Bums on Seats (25 page)

“Overall, about eighty, i.e. twenty per cent of them, are really struggling. We had to be a bit imaginative over the end-of-year exams for last year's lot. We'll have to do the same again this year, for both years' intakes.”

Luke looked thoughtful, drained his can, and snapped open another ring top. “My father and uncle are extremely pleased with the way you're holding it all together, Simon. Over four hundred Zombekians going through an English university fits very well with our social and economic aims. It will be six hundred next year. Is there anything else on the downside?”

Simon took a long swig from the can. “It's a big advantage that their studies are confined to just two faculties. It means that Chloe and I can manage the situation between us, if you see what I mean.” Luke nodded. “And we've reached a useful arrangement with the External Examiners.” Luke nodded again. “However, when it comes to final examinations, things will be much more difficult, The External Examiners dare not be as accommodating as before. And, of course, there's a much higher chance of a snap audit visit and attention by the Quality Assurance Agency.”

They both sat back whilst Luke mulled this over. Simon bit off half a sausage roll in one go and munched away.

Luke attacked a scotch egg. Eventually he said, “When I saw you before your summer holiday, you looked knackered. I'd guess that Chloe was similarly worn. So, you're doing your best. Just keep going. I'll make a note in my Filofax about Final Examinations and Audit visits. You never know, I may be able to help in some way.”

Simon thought it unlikely, but was too polite to say so. But then, all things considered, he was an innocent soul, relatively untouched by politics and similar high-level skulduggery.

There didn't seem too much else to say on their project. They sat and listened to a CD and finished the lager.

“Look Simon, you're doing a great job for us. Nobody expected your task to be easy. Just make sure that you spread the load as much as possible. You can always reach me in the States. I check my e-mail twice every day. When I'm back, we'll meet again, in early spring. If you need any more resources, be sure to let me know, OK?”

*************

“I think we should start a series of special tutorials for those having most difficulties, Chloe. I can manage to fund an Assistant Lecturer to help on my side of the syllabus. How about you?”

“I think it's a good idea, Simon. But I'd need more budget to do it.”

“OK, let's go for it then. I'll e-mail Luke and set the ball rolling. We'll start after the Xmas break. Agreed?”

“Agreed!”

CHAPTER 26

“Welcome to my department, Luke. I'm very pleased you've joined us.”

“Thank you, Sir William. I'm grateful to be here. I hope I can contribute.”

“Oh, I'm sure you will. Tea? Lapsang suit you?”

“Fine, sir. Thank you.”

“Now then, how's your father? I've not seen him in twenty years.”

“He's fine, sir. I didn't realise you knew him.”

‘Well, he still sounds the same, then, playing his cards close! Yes, I was with our Embassy in Zombek in the run up to secession. I was very much involved in your father's inauguration as President. So we saw a good deal of each other for a time.”

Luke sipped his tea and pondered. What, exactly, were his father's aims in this secondment to an English civil service department? His uncle Joshua, Minister of State for Education, had given him the most general of briefs. He was to develop a thorough understanding of Sir William Fairhurst's allocation of priorities in educational links with overseas countries, particularly African countries. In the course of whatever Sir William gave him to do, he was to master all budgetary aspects and to develop as many useful contacts as possible, the higher the level the better.

Sir William spoke again. “Initially, I've assigned you to one of my Principals, Catherine Hammond. She's mostly concerned with educational liaison with African countries. She also has a watching brief on emerging employment trends. I'm sure you'll both benefit greatly from your collaboration.” He looked at his watch, obviously signalling and end to the meeting. “I fear I must press on now. Today is rather fraught for me. Is there anything else you need to know?”

Preparing to leave, but on the spur of the moment, Luke asked, “As you were in Zombek in 1971, at the time I was born, I wonder if you knew my mother?”

Sir William, a long time civil servant and before that trained diplomat, paused before answering with an oblique question of his own. “You obviously know James Ngunda?”

“He died last year, sir. The last of our officially recognised witchdoctors. My father misses his friendship.”

“I didn't know of his death, Luke. I'm sorry to hear of it. Do you by any chance know his widow, Mamuna?”

“Yes I do, slightly. But, as she's a different generation and I'm only infrequently in Zombek, social contact between us is rare.”

“She would have known your mother…”

At that point there was a discreet knock and Luke's temporary boss to be, Catherine Hammond, entered. A couple of minutes later, introductions made, Luke was on his way to the office that would be his workplace for the next fifteen months.

