Bums on Seats Read online

  Another intoxicating thought: if he brought all that business to the Uni, he would certainly get promoted! What age was the youngest Dean? Professor McGuire had a nice feel to it! That would also mean at least an extra ten grand!

  After adding a few more questions to the list for Luke, he reluctantly turned to the forthcoming journal article. He’d long concluded that research was more about perspiration than inspiration. Today it was particularly hard to work up a sweat. Focus then application leads to progress, his landlady had said – she was dead right.

  Fifty of his students had responded to a questionnaire. Sonia Greenberg had helped codify and input them to computer. He’d analysed them and drawn conclusions. Now it was a matter of producing 2000 words to hold readers’ attention, perhaps even entertain them and add a little insight of the way business students saw management.

  He’d given the students the Benjamin Disraeli political axiom, ‘Never complain and never explain’ and asked them to comment on this as a modus operandi suitable for top management in the present times. Their comments were to address efficiency, natural justice, team spirit and employment law.

  Since all the students were aged around twenty, they’d all been brought up to believe that it’s better to complain than suffer in silence. Further, everyone had a right to an explanation for everything.

  The students’ responses more or less divided into two categories. The majority group felt that top management should act and be seen to act within the word and spirit of employment law. Further, such leaders should apply these rules of behaviour to themselves. Hence they should rightly feel aggrieved at undesirable outcomes and they should explain their aims, reasons and disappointments to others.

  The minority group felt that top leaders should be made of sterner stuff. They should hold the view that if things went wrong it was their responsibility, since they held the levers of power. In other words, complaining is disempowering. It removes responsibility, both upwards and down.

  As for giving explanations, the minority group felt that operating decisions should be explained for all sorts of good reasons. But they also felt that top management decisions should not be open to frequent challenge. In other words democracy can dilute quality of focus.

  Simon was heartened that a sizable proportion of his students were prepared to step aside from mainstream thinking. Both groups had used words like communication, motivation, clarity, effort, results and fairness. The minority group had also displayed a fair sprinkling of words meaning personal strength and moral fibre.

  He made a note of his two principal distillations so far: “Complaining is disempowering”; “Democracy can dilute quality of focus.” This was enough information to start writing his article. Time to move on. He shuffled all the papers into a file, put them in the drawer and set off for the bookshop.

  CHAPTER 5

  The Dragon very sensibly aimed to capture everyone’s trade. There was a decent lounge bar for those wanting drinks, bar snacks and chat in civilised surroundings, a restaurant with nice decor and a good menu at affordable prices, a so called sportsman’s bar where you could play darts, pinball and a juke box and, across the car park, what had been a function hall and was now a purpose-designed disco. The landlord was taking a fortune. Simon wondered, not for the first time, whether he’d have been much better off if he weren’t so bright. No! University life was great most of the time. Permanent pub life must be terrible. They all smoked, drank and worked themselves to an early grave.

  Luke was waiting at a corner table in the lounge bar with two pints. “Get this down you, you look knackered.”

  “Cheers.” Simon noted his friend’s mastery of the vernacular and swilled half the glass down in one go.

  Luke, reading his thoughts, said, “I’ve spent eight years of my life being educated in England. Have you had a good day?”

  “Yeah, no lectures, no meetings, no interruptions, and I managed to shift my arse and mark forty assignments. How about you?”

  “Excellent, thanks. Mind you, I exist in accordance with my electronic organiser. It’s the only way for me. Projects, key dates, things to do, telephone numbers – I enter everything and stick to my schedules.”

  Simon, who enjoyed just dealing with life as it occurred, could see him as an efficient cabinet minister in a few years.

  “I’ve been in touch with my uncle. He’s very enthusiastic about the possibility of placing Zombekian students at Pucklebridge. Our initial need is to place two hundred honours degree undergraduates a year for three consecutive years, all of them in the Business School. Let’s talk about ways and means.”

