Bums on Seats Page 6

  Simon passed an hour looking at shirts. There were at least twenty shops selling them. He visited four shops and paid £40 for a Ben Sherman at the last. It would complement his chinos. He followed his nose to a coffee shop, collected a cappuccino and sat at an outside table, sipping, watching and musing.

  A minute or two later fate, carrying three carrier bags, a posh parcel and balancing an espresso, joined him. “You are alone, Simon?”

  How delightful; it was Sally Mison, the Vice-Chancellor’s delicious wife. “I was, but reluctantly so, Sally.” He rose, dragged her a chair and kissed her cheek in one fluent move. Here I go again, he thought. Why do I keep on doing it?

  “That’s nice; it’s lovely to see you, Simon.” She looked directly into his eyes from a range of one foot. “Shopping’s fun but it’s never long before I crave company. Money and spending are a bit impersonal, aren’t they?” She didn’t wait for an answer and continued, “Mind you, some people don’t value human contact at all. I can’t understand that.” She continued speaking on and on, but the voice he heard receded.

  God, she was lovely. He lost concentration and what she said became peripheral. Looking at her and listening to the low cultured voice was, he mused, the microcosmic equivalent of admiring a work of art in the Tate Gallery, whilst listening to the London Symphony Orchestra play Tchaikovsky. His mind meandered in this melodramatic, extravagant and romantic way until she said, “Simon, SIMON, are you there?”

  “Sorry, I got carried away by a train of thought. It’s hunger pangs and I feel lightheaded. Look, do you fancy something to eat and a glass of wine?”

  “I’d love that Simon, great idea.” She festooned all the packages about his person and linked her arm through his as they strolled companionably. He wondered if heaven was a shopping mall.

  The vibrancy of the mall carried on into the bistro. There were too many tables for the space but it added to the intimacy. Down lighters illuminated colourful wall posters and threw pleasing shadows. The table staff were all young, cheerful and moved at speed. Simon and Sally hunched knee to knee and sipped the wine. A beaming black lad brought two skillets, cut them a slice of seafood pizza each and left the rest in the hot pans. They held the food with paper napkins, ate with their fingers and chatted between mouthfuls. Simon poured more wine and changed his mind about heaven. He now knew it was here.

  “Tell me about your focus group, Simon.”

  “Oh, err, we’re having our first meeting next week.”

  “Stuart is expecting big things from you. He’s heard that you’re imaginative and energetic – a man of the future. What lines are you thinking of for raising university income?”

  Simon took a long sip of wine, moving his mind up through the gears. “Well, I do have an idea, Sally, but I’m not sure how seriously I’ll be taken.”

  “Nonsense, Simon. I’d take you very seriously. I’m sure any perceptive person would. What’s your idea?”

  Somehow his left knee seemed trapped between hers. The restaurant felt suddenly warm. She looked intently at him. Her face was very near. He smelled her perfume. He wondered if she could see right into his mind and hoped not. “I think we should make a special thing of attracting overseas students.”

  “But we already have overseas students, don’t we?” She helped herself to the last piece of pizza from his skillet.

  “Yes, but it’s almost accidental. I mean we should establish procedures to target numbers, and then process them through an educational structure which recognises their country’s needs.” He sipped the wine wondering if he’d said too much.

  “Yes, I think I see. You mean tailor our administrative procedures to become sort of student-friendly?” She emptied the last of the carafe into her glass.

  “Well, sort of. We should perhaps target one country first and liaise with their Ministry of Education. We could, say, establish joint committees to oversee all those things that, although important, sometimes hinder education. And, of course, in so doing inhibit our income,” he added in a moment of inspiration.

  “Brilliant, Simon, you mean really get some focus on fundamentals and beat the market, so to speak. Where would you start?”

  “Well, we have a post-grad student from Zombek who’s forward-looking and well connected at home. If I had approval, I could start to take soundings. Mind you, he’s only here for another year, so we’d need to move swiftly to take advantage of that.” He mentally breathed out and reached for a piece of pizza, but the waiter was already heading for the kitchen with the empty pans.