*************

“Sorry I'm a bit late, Simon. I've just finished a tutorial with Mary Ebuja and Betty Kalanga. They try hard, but its heavy going!”

“Hi Chloe! Good to see you anyway. You've brightened my day already. I covered your cup to keep it warm.”

“Thanks, Simon. You start off, then.”

‘Well, my analysis more or less confirms yours. This year's intake is brighter than last. Even so, thirty of them need extra tuition. That's on top of the fifty poorest from last year. We've instituted special tutorials and they definitely help. We need somehow to do more, Chloe.”

Chloe lobbed the empty Styrofoam cup at the rubbish bin. “Agreed. I'm afraid we must bring the external examiners into it again, Simon.”

“Yeah. Shame that, Chloe. I hoped we could keep them in reserve, so to speak. Luke's already agreed to recommend a bit of consultancy for them, when necessary. Let's get them here next week and ask for end-of-year exam papers with annotated reading lists by the end of March, for both years' Zombek project input. Agreed?”

“Agreed, Simon. Since this time it's for two years' courses, we'll have to up the price. How about seven and a half thousand pounds per examiner?”

“I'm sure the budget will be OK for that. What reaction will we get from the examiners?”

“Well, that's quite a useful sum, Simon. And they get prompt payment. They might agonise privately over what's going on, but in the end they'll do it. At least, they'll do it this year. I'm not sure about next, though.”

“Let's worry about next year when it comes, Chloe. After all, when you're drowning, you don't spend much time worrying about crocodiles, as they say!”

“How did your lot do in their mock exams, Simon?”

“There are still too many struggling for my liking, Chloe. How about yours?”

“The same, I'm afraid, Simon. What should we do, do you think?”

There could only be one answer but he needed to be asked the question. He sipped his coffee, avoided her eyes, and said, “We may need to be more directive in our revision sessions before end-of-year exams.”

Chloe delayed her response, nibbling a digestive biscuit. At length she said, “That's probably the most expedient solution,” and then surprised him by adding, “Have you considered the possibility of a ‘whistle-blower' amongst the Zombek students?”

The notion had never occurred to Simon. “Good Lord, Chloe, I guess I'm a bit naive. I never would have thought any such thing possible!”

They mulled over the unpleasant but realistic possibility and its implications and then came to the view that it was a necessary risk. “Look, Simon, if we don't give them a bit more guidance as you suggest, we'll have an unacceptably high failure rate. I guess we're committed, really.”

“Agreed! I'll tell you what I'll do, Chloe. I'll share the problem with Luke Nweewe and pose the whistle-blower question to him. He's always got something useful to contribute, right?”

The office phone intruded.

“Simon McGuire speaking. Oh, hello, Janet … how was it? … Good … you did? That's great! Thanks very much. I'll pay you when I see you … Yes, yes; I'm in a meeting at the moment … No, that's fine … OK, thanks for calling and thanks for helping. 'Bye, Janet.

“So, where were we, Chloe. Ah yes, let's start being more directive, particularly in tutorials, that would make it harder for anyone to report on general practices. What do you say?”

“Agreed. Let's go for it, then, may as well be fired and disgraced for something really out of line, not just nicking Biro! It's a good job I like you so much, Simon!”

He felt ridiculously pleased at these last words and responded in kind. “Chloe, after almost two academic years of the trials and tribulations of the Zombek students, I think I might have packed it in without you. You've been absolutely great. Thank you!”

It was Chloe's turn to experience high pleasure at an expression of affection. She flushed slightly and said, “I feel together we're doing something special.”

Simon decided to conclude and change tack. “I'll report back after speaking with Luke. Turning to something different, Chloe, as you heard, that was Janet on the phone. She's just been to the Monet exhibition at the Royal Academy. I asked her to get two tickets, for a week on Saturday. Will you come?”

“Err, I'd love to Simon. What a nice thought. Thank you!”

“Wonderful, Chloe. That's wonderful. Look, the tickets are for twelve o'clock; We could catch the ten-thirty-five train, jump in a taxi and go straight to the Academy. Then we could lunch at our leisure. How about that?”

Surprisingly, her cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling, she replied, “Agreed, if I can make a further suggestion: let's take overnight bags!”

Simon all but fell off his seat. During the last twelve months he'd become attached to her. This, despite her hot-and-cold responses to him. Or perhaps it was because of them, he thought. They'd had need of frequent meetings at work. They'd been out socially on lots of occasions, where they'd mixed business with pleasure. But she'd always stayed in control and had decided when to pull down the shutters. In short, they'd not been to bed and, to his disappointment, had not become ‘an item'. Now she was taking the initiative, or was she? Perhaps she was just suggesting a weekend sightseeing break in London? What exactly was she proposing?

