Bums on Seats Read online

“We want a bit of ‘hands on’ control in this matter. Instead of checking the quality and acceptability of their educational facilities through National Associations, I propose that Mr McGuire and our Academic Registrar fly to Zombek at the earliest opportunity to satisfy Pucklebridge’s requirements. Subject of course, to us agreeing today to go ahead in principle with the project.”

  Whilst he was still speaking, Simon thought the Chairman looked a little uneasy. His PA leant forward and whispered to him.

  He sat up and said, “Thank you, Brett. I personally am very happy to second that proposal. Are we all easy with that?” There was no opposition and one or two murmurs of approval. “That motion’s carried then. Let’s move on. Who’s next?”

  Nigel Hurst, Regional Officer of one of the big clerical unions, said, “I’m sure the syllabus and its delivery is well thought through but, for the 200 students selected in each annual batch, it’s their only option. Some will, inevitably, be more attuned to it than others. What about those for whom it will be a greater challenge?”

  Simon sought eye contact, smiled in a calm manner and said, “That’s the way I, too, thought it might be, Mr Hurst. So I proposed extra lecturing staff. This would reduce the normal student/lecturer ratio: more time for individual tutorials, if necessary. The Zombekians have agreed in principle to pay for that.”

  “Good, good. I have a follow up point then. How will your teaching union react to that?” He sat back with a small smile that said, ‘Bet that’s caught you out’.

  Simon waited a second or two to heighten the impact and then replied, “I thought it entirely proper to discuss the issue with the Branch Chairman, Mick Palmer. His position is that so long as we give first consideration to any applications for the new posts to existing assistant lecturers, the Branch will pass it through on the nod.”

  Hurst nodded approval, but with just a trace of disappointment. The Governor sitting to Simon’s right whispered, “Well done.”

  Sir Maurice, from the chair, asked, “Have we any further points?” It was the sort of question, delivered in the sort of tone, that meant we are getting towards the end now.

  “Yes, Chairman.” The speaker was Evelyn McLeod, the County’s Business Woman of the Year for the last three years. “All these extra lecturers and this accreditation checking are fine, but it’s a bit inbred, parochial, if you know what I mean. What we need if we’re to protect our reputation, er, I mean Pucklebridge’s reputation, is independent audit of progress. Don’t you think?”

  Simon definitely saw Sir Maurice stiffen before turning to him for a response.

  “Thank you, Ms McLeod.”

  Simon smiled, crossed his fingers and said, “I’ve discussed this with colleagues and it seemed to us that, in addition to our own cross-faculty audit arrangements, we should enter into a contract with another university for independent audit. This, of course, is in addition to the government’s National Audit team, which can descend upon us at any time. If the Board agreed, we could start that moving.” Simon had never thought of such a thing, regretted the blatant lie, but thought, ‘What’s a chap to do?’

  The Chairman beamed whilst scribbling a quick note for his PA.

  There were only a couple of minor points after that before Simon’s testing time was over. “Thank you for coming to help us, Simon. We shall have our final discussion now and then vote on your proposal. You’ll be hearing from the Vice-Chancellor shortly no doubt.”

  The Chairman’s PA stood up and Simon took it to mean his dismissal from the meeting. He rose, smiled, nodded around the table and departed with Nadia. He was so emotionally drained that he didn’t even retrieve his battle-sword and shield. Even his body armour no longer clanked as they strode victoriously up the corridor together. God’s servants had surely prevailed.

  “Well done, Simon,” Nadia said. “I thought the clever cow had caught you out for a minute.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She smiled, didn’t argue, squeezed his arm and left.

  Driving home, the source of Janet’s quotation popped into his head. She’d said, ‘Bestir yourself and then call on the gods, For heaven assists the man that laboureth.’

  It was from the Fragments of Euripides. Now all he had to find was which number.

  CHAPTER 15

  “Your daffodils are beautiful, in flower much sooner than expected this year, Janet.”

  “It’s all down to earlier than usual sunshine and lighter than normal winds, Simon. I’d like to take some credit, but my one hour a week gardening is an act of self-discipline rather than a labour of love!” She looked at him expectantly.