  “For a start, Luke, Pucklebridge requires A levels accumulating to a minimum of fourteen points. They would all need good spoken and written English. And they must all be able to relate to the way commerce and economics actually work.”

  “Even before independence, twenty years ago, English was taught as a second language to the educated in Zombek. It’s now become the first language for them. When your people left we continued all commerce in English. Our education system produces good English fluency.”

  “Great! How about A levels?”

  “Like you, Simon, we have GCSEs leading to A levels and our system works. But we only have two teacher training colleges and progress is slow. GCSEs are well established and a high percentage of children achieve them. Mind you, as a large part of Zombek is still based on village life, there is considerable emphasis on pastoral subjects. Keeping people happy on the land’s been a successful formula. We subsidise the smallholdings from our mineral income, of course.”

  “So, as I asked, how about A levels?”

  “Patience, patience! Let me get the glasses refilled.” Luke made for the bar and Simon the loo. He stood at the stall and read some wag’s scribble on the wall: ‘Why are you looking up here and pissing on that chap’s shoes?’, apologised profusely to a large bloke at the next stall, and hurried back to the table.

  “Our A levels are meant to correspond with your academic achievement standards. But in some subject areas we have difficulty. It’s necessary, Simon, to take a flexible and imaginative view when comparing. Education is not a matter of absolutes, is it? Absolutes are brain fodder for bigots!”

  “I’ve thought about that. We’d have to establish a sort of joint panel of accreditation. The Uni would have to appoint members from Pucklebridge and you would select academically reputable Zombekians.”

  “Excellent, I knew you’d take a pragmatic view! For our part we’d be absolutely scrupulous,” he said with no apparent trace of irony. “Perhaps Pucklebridge’s Vice-Chancellor would refer such matters to a focus group,” he beamed.

  Simon felt a slight sense of having his strings jerked but thought it too improbable. “Then there’s the matter of the students’ satisfactory progress.”

  “How is that decided?”

  “Their written course work is sampled and audited, Luke.”

  “Who sets it and marks it and who audits?”

  “People like me set and mark. Other people like me, from a different faculty, audit.”

  “Excellent,” said Luke again. “Are they people you know from other faculties? It’s all looking very sensible isn’t it?”

  “Yes, well…” For the first time Simon felt confused, a bit out of control. A lifetime of being clever told him he could think through difficulties as they arose. There was a challenge to all this. On the other hand this was big stuff. But then again, he’d always felt he was potentially a big man. He tried to remember who it was who said, ‘It’s never too late to become the man you ought to have been!’

  “Simon, we don’t need to be sorting these things at breakneck speed. My uncle hopes the first students can come next September. That gives us ten months. He tells me that Zombek will have 300 young people from which to choose by May. Pucklebridge already has a complete university administration in place and working. It’s just a matter of you and me and perhaps a few others, aligning al
l this in a way that helps overseas students and the university at one and the same time. I’m sure you’ll lead us to some sensible arrangements.”

  Simon decided to stop being wimpish. “Let’s go for it, then. Education should be for everyone who wants it. I’ll do a plan to look at all we need to achieve. You’ll handle everything in your country. I may need to visit though, sometime soon. I’ll sort procedures to cope here. You’ll help me smooth the way when necessary. All this in absolute confidence. Agreed?”

  “Agreed with one important addition. We insist on recognising your service to our country. Nobody works properly for nothing. You are in a unique position. Your efforts will be crucial and perhaps arduous. Leave the details to me. Agreed?”

  Simon took the proffered hand and tried to stop his trembling from the prospect.

  They talked a little longer, and then Luke’s mobile phone beeped. He answered the caller in a monosyllabic way for a few seconds, then hung up and announced, “I’m sorry Simon, I have to go. Let’s talk again next week,” With that he smiled, got to his feet, shook hands again and left the room.

  It was 10.30. Simon was still at 30,000 feet. Going home was unthinkable. On impulse he went to the bar and bought a ticket for the disco. He’d not done such a thing for ages. At the least he could sit with a lager and watch the proceedings.