Chloe soon clarified the invitation by adding, “Just a final condition, Simon. If you really want to please me, I suggest you book our double room in the names of Dr and Mrs Stuart Mison!”

At that, Simon threw himself backward in his tilting chair, gave a huge guffaw and overbalanced onto his rubbish bin, bringing down his in-tray and a pile of unmarked essays with him.

*************

“Fancy having to queue, despite having tickets,” moaned Simon.

“Probably because it's Saturday, Simon. The queue's moving quite fast anyway.”

The reality was that he would have been glad to stand there all afternoon with her, so long as they were back at the hotel by bedtime. His luck had turned again. Things had seemed a bit bleak. Now, not only had Chloe promised him Shangri-La, he'd received that morning confirmation of another £10,000 in his St. Helier bank account. As a bonus, he was about to spend time viewing acres of paintings – soul food! And in her company, too!

“Well, we're in. That didn't take long really. Shall we share a catalogue, Simon?”

“Fine! I don't want to listen to a cassette. I'd rather we talked about the paintings ourselves, Chloe.” She gave him an affectionate squeeze and kiss.

“My knowledge of painting and painters is very limited, Simon. All I know is that it's pleasurable to just feast my eyes on some canvasses. I'm more influenced by colour and patterns than any particular form.”

“I think that's absolutely OK, Chloe. My introduction to painting was by a cousin who admired the work of Jackson Pollock and others. I think he referred to them all as abstract expressionists. It never seemed to me to be necessary to make philosophical sense of any of it, in order to enjoy it. After all, you don't have to understand the technical structure of a symphony to appreciate beautiful combinations and sequences of sounds, do you?”

In the second room, a matronly American woman was holding forth to a glum looking man in tow. “Yeah, honey, that wonderful picture shrieks out Venice. You can feel the Adriatic ambience.” (It was a sunset in London). She continued, “I could stay here forever, honey. Manet was a genius (Honey mouthed the word Monet in her ear and received a rewarding scowl). Simon and Chloe struggled to keep straight faces and returned to the refuge of the previous picture, allowing Mrs America and Honey to perforate everyone else's eardrums.

“Chloe, that painting, ‘Impression: Sunrise', is said to have been the origin of the title for the ‘Impressionist' movement in French painting. Renoir and Manet were other artists involved.”

“Thanks, Simon. If ever Magnus Magnusson asks me that, I shall recall this moment! Perhaps we'd better catch up with Mrs America. You could give Honey a rest!”

He gave her a little dig in the ribs, muttering, “You'll pay for that later, Chloe!”

“Promises, promises. You'd better be a man of your word!”

There was a continuing flow of viewers through the gallery; it wasn't too fast, but people mostly kept moving. The exceptions were art students, dotted here and there, doing mini-copies.

“He certainly had a thing about Water Lilies for a time, Simon. I'd quite like to visit Giverny, look around the house, and see the real thing.”

“I'll take you. Chloe. We could make it a weekend in Paris. Take Le Shuttle. Make it a special occasion. What do you say?”

“It's a lovely offer, Simon. See if you feel the same tomorrow morning.”

They stayed an hour and a quarter, picked up their overnight bags from the cloakroom, and flagged down a cab.

At the hotel, Simon picked up the bags and, with Chloe on his arm, strode into the building. They'd almost reached Reception when he stopped abruptly at the Porter's Counter for a Financial Times. Without thinking, Chloe kept moving.

“Good afternoon, madam. May I help you?”

“Thank you. We have a reservation.”

“Right, Madam. What is your name please?”

She was completely caught out, opened her mouth and shut it and then pretended to cough. What name had Simon given? Oh my God, please help!

Her prayer went unanswered. The earth did not open and swallow her. Instead, Simon said over her shoulder, “Double room, Mr and Mrs McGuire.”

Five minutes later the porter put their bags on the suitcase stand, urged them to call him if they needed the slightest assistance, and took his leave a few pounds richer.

“Oh my God, that was so embarrassing, Simon! I didn't know if you'd taken me at my word and called us Mison?” She felt very odd. It was the heightened sensitivity from the incident, the excitement of being here, and just straightforward good old hormones having their play.

Simon stepped close and put his arms around her ready to console. Before he could utter a word, she sat down, kicked off her shoes and stretched across the bed.

“I don't want to wait, Simon!”