Authors: Chris Simms
She slipped the ethnic patterned canvas bag off her shoulder, lifted the flap and took out a roll of paper. Then she scanned the wall for an out-of-date poster. Seeing one for a hunt saboteurs meeting for the previous month she carefully removed it and pinned up her own notice.
Protest March. Next Saturday. Meet outside the Union building at noon. Route - across campus, along Williams Street to the Chancellor’s house. Don’t let them get away with it!
Once it was up, she stepped back to survey the bold lettering. With exasperation she raked her hand back through her spiky cropped hair and muttered the word, ‘Bollocks.’
She’d forgotten to say what the protest was about. Bending down, she took a thick blue marker from her bag, and with some difficulty, drew over the ‘t’ and ‘!’ at the end of the last line with a very misshapen ‘n’ and ‘c’. Then she added the letters ‘r e a s i n g’ and wrote after that, ‘rents on students housing by 6%.’
She looked at the poster. Bugger, it would have to do. She removed the other poster from her bag, made the same adjustment and rolled it back up. After sliding it back into the canvas bag, she stepped out into the corridor and saw a gaunt man unlocking one of the office doors. Clare looked at the way he stooped, head bowed, knees slightly bent, one hand resting on the door handle, the other fiddling with the lock, long shoes stretching across the floor tiles. She was reminded of a long thin pound sign.
‘Professor Maudsley!’ she called down the corridor enthusiastically.
The man turned to her and nodded. ‘Ms Silver.’
She walked up to him, keeping the smile on her face. ‘Any news on the module you were talking about the other day? The one on the ethics of farming?’
He kept his hand on the door handle and, with a little irritation evident in his voice, said, ‘No, I’ve dropped the idea.’ Avoiding any mention of the battery farm he continued, ‘I’ve made some enquiries and it seems it will be impossible to arrange. The last thing these places want is groups of students writing essays on their despicable methods of farming.’
‘But I thought you were going to arrange it under the pretence of a management consultancy course?’ she said with disappointment.
He turned back to face the door. ‘No – couldn’t do it. The University said there’d be legal problems there,’ he lied. ‘So I’m afraid it’s shelved.’
As he spoke, she couldn’t help looking at the thick foamy saliva gathered at the corners of his mouth. His breath had the same stale odour her Grandma’s used to.
‘Now Clare, I really must get on with this marking. Thanks for your interest anyway.’ As he picked up the leather satchel the buckles where it had been strapped to the back of his bike clinked slightly. ‘By the way – I got your note asking about research positions in my department. We’re discussing budgets at the moment, so I’ll let you know if there’ll be any positions to apply for as soon as I can.’ He stepped into his office and quickly shut the door.
The resulting movement of air pushed a single feather across the tiles to her feet. Clare stared down at the frail object. She picked it up, and admiring its rusty colouring, pushed it into the front of her chunky knitted cardigan as if it was a brooch. Then she walked back up the corridor, out of the department, past the shiny lift and pushed straight through the next set of double doors.
The smell of fresh coffee and faint sound of a radio playing immediately greeted her. The grey linolium of the corridor outside had been replaced with a brighter Mexican-style pattern. A terracotta paint covered the walls along with posters of art exhibitions and cinema films. Thelma and Louise defiantly stared at her, Annie Louisa Synnerton’s painting of Joan of Arc. Police posters about domestic violence. As she headed towards the open door at the end of the corridor the sound of voices became clearer. Looking inside, she saw about a dozen people sat around. Some chatted in pairs, whilst a more general discussion seemed to be taking place at the far end of the room.
‘God, sometimes it’s like passing through an airlock coming from Eric’s side into here,’ she announced to no one in particular, slumping in the nearest seat.
‘You mean like leaving the Siberian steppes for civilisation?’ said a ginger-haired man in a baggy knitted jumper and corduroys. The other people listening nodded in sympathy. ‘Rumour has it,’ he continued, ‘they’re slashing the department’s budget next year. And if a bit has to go, who’s do you think it will be? Eric Maudsley’s frozen wasteland or Patricia Du Rev’s hotbed of research? Especially if Patricia wins this big research grant off the Economic and Social Policy Research Council. Then it becomes simply a question of money.’