  He passed through the second set of doors, recoiled and collapsed on a friendly chair. The noise was a solid wall of sensation. It came from everywhere and consumed all. The supposed background beat could have kept a whole regiment in step. The front men’s guitars and keyboards shrieked and howled in wild competition. The strobe lights reared and dipped, flashed and dimmed, changed colour and de-synchronised. Five hundred gyrating bodies worshipped approval. The heat in the room would have sustained an entire house throughout the month of January. He felt the venue should be renamed “The Black Hole of Calcutta” and wondered what a visitor from Mars might make of these bizarre rituals.

  A figure separated from the heaving mass, settled on his lap, wrapped a bare arm around his neck and shouted “Hi Simon” in his ear. It was Josie Manning, the young waitress who fed him bacon butties in the Common Room when lecture mornings were at low ebb.

  “Hello Josie, didn’t expect to see you here!”

  “I’m often here – you’re the stranger,” she said, pressing her face against his and speaking up. She wore several studs in each ear, her face seemed speckled with silver paint and she had considerable eye makeup. Perhaps the bare midriff and short skirt were de rigueur in her set. Or perhaps it was a matter of self-preservation in this heat?

  “You’re not saying much,” she said, this time pressing her face against his other cheek and shouting in the other ear. Simon thought that was sensible, wearing out one’s ears at an equal rate.

  “How long does all this go on?”

  “About another hour. But they’ll change to slow music soon. It’s a bit quieter then, but you’ll still feel the beat through the floor! You can give us a dance then.” She giggled, got to her feet and plunged back into the melée, immediately coupling up with another girl in some complicated gyration.

  Simon went to the bar and ordered lager. He saw nobody he knew and nobody he felt like chatting to. He mulled over the arrangements for Luke’s compatriots. It was looking good. Everybody gained. The university, Zombek, several hundred of their citizens and, not least, Luke and himself. Two lagers later, Josie came for him. It was amazing he’d actually managed to switch the music off in his head for half an hour. It was as she had forecast. The music was now funereal. The lights muted. The dancers held each other upright in pairs and moved very little.

  Josie was tall, slimmish and athletic. He thought she might be nearly eighteen, but who’s counting? He joined in the spirit of things, held her close and shuffled. “You’re a good dancer, Simon, ever so light on your feet,” the voice said directly into his ear.

  “Kind of you to look after an old man, Josie,” he replied banging his teeth on her ear studs.

  She chuckled, gave him a little kiss and said, “Go on, my Dad’s older than you!” He wasn’t sure what to make of that, but she just leaned on him a bit more and they shuffled on for ten minutes.

  “I’ll get a taxi from here.”

  “There’s no need, my Dad’s lent me his precious old Volvo, now I’ve passed my test. I’ll drop you off.”

  “Thanks, if you’re sure. Your Dad’s a hero.”

  Ten minutes later they set off at a sedately old Volvo pace, just like a niece taking a favourite uncle out for a Sunday afternoon drive. The genteel excursion didn’t last; when they reached the university, instead of passing as he expected, she indicated and turned. “I’ve forgotten something,” she smiled.

  He was taken aback. “You’ll never get in!”

  She reached out of the window and punched the security code into the box. The barrier rose and she moved smartly off. Immediately next to the buildings was a row of lights; otherwise, all was deep shadow. What had possessed the girl? This was not the side of the Uni where she worked. She swung for the furthest corner of the car park. He got an inkling. Yes! now he understood. One of his private fantasies was about to be fulfilled. He was going to be seduced. Yippee! He was more right than he knew. He wouldn’t be laughing in another ten minutes.

  The engine was silenced, lights doused. A hundred black windows frowned on the campus car park. Ten thousand fallen leaves skittered and rattled around the four hundred and ninety- nine empty parking spaces. Josie thoughtfully unclipped his seat belt for him. Just as she would for her uncle, if she’d had one.

