile were not conclusive but to her they indicated something more than ‘just friendship.’ Insecure and unsure of him she began to distance herself.