‘Don’t be tight on the old man, Julian. He’s been here donkey’s years, poor bloke. It was him who set up the Social Studies Department long before Patricia showed up on the scene.’
This from a serious looking student, tamping down a roll-up with a matchstick.
‘Very true, Adele,’ said Julian, now back-pedalling. ‘Don’t get me wrong – I respect his subject area. The elderly are a hugely undervalued resource in modern society and their care needs serious investment by the government. But look at it. How many people chose his courses this year? About six? Eric’s style of lecturing – the whole way he runs the department, in fact – it’s so out-of-date. Where does he think he is? 1960’s Russia?’
‘Actually he was thinking of setting-up a new module. The ethics of modern-day farming – he mentioned it to me the other week,’ said Clare, keen to deflate Julian in front of everyone.
‘Who, Maudsley?’ he replied, ‘No chance. He’s too set in his ways to change now. Anyway, why were you asking? Not after a research position in his department too?’
A few people looked towards Clare for her reaction.
‘Yeah come on Clare,’ said a young girl, leaning forwards with both hands wrapped around a mug of coffee. The word “Fairtrade” circled the rim. ‘We know you’ve as good as got a place in Patricia’s department for next year. But what if Professor Maudsley offered you one too? Which way would you be turning as you come out of the lift? Left or right?’
‘Aw shit,’ said Clare, with an American accent. ‘That sure would be a hard choice.’
They all burst out laughing as she reached into her bag and unrolled the poster. ‘Anyone fancy coming along on the demo this Saturday? They’re trying to up the rent on student accommodation by six per cent next year. They know grants haven’t gone up for ages.’
‘You won’t even be a student next year,’ said Julian. ‘Your graduation ceremony is in a couple of weeks, in case you’d forgotten.’
‘Yeah, but it’s the principle of it. If you ask me, it’s just another step on the slippery slope to elitist higher education.’
‘Yeah – I’m up for it Clare,’ said Adele, licking the end of her roll-up and putting it in her mouth.
‘Nice one, Adele.’ Clare smiled. ‘Anyone else?’
A few people made some promises to try, if they could find the time. One or two pleaded too much work on. Clare pinned-up the poster and put her bag back over her shoulder. ‘Well, hopefully see some of you there. Anyway I’d better go – I’ve got an adult literacy lesson in half an hour.’
‘Your spelling’s not that bad is it?’ The room fell silent and Julian realised he’d been a little too hasty in his attempt at a joke.
‘I think,’ said Adele with an admonishing tone, ‘that you’ll find Clare is taking, not attending, the class.’ She turned away from the red-faced Julian. ‘Where is it Clare?’ she asked respectfully.
‘On the west side of town. It’s just a small set up – we’re working with refugees. Iraqi women mainly.’
The comment earned her some approving nods and a couple of raised thumbs. Clare got up from her seat, and as she did so, the feather fell from her cardigan.
It drifted slowly to the floor, noticed only by Julian. He waited until he heard the double doors swing shut at the end of the corridor, then surreptitiously picked it up and slipped it into his glasses case.
Gradually, conversations came to an end and the coffee-room emptied until, by the time the beams of sunlight shining between the slats of the blinds were horizontal, only Julian and a couple of second-year students remained.
‘Haven’t you got homes to go to?’ he asked, gathering dirty cups from the table and placing them by the filter machine.
The girls looked up from the file both had been pretending to examine. Feigning surprise, one said, ‘Gosh, are we the last here?’
Julian looked slowly around the empty room. ‘Just us.’
‘Well, since we’ve got you on our own, could we ask a little favour?’ said the other, leaving her lips just slightly open.
Both stared up at Julian coquettishly and he felt a hopeful tightening in his groin. ‘Yes?’ he asked quietly.
The first one began toying with a strand of hair, ‘Well, you know that end of term essay on matriarchal societies in Polynesia?’
Julian raised his eyebrows. ‘You mean the one that is due in tomorrow?’
‘Yes, well we were just wondering if we could have an extension of the deadline?’
Julian crossed his arms and theatrically began to tap one foot. ‘And how long might we need?’
The other student said in the wheedling voice of a little girl, ‘Two weeks?’
