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July 2023
I pulled up in front of my building shortly before eight o’clock and padlocked my bike to the only remaining free lamppost. In doing so I was fully aware that I would invoke the wrath of the Building Services Manager, and that would mean at least one, possibly two, not-so-pleasant reminders that I had broken their cardinal rule about fixing unauthorised items to Faculty property. Big deal. So what? Is the Universe about to end?
I had more important issues on my mind, frankly and my bike was the least of my concerns.
I’m an academic. I teach Philosophy and Ethics and, because it’s July, we’re in the middle of the Summer Recess. Hence, I don’t really have to be here. Even in these post COVID times, when we’re supposed to be heading back to the office, academics are encouraged to stay home so that the University doesn’t have to heat the offices and, better still, can employ fewer ancillary staff.
Normally, I love the Summer Recess. The Summer Recess is a chance to unwind and an opportunity to recharge the intellectual batteries. It’s a gap in the schedule set aside so that we might think lofty thoughts about grand ideals. I liken it to throwing open the windows of a large and imposing Victorian manor if only to blow the cobwebs away, maybe give the rooms a good clean.
Having cycled into work, I felt the need to change into something more professional that an Iron Maiden T-shirt and cycling shorts. I have a change of clothes stashed away in a cupboard at the back of my office and a small hand basin plus towels for the necessary ablutions. I stripped down to just my knickers, washed and then enjoyed a rather relaxing and somewhat naked few minutes staring out of my window just watching the world go by. It’s a fun way to start the day. I’m not sure that my colleagues would approve but so it goes…
The daily ritual began, as it always does, with the essentials, namely coffee, which must be strong and black. Next, fresh croissants, bought moments before from Marks and Spencer and warmed to perfection. Then e-mail. Fridays are usually quiet and the day was already off to a good start with just two messages of any import in my In Box – a letter from my would-be publisher and, below that weighty tome, a reminder from my Dentist that I was overdue a check-up. Both messages were equally scary. Of course, there were messages a’plenty from various academic bodies scattered around the globe, none of which were quite as important as their author’s might imagine.
And then came work. I love my work and I like working. Work is the soothing balm between sleeps. I usually don’t know what form The Work will take on any particular day. I always decide in the moment. My muse is capricious. My muse is a tease. My muse is a prick. Maybe the day will be spent in quiet introspection, perhaps followed by a frantic burst of overly-colourful and rather florid prose. Maybe it will be a day of solid grind, where the ideas and concepts of the past few weeks and months are distilled, reduced and refined. Another paragraph? Another chapter? Doesn’t matter as long as The Work edges towards completion. Yes, I’m writing another book. It’s as dull as it sounds.
Or maybe I’ll get nothing done and quietly give up. There’s a dog-eared copy of Cosmopolitan in my bottom drawer for those days when my intellect has failed and I have lapsed into mediocrity. Cosmo is perfect for those occasions when I am more Sarah Jessica Parker than Dorothy Parker, more Jayne Mansfield than Katherine Mansfield.
Then…
There came a knock on my door. I didn’t respond. I didn’t need to respond. I knew the door would open whether I replied or not. And I knew who my visitor was as soon as I heard his tired footsteps in the corridor outside. His uneven gait, the impatient jingle-jangle of his ever-present keys and the self-conscious cough as he cleared his throat and prepared for action.
The door opened and Spartacus entered.
“Have you got a moment?” he asked.
“Always…” I replied although I instantly realised that this opening gambit had become a tired old lie. Surely he’d seen through the veil by now?
Spartacus is my Boss, my superior, and I should perhaps treat him with a bit more respect but I have always felt the need to keep him on his toes. The academic world is a competitive dog-eat-dog-eat-cat Bear Pit, where the survival of the fittest is not necessarily a guarantee of survival.
“Looks like Meghan is going for broke,” said Spartacus, his usually pretty face twisted into a miserable grimace. He looks like one of the Gargoyles that sits atop the nearby Cathedral.
And thus we arrive rather artfully at the first reason for turning up to work when the rest of my colleagues are sunning themselves in the Mediterranean or losing it in the Louvre.”
Meghan. It’s always bloody Meghan.
Okay, time for some introductions. Spartacus first…
Why have I dubbed him Spartacus? Spartacus is sporting an impressive mane of shoulder length golden locks that wouldn’t be out of place ordu escort in a Gladiatorial Arena. He even looks like an extra from a Sword and Sandal epic. In addition, his principal area of interest is the Roman Philosophers – Pliny the Elder, Cicero and Marcus Aurelius – although dull-as-dishwater Themistius is his current obsession.