  “Sounds a good prospect. Put the idea to your focus group. Go for it!”

  “I’ll judge the mood of the meeting. I don’t know who’ll chair it. That might be crucial.”

  Sally seemed to lose interest at that point and the conversation drifted into general university chit-chat. After a while she said, “Shan’t be a minute, just going to repair my face. Look, are you doing anything for an hour? I have to find a suitable dress for a function. Stuart wants me to look the part and I’d value the comments of a male.” His left knee, regrettably, became untrapped and she wafted away.

  Bliss, he would have her company for another hour. Re-festooned with parcels, Simon began a short tour of exotic little boutiques he would never normally have noticed. She took his arm en route and gave the impression of being protected from the attentions of any passing thug. At one shop he sat at a little corner table with a pot of tea. She flitted in and out between curtains in a succession of creations. “What do think of this? How would that appear at a semi-formal dinner? Do you feel this is too…?” He tried to be helpful and imaginative in his assessments. But he felt she was sensational in everything.

  She settled on what he would have described as a flimsy black bodice with no shoulders to it, held up by thin straps that met behind her neck. He helped with the last inch of the zip in the middle of her back. Sally glided to and fro in a corner with three mirrors at angles. He perspired and experienced familiar stirrings. God, it was like attending a personal strip show, delightful but embarrassing. Fortunately, she bought it and ended the performance. He heard the manageress say, “Two hundred and fifty pounds.” Sally emerged from the curtains dressed in street clothes and shared his burden by carrying the new parcel as they strolled back along the busy concourse.

  “Where’s your car, Sally?”

  “I came by taxi.”

  “Can I give you a ride home?”

  “Lovely, can you spare the time?” They synchronised movements and stepped side by side onto the ‘down’ escalator.

  “Of course, you only live ten minutes from me and it’s a pleasure.” She smiled and squeezed his arm. A strange thing happened. Simon looked across at the ‘up’ escalator and saw Luke Nweewe passing. Although he’d obviously seen them he gave no sign. Sally appeared oblivious. Perhaps she didn’t know him? Perhaps Luke thought that he, Simon, was having an illicit assignation and, thus, sparing him the embarrassment of recognition? The moment passed.

  The parcels just about filled the back seat. She fitted comfortably into the front. Simon went around and entered as usual by stepping over the side. He reached across to the glove box and gave her a headscarf. Sally smiled sweetly, knotted the scarf under her chin and clipped home the seat belt. His eyes dropped to the belt and continued near to the limits of their sockets. Her dress had ridden up to a point where it showed lots of smooth black stocking and sheer temptation. She sat a few seconds; it seemed like half an hour, raised her bottom from the seat and pulled the dress back to respectability. Her expression remained absolutely neutral. He turned the key, engaged first gear and roared off to the down ramp. He clenched the wheel tightly, not so much to ensure the line of direction as to stop his hands shaking.

  Fifteen minutes later they turned into the VC’s drive and rolled up to the front door. He wondered if anyone was at home. He needn’t have bothered. The parting was brief.

  “Don’t get out Simon, I can manage. I enjoyed our encoun
ter very much. Thanks for lunch and for your help afterwards.”

  “Th-thanks for your company,” he stammered inanely.

  She leaned across, brushed her lips across his and stepped smartly out. She managed all the bags and baggage surprisingly easily, climbed the steps and passed out of sight. Simon turned back down the drive and prepared to give the old MGB absolute hell. Behind him at an upper window the curtain gave the briefest of twitches.

  CHAPTER 8

  1997

  He was five minutes late. Even so, Simon stopped at the door, took three deep breaths and psyched himself up before he would enter briskly. He’d picked up these tips at a positive image seminar, chaired by an ex-Cabinet Minister. He grasped the door handle firmly, cleared his throat, set a warm smile and strode confidently into the room. No one else had arrived! Chloe followed soon after and then three other members of the focus group soon after that. He only knew Chloe. They all exchanged formal handshakes, announcing names and functions.