  He suddenly realised she was playing their quotation game. “Afraid you’ve caught me again, Janet. I shall have to refer to my Bible for chapter and verse. By the way, ‘God helps those who help themselves’ was among the Fragments of Euripides (No. 435).”

  “Well done,” she smiled.

  They walked in the front garden inspecting the borders whilst Simon waited for his late-afternoon lift to Heathrow. “I’m not looking forward to this trip, Janet. I suppose I’m concerned at what I might find by way of educational standards. And I’m not sure how the Academic Registrar and I will put up with each other for three days out there.”

  “You’re worrying too much, Simon. There’s a lot of political capital tied up in this. Everyone wants you to get the project up and running. Between you all, things will be fine … at least for a year or two. Then, if it starts to get difficult, you’re resourceful and hardworking and will manage anyway.” She squeezed his arm. At that point a Land Rover turned into the drive. It was driven by a man. Veronica Hamlyn sat alongside. “You will need to watch her,” Janet added quietly.

  Veronica, with narrowed eyes, noted Janet’s hand on Simon’s arm, and completed a rapid personal audit. She composed her features as she and the driver stepped out.

  “Hello Simon, this is my husband, Grant.”

  “Hi, meet Janet McHale, my landlady and friend.” They all shook hands in the very English formal way. “We were just enjoying the unexpected sunshine,” he explained.

  Janet smiled at Grant Hamlyn.

  Veronica’s lips pursed. “Well, are you ready for action then?”

  Simon thought Veronica had a funny way with words. “Yes, I think so. I’ve not received an itinerary from Zombek, but I know what I’d like to achieve. We can combine our views on the plane.”

  She rattled out, “Have you your ticket, passport, money? Have you had your jabs? Lightweight clothes, toiletries packed? Any medicines?”

  Janet, standing to one side, gave a small smile at these indications of a rampant control freak. Simon, out of sheer fun, considered rattling back in the right order, Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes and no! But good manners prevailed and he gave a restrained, “I’m OK, thanks.” He retrieved his suitcase and travel bag from the front doorstep and handed them to Grant at the back of the Land Rover. “I’ll send you a card, Janet.”

  “Safe journey, Simon. ’Bye!”

  Grant made very good time to Heathrow. The traffic was exceptionally light on the M4. “I think we’ve arrived too early, Veronica,” he ventured.

  “Nonsense, we have a much better chance of upgraded seating, the earlier we are.”

  Simon thought she was bossy to the point of being rude. On the journey, Grant had turned out to be a reasonable guy, interesting company but someone who was very much under his wife’s control. He was incredibly patient, with an air of good-humoured resignation. At the check-in Veronica took command and asked about the possibility of being upgraded. She would never know, but she needn’t have asked. The check-in staff had already received instructions from Zombek.

  “The aircraft is a Boeing 747-400 and we are pleased to offer you seats 11A and 11C in Business Class on the upper deck.” With clear satisfaction, and without consultation, Veronica accepted for them both.

  Terminal 3 was its usual bustle. Simon arranged to meet them in an hour and went off to b
rowse in the nearest bookshop. As he left, Veronica was advising Grant of a list of projects to complete about their house in her absence.

  An hour later, they said goodbye to Grant, went through to the flight holding area, passport control, and submitted to a body search at the gate as part of the anti-terrorist precautions. Simon mused it was a good thing that Veronica wasn’t wearing her weekend, Dartmoor-exercises gear. God knows what she might then have had concealed about her person. An Utzi machine pistol or a Browning, perhaps? It was a further half hour before their flight was called and they meandered to the loading executive lounge. Happily, Veronica passed the time reading a thick brochure called ‘Combat Holidays for the Initiated.’ Simon, meanwhile, searched his pocket volume of Shakespeare sonnets, seeking something apposite to catch out Janet in his promised card.

  Another ten minutes and they walked the short corridor to the aircraft. As they presented boarding passes, the well-built, happy-looking young woman greeted them by name. “Zombek Airline welcomes you aboard Mrs Hamlyn, Mr McGuire. I’m Rebecca Khalanga, the Cabin Manager,” she said. “We look forward to giving you a pleasant flight. My colleague, Catherine Queshi, will show you to your seats.” Their seats proved to be at the very front of the upper deck, with just a bulkhead to the fore. The area was spacious and comfortable. They were impressed with the luxury of it. They settled. Veronica might almost have purred.