Spartacus isn’t your normal academic. He’s not much older than me, truth be told, which is to say he’s in his mid to late thirties. He’s reasonably buff, works out a lot and plays Squash with the Post-Grads. He’d be perfectly eligible boyfriend material if he wasn’t already married. Similarly, he’d be perfect for an incidental dalliance, a quick naughty in the Book Cupboard, if, indeed, this esteemed institution had a Book Cupboard. That said, a quick fuck in the back of the Stationery Store is absolutely out of the question because Spartacus remains an unrepentant, unapologetic cheat. He’s constantly banging someone. Everyone knows. The Office Cleaners know. Surely his wife must know? Even I know he’s a cheat and I’m pretty clueless where the male of the species is concerned.
Next, Meghan or Meghan al Alexsi-Kahraman, which is her full name although I am apt to refer to her by various other names of an Anglo-Saxon origin whenever her name is mentioned.
Meghan al Alexsi-Kahraman is a former student and she’s been a monumental pain in the ass for the last four years. She seemed bright, capable and diligent when she turned up for interview all those years ago and her predicted A Level results suggested that she’d be a good candidate for our degree course. And yet Spartacus, who interviewed her, remains absolutely convinced that the individual that he and his assistant professors interviewed at the time was not actually Meghan al Alexsi-Kahraman. They’re certain that they interviewed a stand in, a substitute, a paid impersonator. Having been accepted, Ms. Alexsi-Kahraman promptly took a Gap Year. Upon her return, she simply arrived on our doorstep and signed up, her qualifications unquestioned. Nobody was any the wiser. Not at first, anyway. She was just another student embarking on a three year course.
Except she wasn’t.
Meghan al Alexsi-Kahraman did anything but work. She never attended lectures or seminars. She missed every deadline we ever set and never passed a single assignment. Not one. She just made a lot of trouble for the University and a lot of stress for Spartacus as the Head of the School, and myself, who had the misfortune of being appointed her Personal Tutor.
Back to the main story…
I smiled. “What does she want now?”
“Like you even need to ask?”
“I don’t,” I replied as I lowered myself into my office chair.
“It’s a fucking shit storm,” said Spartacus. “She’s taken the matter just about as high as it can go. She’s even talking about taking her complaints to the High Court.”
“We always knew she would,” I replied. “She’s determined to get her own way, even if she knows she can’t possibly win…”
Spartacus nodded. “Her father rang me at home at the weekend. I’m not sure how he got my number but he called me up.”
“What did he want?”
“He wants our jobs,” said Spartacus. “Yours especially so. Reckons you’ve got it in for Meghan. Reckons you’ve had it in for her since her day one.”
“That’s because the person we interviewed was not Meghan,” I said. “I’m convinced of it.”
Spartacus shook his head. “Yes, I know,” he said. “I just wish I’d kept better notes.”
“Isaac (Palmer) was the MSc who took her to lunch. He’s absolutely convinced that the person he interviewed wasn’t Meghan. Same with Beth (Harcourt). She’s certain it was someone else who she escorted on the Campus Tour.”
“We just can’t prove that, can we?” said Spartacus shifting uneasily on his twisted knee. (A recent skiing accident!)
“So we have to get our ducks in a row,” continued Spartacus. “We have to make sure that our story is absolutely water tight, and our evidence is beyond reproach.”
“It already is,” I said. “You’ve seen the reports from both the Court and the Council. They’re in close agreement. She did no meaningful work. She failed to attend a single lecture in her final term. She openly lied, time and time again.”
“She’s still fighting us,” said Spartacus. “And, unless we’re absolutely coherent on this matter then it seems unlikely that we’ll leave this battlefield without a couple of scars. The University’s patience will only run so far if they think we’ve fucked up. And if we have then they’ll throw us to the wolves.”
“Do you really think the University will treat us so casually?” I asked. “After all, what’s the worst she can do?”
Spartacus shook his head. “You know what she’ll force us to do,” he said. “Or at least try to. She’ll try to force us to upgrade her degree, a degree she didn’t work for, a degree she plainly does not deserve. Then she’ll make us apologise, in public, for the manner in which her dispute was handled. And that smarts, frankly, osmaniye escort because we gave her every opportunity to sort herself out, to attend lecturers and seminars, and we made every concession that was available to us, and her, and that she still abused our good will. I’m not for apologising but, obviously, I will if I have to, especially if I’m directed by Senate. Big picture thinking. We have to protect the reputation of the Department. And I need my salary.”
