It's Only Temporary (5 page)

‘Where who is?’

‘The staff, probably some students as well. For the party?’

‘Party?’

Oh dear yet another conversation with the terminally unintelligent loomed.

‘Yes my leaving party. It’s supposed to be a surprise.’

‘Surprise?’

‘Yes.’

‘Don’t know nothing about no surprise. No one told me, you lot are supposed to ask before you do anything like this. No one ever does though and muggins here has to clean up after you. I’ve already mopped the floor!’

Evidently it seemed that despite his tirade against the academic staff he actually had no idea that there was a party. If he had cleaned the building then surely he would have seen them.

At that moment Peter walked in, Peter was a tutor in general history a catch all syllabus for those who did not have the intellect to specialize. Surely he was here to collect me? I just needed to play along and be magnanimous.

‘Hello Peter.’ I said smiling at him.

He looked up as if he was surprised I had spoken to him, actually it was probably the first time I had. It certainly was the first time I could recall, what a strange choice my colleagues had made for an escort.

‘Oh, err, hello. Errm Marcus isn’t it?’

I managed to suppress a
smile; he was very good at this. Maybe he should have taught Drama?

‘Yes, are you looking for me?’

‘Err, no actually. I had forgotten this.’ He said holding up an umbrella.

If this was all part of the rouse I was interested to find out how he intended to proceed.

‘Actually I thought you had left,’ he continued.

Clever! What a subtle way to get me engaged in a conversation about a leaving party. I wo
uld play along I decided.

‘Well nearly, I am leaving shall we say.’

‘Oh really, when?’

‘Tonight, I assume. Although I suspect you may know more about this than I do?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Is that not why you’re here?’

‘Err no, I came for my brolly,’ he said waving it at me again.

‘Ok Peter. I’ll make it easy for you. Where do we have to go? Don’t worry
, I will play along and act surprised.’

He looked baffled, taking things a bit far I thought.

‘Go?’ he said.

‘Yes, the party?’

‘What party?’

‘That’s what I said,’ the janitor who had been watching this exchange chipped in.

‘My leaving party.’

‘Oh, I see,’ said Peter. ‘Sorry I didn’t realise, I wasn’t invited.’

‘Is that not why you are here?’

‘Err no, like I said I came for my brolley,’ he waved it at me
yet again.

‘Peter I am confused, if you are not here to get me where am I supposed to go?’

‘I don’t know. Who organised it?’

‘I have no idea it’s a surprise I assume.’

‘Well “normally” the person organising it would ensure that you end up in the correct place but unawares so to speak.’

‘Who would be that person?’ I asked.

‘Well anyone really, whoever cared enough or could be bothered to sort something out.’

‘Could be bothered?’

‘Err yes. Look I have to go, my girlfriends in the car and we have theatre tickets.’

‘Right, yes. Of course….’

‘I am sure they will come along soon,’ he offered.

‘Yes, yes. I am too.’

As he left the realisation dawned on me that there was no party.

I went back into my office checked my email inbox to see if there was any indication that I had missed an invitation, it was empty except for some more automated responses to the emails I had sent with my resume. Not a single farewell message from a colleague or student, I was unsure whether to feel annoyed or relieved at this.

Simply rise above it as they say, I told myself. Their loss I decided.

I noticed
there was another email that was not automated. Maybe this was it, the job offer I had been waiting for?

Hi Marcus,

Hank here. Just wanted to let you know that your email was forwarded to me on my IPhone. We are all still here enjoying the attractions of
Egypt! Your guidance was really appreciated by my students. Take care. Speak soon? H

Hank was someone I had met in Egypt, an American from some small back water college in Texas which had stumped up the cash to send 20 students to Cairo to “study the pyramids” or some other half soaked objective.  Neither they nor Hank had any idea what they were doing or even what they were looking at. They did however excel at getting in the way, so in frustration I had given them some simple pointers which they had absorbed as if I was revealing the inner most secrets of a newly discovered tomb.

That night I went to bed and turned out the light as I lay there in darkness I began to contemplate my situation. Everything I knew was changing and I felt helpless, an emotion which quickly turned to anger. Not just at the injustice of my situation but also at myself for resorting to feeling like a victim. I was more than a victim; I was a highly qualified academic with a bright if not “glittering” career ahead of me regardless of the short sightedness of Robert and his cronies. This was simply a bump in the road, a transition period which although uncomfortable would be short lived I told myself.

I looked around my bedroom and was able to make out the familiar shapes of my furniture in the moonlight. I imagined that Henrietta Street would probably have the same effect from the ambient light emitted by the street lamps. I had to admit despite my bravado I would miss this place, not just my apartment but Luci, which despite everything still felt like my home.

Anyway, I told myself. At least when this is all over I will have a story to tell at faculty dinners. I felt
a dampness on my face, sitting up I turned the light on and looked around me, there was no sign of a leak but something had definitely made my face wet. Then I realised that in fact it was my eyes, they were watering probably as a result of the dust that had been disturbed when packing. I settled back down and turned the light off again but found my eyes continued to water, then I realised that they were not in fact watering. I was crying.

Don’t be so stupid, I told myself. You are not going to cry, do you hear? You are not going to cry. You are not a victim!

Pep talk over I found myself sobbing quietly into my pillow in the darkness.