  “Chloe Hodgekiss – Principal Lecturer – Economics Faculty.”

  “Hugh Jamieson – Accountant – University Finance Directorate.”

  “Harold Bellamy – Dean of Mathematics.”

  “Natalie Gold – Principal Lecturer – Social Sciences Faculty.”

  “Simon McGuire – Principal Lecturer – Business School.”

  As befitted his seniority and years, Bellamy took the lead. “Well, the Senior Management Executive Committee has asked us to think of ways of rescuing Pucklebridge from financial penury.” He chuckled at his own exaggeration.

  Jamieson, a dour Scotsman who had probably been a dour boy and before that a dour baby, re-joined, “We have an excellent reputation for financial probity. We shall never be destitute or insolvent. It’s just that we need a significant, positive cashflow, which is outside the control of the Government. I know you’re joking but we need to be careful not to start rumours!”

  Bellamy jumped back in. “There, there, Hugh. Let’s get down to business. We’d better have a formal structure. Since this is all about economics, I propose we appoint Chloe to be Chairperson.”

  Simon was surprised, thinking the Dean would want to control committee politics himself, but said nothing. Natalie seconded the proposal, nobody dissented and Chloe accepted.

  She did well: established a spirit of pooled resources, kept order and stopped them digressing or revisiting spent topics. It became clear that extra funds could come from only four sources. Either more students (possible), major endowments from industry or individuals (unlikely), funded research from Government or industry (likely but limited), increases in operating efficiency (likely to result in an equivalent financial snatchback by the Government).

  The weight of thinking turned towards solutions that combined those sources. A possibility was funded research, with an eye towards follow-up endowments related to research success. As a variation, Chloe wondered, “Could Pucklebridge buy significant numbers of shares in companies if combined research was pointing towards a money-spinning idea?”

  The accountant thought, “Probably not. We’re registered as a charity. So we couldn’t borrow sizable sums for the purpose.”

  Simon decided to declare his hand. He took three deep breaths, cleared his throat and set a smile. “What we want is student income which is outside the control of Government, in other words, overseas students with funding from their own government. And we want lots of them.”

  “How would we attract them?”

  By making ourselves customer-friendly, so to speak. We’d establish what their government needed and then provide it.”

  “How would we do that?”

  “We’d find a country in need, which shouldn’t be hard. Set up a joint body to establish financial arrangements and co-ordinate academic standards and procedures. Tailor a syllabus for them. Make helpful domestic arrangements to accommodate a block of students from that country. Collect the fees and get on with delivering education.”

  Jamieson asked, “How much a student year would the free market stand?”

  “I should have thought around £8,000 at least for a tailored syllabus. I reckon we could cope with 200 additional new students in any year. We’ve established academic and teaching arrangements. We’re well blessed with halls of residence. Each student would take three years to go through the course, as UK nationals do now.”

  Jamieson, who prided himself on speed of calculation, blinked and informed them, “That’s £1.6 million pounds a year. So, £4.8 million over three years from just one annual batch.” He would never know it but he was the last in the room to compute the sum. He continued, “And if we could attract a new batch every year…” He swallowed hard and had a mental orgasm at the sheer joy of the imaginary cash flow.

  Bellamy said, “Interesting idea, Simon; wonder why we’ve not done it already.”

  Natalie Gold answered, “Because we’re not yet truly customer oriented. Just the thought of having customers, let alone responding to their needs, is felt demeaning. Shops have customers. Academe favours the deserving with tuition, so long as they conform to the learning structure on offer.”

  They mulled over Simon’s proposition for another thirty minutes and considered no other.

  Bellamy took the lead again. ‘Well, Chloe, I think you’ve led us well at this first meeting.” Simon groaned inwardly at the patronising old twit. He continued, “I suggest that you and Simon carry on the good work and draft an outline report for the Senior Management Executive Committee.” So that was why he’d proposed Chloe for the Chair. He was work avoiding in the finest old-style university tradition, thought Simon.