“And we take our lumps with grace?” I replied. “That seems unfair, given what we did for her.”
“Well, the good news is that the University is pulling in their best legal people,” said Spartacus. “My impression is that they have absolutely no intention of yielding to her demands. Any of them.”
“Even if we’re painted into a corner?”
Spartacus stood and moved towards the door. “Then… What can we do? We’re fucked.”
“Tell me what I can do to make this problem go away,” I said.
“Don’t do anything,” said Spartacus. “Leave it to the lawyers. They’re good at this. That’s what they do. Let them tear her a new one.”
“Her father is a Barrister,” I replied.
“Then… we’re probably fucked, frankly,” said Spartacus turning the door handle, his expression turning sour. “I, or we, will probably end up pushing fries or something in a Burger Bar. And I hate fried food. Gives me massive indigestion.”
Spartacus turned to leave. “Tell me you have a Rabbit up your sleeve…” he said. “That’ll make me smile…”
Alas, he was gone before his “Goodbye” had even echoed down the deserted corridor.
“What am I in for?” I wondered. “I don’t think I’ve ever been in a MacDonald’s.”
ii.
Okay, with those necessarily unpleasant details out in the open, let’s move on to the main course. Don’t worry. We’ll resolve the Meghan problem later on.
I operate a simple accessibility policy when I’m at work. If my door is open then I can be disturbed at any time. Indeed, I welcome such distractions. They’re good for the soul. They’re good for creativity. Mostly.
If my door is closed then only a fire alarm will take me away from The Work, and it’s not uncommon to find me still grafting away well into the wee hours. I keep a couch in the corner of my office, a blanket and a change of clothes just in case I sleep over. The only people who are incapable of understanding this simple rule appear to be the Senior Administrator, who rules the department with an iron fist, and who randomly barges into my office because she thinks she runs the place, and the ancillary staff, who routinely walk into my room without knocking. As a trained counsellor, there have been occasions when I have been providing deeply confidential, very private advice to female candidates in a state of deep distress, and a Cleaner has barged into my room and immediately started up a conversation about Sam Fender. That’s why there’s an extra lock on my door. It’s a concession from the University on my behalf. They know that students occasionally open up to me when they don’t feel able or willing to talk to a professional.
I soon settled back into my routine, despite the obtrusive comings and goings of his Lordship, Sir Spartacus of Thrace, who seemed to be pacing the corridors in much the same way as Old Hamlet would wander the battlements in his beleaguered castle.
True to form, it was a day largely spent in quiet introspection, a day for scribbling bold ideas in bright red ink atop impossibly fat foolscap jotters. I made some progress on several of my key tasks, too. And yet, I still found concentration difficult. Why? You’ll delighted to discover that there was a reason for my distracted state of mind and her name was Leda.
Leda isn’t her real name but will suffice for the moment. Leda was my star pupil for all of her time at the University. She worked the hardest and thought the hardest, and put the hours in, of that I am certain. Indeed she put in far more effort than anyone else in her peer group although that isn’t really saying much because her fellows were a monumentally idle bunch even by the standard of Humanities students.
I had coached, supported and nurtured Leda from her first faltering days at the University right the way through to her final year, and she thoroughly earned her First Class Honours degree. I was proud to have been her mentor, and I would genuinely miss her when she left.
My telephone buzzed once. It was a message from the Porter’s desk. “Visitor for Dr. Winter,” said Nobby, the Porter with the odd-shaped head. “It’s Miss Veiss…”
“Okay, pinch yourself,” I whispered. “You’ve been waiting for this for a very, very long time.”
I went to my makeshift bathroom, pulled out a spritzer of rose water to freshen up my face, sprayed a little perfume around the room and dropped a well-used piece of breath-freshening gum into my wastebasket. Insanitary, I know, but doing so discourages Spartacus from going through my discarded papers. I also lit a couple of sinop escort candles to smooth the ambience and soften the light.
The Lift was fast approaching and time was short. The gentle whir of the motors, the heavy thump-thump as the car ascended and then the eerie creak of the heavy, heavy fire doors at the end of the corridor.
“Here goes,” I whispered.