Early the next morning I dropped my keys and my forwarding address through Trudy’s office letter box and feeling like a refugee with my rucksack and suitcases made my way back to
Henrietta Street. The first thing I did was empty my rucksack; I removed my sleeping bag and inflatable mattress which I used when in Egypt. Although I booked a hotel for the duration of my time there it was often the case that I would remain onsite at archaeological digs overnight in order to ensure I was present if there was any chance of an interesting find turning up.

As I pulled the mattress and sleeping bag out a small amount of Egyptian sand which had somehow managed to make the return trip with me deposited itself on the floor. I scooped it up and held it in the palm of my hand. The contrast between what the sand represented to me in terms of my hopes and dreams, against the backdrop of the shabby bed-sit I was now living in could not have been harsher.

I carefully placed the sand in my one and only mug, an enamel affair that had seen better days but had also been with me on every trip to Egypt for the past ten years. As I Placed the mug with the sand contained within it on the only work surface next to the sink, I silently vowed that they were representations not of what I had lost but of what I was striving to regain. ‘It’s only temporary,’ I said again.

I inflated my bed and laid out my clothes, hanging them on coat hangers from every pipe, radiator and fitting I could find.

I realised I needed to feed myself somehow, ever since I had begun as a student at Luci I had eaten in the campus restaurant. As a member of staff I had simply placed everything I had purchased on my account and it had been deducted from my salary, this was a thing of the past.

The cash point machine showed me that my first weekly benefit had been paid and I drew out the meagre funds, I planned to visit a supermarket later in the day. However I had a more pressing engagement at the Silverdale Community Centre where I was to meet a lady by the name of Stacy.

The centre was housed in what appeared to be a former church school, it struck me as slightly out of place in the urban sprawl and I could picture it in some remote rural village anywhere from Surrey to Yorkshire.

The yellow lime stone blocks and the ornate stained glass window created a welcoming, warm feeling inside me. For the first time since I had been given my notice I started to feel a little more positive. There was a possibility I was simply clutching at straws, looking for rescue from the despair I was feeling but as I walked in I felt a palpable sense of optimism.

Inside it was obvious that there was an on-going, if low budget attempt at modernising without losing the charm of the original building.

‘You must be Marc?’ a voice from behind me asked.

I sighed my sense of optimism rapidly dissolving, ‘It’s Marcus actually,’ I said as I turned.

I found myself face to face with a woman of approximately my age, she was slim, slightly shorter
than me, had shoulder length blonde wavy hair that I suspected was dyed and was sporting a beaming smile.

‘Stacy?’

‘I am indeed!’ she said, thrusting her hand forward and shaking mine. ‘It’s great to have you here.’

As we shook my sense of optimism inexplicably returned, Stacy was welcoming and for the first time this week was someone who was genuinely pleased to see me. I needed to say something appropriate in response.

‘Of course it is.’

Her smile for some reason froze for a second before she laughed, ‘A sense of humour, great,
you’re gonna need that!’

Before I could respond to her perplexing comment she turned and said ‘Follow me,’

We made our way along the corridor and as I followed her, she suddenly stopped and turned to face me, before I could react we had bumped into each other. I could smell her perfume, I don’t like perfume as a rule. Its vulgar I find, still if she had to wear it at least she was wearing one that didn’t smell like industrial solvent, more a kind of light flowery affair.

The spell was broken as she stepped back, ‘Oh sorry Marcus, I do stuff like that. I am a bit ditsy at times!’

‘No my mistake, I apologise.’

‘Well now we are both sorry I can tell you what I was going to say. Do you want a cup of tea?’

Oh God yes! I thought to myself.

‘That would be lovely.’

‘Ok, let’s hit the kitchen!’

Stacy led me into the kitchen and clicked on the kettle.

‘How do you like it, milk and sugar?’

‘Earl Grey with lemon please.’

‘Oh I can see we are going to get on great!’ she laughed.

To my horror she dumped supermarket own brand tea bag into one of the two mugs she had picked up, I assumed the one without the tea bag was mine. She then filled them both with hot water from the kettle, was she actually going to put the water in first then my Earl Grey? The woman was obviously in need of culture.

‘Can you pass me the milk; it’s in the fridge over there?’

I opened the fridge door and pulled out yet another own brand carton of milk. Stacy
promptly removed the tea bag from the one mug and deposited it into the other. She then put milk into both mugs and placed the tea bag into the bin.

I was speechless at how the simple pleasure of a cup of tea could be so barbarically butchered in such a short space of time, even more so when she then handed me a mug as if she thought I was actually going to drink it!

‘Sugars over there,’ she said and then sat down at a table. Unable to think of anything else to do I followed.

‘Ok, let’s go through things and then I will give you a tour. Is that alright?’

‘That’s fine.’

She smiled at me again and I had a peculiar sensation, similar to seeing the sun come out on a cloudy day.

She went on to explain to me that my first impression of the building was correct and it was a former church school. She had bought it with a former boyfriend and they had the intention of converting it into a music shop and living in the flat on the top floor.

However the boyfriend had elected to change his mind and leave Stacy with the sole responsibility for the building. It seemed that when her parents had passed away she had inherited enough money to purchase the building but the upkeep was another matter. As the music shop had been her ex-boyfriend’s idea she had decided to open a day centre where local people could meet and be fed.

Her clients ranged from teenagers through to the elderly, most were referred by social services who paid a small fee, some however were none fee paying but were “in need” as she put it.