Julian allowed a few seconds to pass before saying in a falsely stern tone, ‘Ten days. And not a word to anyone.’
Immediately the girls jumped to their feet and grabbed their bags, a triumphant look flashing between them.
‘Thanks, Julian. I wish all our lecturers were as nice as you,’ one said as they started for the doorway.
He let them slip past before remarking in a teacherly tone, ‘Now, go on. Off with the both of you!’ Glancing down, he only just resisted the urge to pat both of their tight little bums.
Chapter 7
As soon as the bus rounded the corner at the end of the road, the old woman stepped out and raised a stiff arm. An indicator began to blink and the vehicle slowed to a stop. The rear doors folded open and a couple of passengers climbed off. A moment later, the front doors parted with a pneumatic sigh. The old woman grasped the handrail and stepped on board. Only when she was at the driver’s booth did she start fumbling in her bag for her pass. Clare climbed on to the lowest step, change ready in her hand.
‘Now where did I put it? It was in my hand just now. I don’t understand,’ announced the old woman.
As the driver dipped his head and rubbed at his temples, she peered into her bag, strap wrapped tightly around her shoulder. Inside the vehicle, passengers began to fidget and look at each other.
‘Come on, Grandma, we want to get to the cinema!’ someone shouted from the back.
The comment caused a ripple of laughter and the flustered woman glanced nervously towards the rows of impatient faces.
The driver looked round her at Clare. ‘You want to pay chuck?’ He indicated with his head for her to step round the elderly lady. Clare glanced down. By the old lady’s feet lay a bus pass, a photo of a squinting woman in a hairnet looking up. Clare bent down, picked it up and held it over the woman’s shoulder. ‘You must have dropped it.’
‘Oh, thank you dear,’ said the woman, showing it to the driver.
Sarcastic applause broke out from the crowded seats.
Clare dropped her change into the driver’s tray, and as the bus finally lurched away, made her way up the tightly-curling steps to the upper deck. She spotted some empty seats at the back. Knees slightly flexed, legs wide apart to counter the roll of the floor, she swung her arms out to grasp one vertical pole after another. She felt like an orang-utan trying to walk.
Her bus ended its run in the city centre and she walked across the station past a couple of twenty-four-hour places, churning out pies, kebabs and chips. Avoiding the greasy scraps dotting the pavement, she turned onto one of the main streets cutting through the heart of the city. As usual she took in the mass of luminous signs stretching all the way to the giant KFC at the other end of the road.
It was early evening and only a few gaggles of office staff enjoying after-work drinks filled the pavement. After fifty metres, she turned down a narrower side street, facades of the Victorian buildings stretching high above her head. Chains had been looped across the small gaps at the rear of the buildings to prevent people from dumping their cars in spaces beyond the authority of the parking meters, which, like sentinels, stood motionless at regular intervals along the street's entire length. Ahead of her, two heavy female forms waddled up some steps and pushed their way through a door. The lady behind struggled with walking sticks.
A few seconds later, Clare reached the door herself. It was painted with a thick skin of blue gloss that was chipped away in places to reveal layers of various coloured paints beneath. She climbed the steps and raised a hand to the panel of names. Her finger stopped at one marked
Nolan Services
and she pressed. A moment later the lock buzzed and she stepped into the small foyer. A seventies-style plastic chandelier hung in the air above her head. As she climbed the fake black marble steps a security guard slowly said, 'Evening Clare. Doing a night shift, too?'
She looked at his shaven head and thick glasses, but before she could reply one of the huge women waiting by the lift interrupted.
'Andy,' she puffed aggressively, still breathless from climbing the six steps up from the front door. 'Don't tell us this fucking lift's broken again.'
He raised his head off his folded arms and said, 'Not sure. There's no note left by the day officer.'
‘Well, the light's not even come on to say it's on the way down,' she replied.
'I don't sodding believe this,' said the other, leaning on her walking sticks and looking at Clare as if she could help. 'Three flights to get up. That's all I need at the start of my shift. Pissing hell.'
Now the two women looked at each other with desperation as the enormity of the task ahead began to sink in. One began stabbing at the lift button again and Clare saw her chance to escape. 'Listen, I'll go up ahead and make some brews. They'll be ready for when you get up there.'