  “I’m sure we’d be delighted Dean,” she responded, “any final points from anyone?”

  There were none. Chloe got to her feet. “I’ll produce some notes for comment, thanks for coming.” The others went, leaving her with Simon. “Let’s go to my office then you can give me more details.” He wondered how much to say.

  They stopped at the vending machine. He produced some change. “Lemon tea, please,” she said. Simon opted for black coffee.

  In her office, Chloe opened a cupboard and produced biscuits. “Well, what else can you tell me? Which country do you have in mind? She was very direct, he thought. There was little point in him shilly-shallying.

  “Do you know Luke Nweewe?”

  “Yes, I’ve met him. So you’re thinking of Zombek?”

  “He comes from the ruling tribe. His father is President. An uncle is Minister of Education. Luke is one of my post-grad students, but also a friend. He talks to me of his country’s needs.”

  She surprised him by saying, “They’re in a typical economic evolutionary bind.They can tick over nicely as an agrarian society. Everyone’s well fed, reasonably housed and happy on the land. But there’s all that mineral wealth still to exploit. The surrounding countries envy it. If the Zombekians don’t sort it, their neighbours will foster reactionary groups from rival Zombekian tribes and there’ll be bloody power struggles. In the background there’ll be European and, perhaps, American corporations waiting to pick up the juiciest pieces. So the Nweewes, the present benign, ruling tribe want to speed up progress from their own resources. Bloody good luck to them, I say.”

  “Wow, that was impressive Chloe!”

  “Not really, my PhD thesis was “Comparative Economic Patterns of Emergent African Countries” and I only finished it three years ago. Moreover I managed to get sponsorship for a month’s visit to Zombek and saw the reality of it all.”

  “Right! Well, you’re obviously sympathetic, Chloe. Can we draft a proposal to the Senior Management Executive Committee as a report from our focus group? What do you think?”

  “You need to do more work with Luke Nweewe first. How interested in Pucklebridge University would they be? How much funding would they commit? Exactly what syllabus would they want delivering to how many students? What difficulties might we encounter? What support would be available? … and so on.”
/>
  Simon was impressed with her instant analysis. He knew a lot of the answers but now was not the time. And he was seeing Luke in half an hour. “Let’s meet again in a week and I’ll have more for us to go on. Perhaps we could talk over dinner somewhere?” he added speculatively.

  She kept a perfectly straight face. “I’ll give you a ring a bit nearer the time.”

  Twenty minutes later the MGB screeched to a flamboyant halt in The Dragon car park. The disco building prompted memories of his frantic encounter with Josie. He thought he might arrange an encore, but resolved to check his life insurance first.

  The bar was nearly empty. The publican smiled bravely behind the silent cash register. Luke again sat at a corner table with two pints at the ready. He pushed one across the table. “Hi Simon, get yourself outside of that.”

  “How goes it, Luke?” Simon attacked the drink with the zeal of a camel preparing to trek to a distant brewery.

  “Everything’s fine, I’ve looked forward to our meeting. You look as if you’re winding down,” he added shrewdly.

  “It’s relief, really. I thought there might be resistance at the Focus Group, instead of which our idea was welcomed. In fact the university accountant has probably accorded me the honorary status of friend. His first ever! Chloe Hodgekiss chaired the meeting, the Dean of Mathematics was supportive and I’m to draft a proposal to the Senior Management Executive Committee.”

  “Well done! Great! Same again?” He picked up Simon’s glass and approached the landlord for refills. The publican brightened noticeably and offered Luke the bar meals menu as well. When Luke declined, he returned to contemplating his mortgage and suicide.

  “I, too, have good news, Simon. I now have approval at the highest level. We want two hundred entrants to your Business School this coming September. The funding is in place. Additionally, we have a contingency budget to smooth any difficulties.”

  Simon savoured his drink and digested the news. He voiced his final reservations. “Are you sure our university is best for you? And do you feel I’m the best one to facilitate all this?”