  A little later the huge aircraft trundled down to the runway. The pilot braked, opened the engines to a screaming, maniac pitch and then hurtled forward down the concrete, ready for a gravity-defying leap into the air. The overnight, non-stop flight was away. Simon, who hated the take-off bit, opened his eyes and released Veronica Hamlyn’s hand. He hadn’t even realised he’d held onto it. She smiled and quietly rubbed her circulation back.

  “I shall be serving dinner in half an hour at eight-thirty. Can I get you a drink now?” They both had champagne. The sky had darkened. They pulled the window blinds.

  The food was delicious. They consumed a good deal more champagne with it. Veronica became much more human, softer, Simon thought, as the evening progressed. She was very articulate and spoke, as they ate, in a passionate and caring way about the environment and the need to conserve. Simon agreed, but couldn’t reconcile this with the realisation that the four engines would pump into the atmosphere the burned residue of the 100 tons of aviation spirit essential to reach Zombek. But, in accord with his non-combative nature, he never made the point.

  The more they unwound, the friendlier she became. She sat closer and asked to try his beef. In return, she pushed a fork of her chicken into his mouth. They sampled each other’s choice of pudding. Simon didn’t quite know why but he went along with it. She was obviously well travelled and knew how to make the best of what was on offer on a flight. He’d decided, in any case, on being a pleasant companion. It was well intentioned but, as on so many other occasions in his life, not without consequence.

  Ultimately, the stewardess came to prepare passengers for sleep and so allow a bit of relaxation for the staff. She brought them light blankets and pillows. She said, “Please help yourselves to light refreshments and drinks from the galley, if you wish.” Simon and Veronica, in turn, visited the loo. Simon noted there were only four other passengers on the upper deck. Zombek Airline wouldn’t make much profit from this flight! They were all businessmen with the obvious give-away signs of briefcases and laptop computers. They were well spaced out and towards the cabin’s rear. Two of them were wearing the supplied eye masks. All had switched off their reading lights. He felt ready for sleep himself.

  Veronica regressed briefly into her command mode. “Simon, we need to move the seats right back and the armrest up for space and comfort.” She reached across and pressed buttons, organising seats and leg rests. She spread the blankets over them both, sharing their benefit. Then, without more ado, she put her pillow on his shoulder and snuggled up with an arm around him. She should have been a bloody General, he thought. She would occupy the territory before anyone realised there was a battle. As it happened the campaign was not by any means over. It had been planned when she first stepped into the upper cabin.

  A voice whispered in his ear, “I always feel sexed-up in a plane, Simon, don’t you?”

  Too slow by a mile, while he pondered his answer she unzipped his fly and fumbled her hand through the gap in his boxer shorts. Simon, always easily aroused, responded instantly.

  “Ooh, you’re big, Simon.” She moved her hand a little and made an mmm-ing noise to herself.

  Simon was excited and bemused, surprised and a little breathless. But she’d not done yet. Veronica raised her skirt. She wore nothing underneath since her visit to the loo. Simon, overrun by a superior force, meekly complied when Veronica removed his trousers and boxers. She reached down and took a firm grasp again, gave an excited shudder at the steady throb in her hand and gently lowered herself onto it. “I’ll do the moving, Simon. We’ll have to be careful. It’s filling me right up.” She made happy little mewing noises. “Ohhh, that’s lovely.”

  At first Simon was worried about the other passengers, but the cabin was its normal graveyard-quiet self. Veronica proved, unsurprisingly in view of her practice, to be a skilled lover. She stroked his neck and wriggled her bottom. Simon, always a thoughtful partner, kissed her face and neck and whispered “Lover, lover, lover,” seductive comments in her ear. She cooed. He moved his fingers to her nipples, but she stopped him.

  “Not yet, Simon, it will be all over when you do.” With skill and care she kept them both going another 10 minutes. Then she whispered urgently, “NOW, Simon!”

  He rubbed both nipples hard and fast. The response was instantaneous for her and then him. He managed to suppress most of the noise by the simple expedient of covering her mouth with his and holding her there. The ten-second flurry was both ecstatic and active. It culminated in Veronica accidentally striking the attendant call button with an out-flung hand. They’d had 20 seconds to separate and return to comparative decency before the stewardess arrived. “Champagne?” she beamed.