  “I always liked you, Simon. You treat me as an equal. Not like some of those snobbish gits in the Common Room.” He was about to tell her, quite truthfully, that he was fond of her with her cheery manner and ready smile, but he never had a chance. In keeping with her age and personality, she was active and enthusiastic and very direct. He was literally overpowered.

  They kissed and cuddled where they sat. It was intense but brief. She clambered to his side of the car. He unclipped her bra and stroked the lovely body. The effect was electric. Thirty seconds later, with no assistance whatever on his part, he was sitting on the old leather seat in just a tee shirt. She was naked. “Would it be a turn-on if I fastened you up in the seat belts, Simon?”

  He was going to gasp a ‘No’ but took too long to draw breath. She tugged a couple of yards of belt from his doorpost, wrapped it around his left biceps and clipped the buckle home across him. This was followed by a fierce, breath-depriving, kiss before she reached the drivers-side seatbelt wrapped it around his other arm, fed it through the other belt and pushed the buckle into the other clip. He silently prayed ‘Please God don’t let there be a fire.’

  The leather seat sighed as the athletic knees rubbed along it, first forward, then back. The knees moved quickly, then not at all, then gently again. A hand reached for the control that altered the rake of the seat. It was a very knowing hand; it could assess the precise angle for the most satisfying contact.

  “Josie.” His endearment was devoured by hungry lips. Speech became redundant, the tongue more intrusive. He fought for breath. He’d heard that people sometimes deprived each other of oxygen at crucial moments to heighten sensation. He had an inclination of how it felt. He wondered whether he would escape with his life. In his mind’s eye he heard the Coroner’s Clerk pronounce a verdict of “Death by Intercourse”!

  Her hands gripped the seat-top for purchase; her knees began the final, frenzied gyration. He wondered whether she’d been to some sex clinic and been kitted up to manage a sort of turbo mode. It was incredible. The paroxysm started at the tips of his toes. His eardrums threatened to explode to the rhythm of an abused heart. His face was enveloped by heaving breasts. There was definitely no breathing now. What a way to go! There was no control either, thrust and counter-thrust were urgently fierce. His world exploded! She made a wild, wailing shriek. The tortured Volvo seat snapped clea
n off its fixings!

  CHAPTER 6

  1971

  Sarah Fairhurst, wife of the British High Commission’s Cultural Attaché to Zombek, found pregnancy onerous. It was almost her seventh month. The baby rested in the daytime and spent its nights moving about. How many damn knees and elbows did the child have? The servants were on call and attentive. But a lady must be dignified, not irritable and short-tempered. At 3 am she had another glass of orange juice, lay back and thought stoically of England!

  Two hours later a messenger roused the house.The Governor, 59 years old and well liked, had died from a heart attack. Another twenty minutes and her husband, William, was away to the High Commission. When he returned, after 16 hours, he’d been promoted to Assistant Deputy Governor. It was the death knell of their marriage, though neither knew it then.

  “Oh, Sarah, this is terrible news. As you know, Chief Matthew Nweewe will be inaugurated President in three months time. I’ll now have to take total responsibility for organising the state visit to mark the occasion. One of the Royals is coming as well as the Foreign and Commonwealth Secretary and others.”

  “And as you know, I’m due back in England when I’m seven months. The baby comes before anything else.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous Sarah. Everything’s changed. There’ll be all sorts of functions leading up to the inauguration. It will be absolutely essential that I have a lady at my side at many of them.”

  “Do you know how few hours I sleep! Do you care? Where exactly does the baby come in your list of priorities?”

  “Sorry darling, sorry. It’s been a very long day.” He saw his mistake and changed from husband to diplomat. “I know you’re having bad nights. I think you’ve been wonderful in the circumstances and you still look so beautiful. I don’t know how you do it. I couldn’t.”

  Sarah relented. “I’m sorry, too. Last night was absolutely bloody awful. Surely one of the High Commission’s female staff can stand in and accompany you?”