Leda knocked on my door and waited, patiently, for my response.
“It’s open,” I shouted from behind my desk.
The door opened and… Leda.
Dear Lord, I had pinch myself. I really did. She looked gorgeous. Like a painting by an old Master made solid, real and tangible.
Picture this. Impossibly blonde hair cascading in dense ringlets down broad shoulders. A long, slender neck bedecked with bangles and necklaces, each one a tiny remembrance of people and events from her recent past. She wears her history like some wear Prada. Then, a semi-translucent embroidered cotton top, white and delicate, much like herself. And then a long, patterned skirt that spun and moved like a red-eyed Whirling Dervish. On her feet, sandals, open-toed, brown. Her feet were sporting a collection of Henna tattoos, each inscription a garland of intricate swirls and patterns that swarmed around her ankles, only to disappear beneath her petticoat.
“Shoes on or shoes off?” she said, smiling.
“Shoes off, if you don’t mind,” I replied. “I’m trying to keep the carpets clean. Or at least cleaner.”
I stood, moved around from behind my desk and welcomed her with open arms. She greeted me likewise, and her embrace was both warm and heartfelt. Indeed, I thought I detected a slight sob in amongst the smiles.
“Are you on your own?” I asked.
“Don’t worry,” said Leda. “I managed to ditch my Mother somewhere on Northumberland Street. She’s either lost in Primark or digging for buried treasure in Marks and Spencer. “
“We could send out a search party?”
“No! No! No!” said Leda. “Perish the thought. Let the poor woman enjoy herself! She’s in her element!”
Truth be told, I was glad that Leda was unaccompanied. From what she’s told me, her mother can be overpowering, to say the least. And she definitely wouldn’t want to be in the same room given what I had in mind.
“Tea? Coffee? Wine?” I asked.
“Oh, wine, I think,” said Leda. “Definitely wine.”
I keep a mini-fridge concealed at the back of my office. Only the cleaning staff know it’s there although I’m sure Spartacus has his suspicions. Therein is concealed a small collection of wines and spirits, kept in reserve for occasions just like this. Don’t condemn me. I’m a Philosopher. Getting drunk on company time is part of the job.
Leda made herself comfortable whilst I found two glasses (already cleaned and polished to perfection) and pulled the cork from one of my few remaining ‘proper’ bottles of wine.
“So, how long are you here?” I asked as I pulled a set of rather exotic pastries from the fridge.
“I’m here until Monday and then back to Germany on Tuesday. Dad and I just spent a week clearing my digs, and he’s driving them back overnight.”
“He’s on his own? Will he be okay?”
“He’ll be more than okay,” said Leda. “He positively relishes in these long, long overnight drives.”
I could hear the Cleaning staff moving around outside so I went to my Office Door, hung a “Do Not Disturb” sign on the handle and then turned the key in the main lock. I also pushed the dead bolt up to guarantee that we wouldn’t be interrupted.
Leda and I chatted for around twenty minutes, mostly talking about our mutual research topics although we did, on occasion, slide into a little gossip. I was sure that Leda was more than a little tipsy when the conversation shifted rather abruptly. I turned to find Leda on her feet and smiling.
“I have always loved the view from these windows,” she said. “So high up and you can see all the way to the Cheviots on a good day.”
“You know the Cheviots?”
“I spent a summer there just after Lockdown,” said Leda. “Odd jobs mostly. Waitressing and helping out in shops and stores. It was good experience.”
“And the setting sun,” she continued. “There was many a time when I would sit in these seminars, watch the Autumn sun sliding behind the hills, and I would wonder if life could get any better.”
“And now?” I said. “What are your plans?”
“For now? Back to Germany where I start my new job in my Father’s factory next month, after a short holiday in the Algarve. That was the deal. In exchange for paying my course fees and my living expenses, I would come back home and work for him. And I would bring some of my new found knowledge and experience to his company, maybe even take over when he eventually decides to retire, if he ever decides to retire, that is.”
“I wish you weren’t leaving. You’d have made a fine addition to the MA course. Certainly a good Doctoral Candidate.”
“Maybe so,” said Leda. “But… A deal is a deal. I gave my word.”
“Still, if you reconsider, or if circumstances change. You’d have my complete support.”
Silence.
We stood together, side by side, staring into the distance, and at the myriad of people moving back and forth below us. I glanced sideways and immediately sensed that Leda was agitated. She had something on her mind.
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