  “Thank you,” Veronica replied for both of them. “What good timing there is here!”

  CHAPTER 16

  The Boeing came to rest on a broad concrete parking bay. The terminal buildings of Kumbi Airport were 300 yards distant. A number of vehicles approached. Six baggage handlers, on a purpose-built truck, started to transfer suitcases down a chute. Three single-decker buses drew up in close formation, broadside on to the aircraft. Two limousines parked a discreet distance to the side. An army Range Rover drew in next to them. Rebecca Khalanga, came personally for Simon and Veronica.

  “Good morning, I hope you had a pleasant flight.”

  “Rebecca, it was lovely,” replied Veronica for them both.

  Simon felt ‘novel’ would have been a more appropriate judgment from him. But then, unlike Veronica, he’d only just qualified for membership of the ‘6-mile-high’ club.

  Before they stepped into brilliant sunshine and descended the long steps to the ground, Simon handed the Cabin Manager a picture-postcard of Zombek he’d quickly scribbled to Janet, his landlady. The girl promised to post it straight away. The message said, ‘Just landed and am about to find out if Africa is always producing some novelty. Simon.’ That quote might get her head scratching, he thought. Simon was about to head off to the nearest bus when a military man strode forward.

  “Mr McGuire, Mrs Hamlyn, welcome to Zombek. I’m Captain Mark Kwame of the Army Education Corps. I’m your escort to your hotel and later for your appointment with the Minister for Education.” He was a well-spoken, striking-looking young giant, dressed in immaculate army summer drills complete with holstered revolver at the waist. They shook hands and he led them to the Range Rover.

  “May I have your passports a moment, please?” he asked.

  He passed them to a man at the door of the vehicle. The man looked at them briefly, reached in his briefcase and then stamped and r
eturned them. Uncharacteristically, for those who inspect passports the world over, he smiled before turning on his heel and leaving. They stepped up into the Range Rover and set off for the hotel.

  So began three days of VIP treatment for the two informal ambassadors of education. At 11.00 am, Mark Kwame came to the hotel for them. Simon, who had no idea of the formal itinerary intended, was intrigued to see what would follow. He’d used the time to make a formal list of the ground he intended to cover. Veronica, on the other hand, felt disgruntled. The Zombekians had arranged accommodation in a first-class hotel. She’d hoped for a joint two-bedroom-with-lounge suite. She’d actually got a VIP bedroom next door to Simon’s. That wouldn’t be half so convenient, she thought. She wondered if she dare ask for a better arrangement. They boarded the Range Rover en route to the Ministry of Education.

  The Minister, Joshua Aiddo, proved to be a charming, but very business-like, man of around fifty. Over welcoming coffee, he advised that he’d been educated in England. He led them into smalltalk demonstrating a current knowledge of British political affairs.

  After ten minutes he asked Simon, “And how is my nephew Luke Nweewe? You’re one of his tutors, I understand.” This brought them round, more or less naturally, to the purpose of their visit to Zombek.

  Veronica switched into her ‘control of the universe’ mode.

  “Our university is delighted to be involved with you in this venture. It’s an honour to be invited. However, you will understand, our Board of Governors wishes to verify that we are all speaking of the same achievement standards.” She took a breath and continued, “This is for the sake of educational excellence in general and Zombek in particular.” She took another breath. It was a mistake. He was much too experienced a politician to give her three opportunities and, in any case, he already found her tiresome. He didn’t even fancy her. Each of his three wives would be much superior in bed, he thought. He cut in.

  “We’re entirely at one on this, Mrs Hamlyn; may I call you Veronica? We’ve given considerable thought as to how you might maximise the benefit of your valuable journey to us. I’m sure you will be pleased with our plan. There is much ground to cover. We have two teachers’ training colleges that specialise in preparing tutors to deliver A Level studies. One is about 200 miles north of here. The other is 100 miles west of that one. We have a number of sixth form colleges, of course, already delivering A Level tuition to hundreds of students. Two of those sixth form colleges are here in the south of Zombek.