I would leave the answerphone messages till I’d had a quick tidy in the garden. Not that there was much to do. At the start of a William Murdock year I’d have had no time to venture anywhere near the dahlias so much as to dead-head them. So to have not just lifted but also dried them in the hope that they’d overwinter in my garage was a minor triumph. The fuchsias I always tried to rescue looked somewhat affronted at having to share their accommodation. The garden itself was extremely tidy. Unnaturally tidy. Another reason I’d spent so much time in it was because Mike had never really made it his territory; I missed him more when I was in the kitchen. I missed him at his house too, of course, painfully, but Carla Pentowski had been right: yes, his garden was looking pretty good too.
I did wish that line from the Louis MacNeice poem about the sunlight on the garden hadn’t kept coming into my head. I wanted to cage all those minutes with Mike. It was the minutes that were golden, not the cage, surely.
At last, I’d done enough and it was getting dark and very cold. Maybe there’d be a frost tonight. What was the temperature supposed to be in Perth now? Forty plus? No, best to think about switching the heating on, dealing with the stuff I’d bought in Smethwick, and taking the calls on the machine.
Call. Just the one. From an apologetic, indeed grovelling Tom Bowen, who told me my estimates were brilliant, that he was sure I was undercharging, and that he’d be in his office all Monday morning if I still needed that help. ‘But I’m sure you’re underestimating yourself, Sophie! Now—’
But the machine had had enough and cut him off.
Shahida phoned just as I was getting some supper, full of doom about William Murdock. The new Principal and the new Head of Department, replacing those currently in custody awaiting a major trial, had been imposed on them by the Further Education Funding Council, the arm of government responsible for colleges.
‘And they’re both tartars,’ she wailed. ‘There’s talk of imposing a new contract on us. Goodness knows what that will be like. The rumour is it’ll be thirty-eight hours in college every week, twenty-seven hours’ teaching every week, and no more than twenty-eight days’ holiday.’
I reflected silently on the easier ways at UWM.
‘And it’s check this, list that, record the other. You can’t take a breath without filling in a form. Nor can the students. Even one absence and they’re chased. They’ve got this idea we should phone every morning to make sure they’re coming in. God knows when we’re supposed to do it. Not now there’s a diktat saying we mustn’t leave our teaching rooms during classes on pain of death.’
I gasped. There was no need to say anything.
‘I tell you, Sophie, I’m looking for another job. So is everyone else.’
‘So when I come back—’
‘If you come back. That was what I phoned for. There’s talk of a major reorganisation – merging a lot of jobs and getting rid of half the senior staff. All you senior and principal lecturers will be made redundant and made to apply for your own jobs. That’s the rumour.’
‘My God!’ How could any of us work any harder? Perhaps for a year or so – well, I was having a break to recharge my batteries, wasn’t I? – but more than that …? And there was no escaping to another FE college – they were all under the same pressures, if not directly under the FEFC thumb.
‘I almost feel tempted to have another baby. The maternity leave would be nice,’ Shahida continued.
‘But imagine trying to cope with two children with those working conditions,’ I said.
‘Hmm.’ She didn’t sound convinced. Then, as I feared, she changed tack. ‘Hey, when are you and Mike—’
‘We’re not even married yet,’ I said.
‘That doesn’t worry most people these days.’
‘It would worry me,’ I said firmly, indeed pompously. ‘I think kids need two parents. If at all possible.’
‘Well, don’t leave it too long. Maria’s already …’ And she gave me a long account of my quasi-goddaughter’s latest achievements. It was only when that young lady fell over – I could hear the yells – that Shahida put down the phone.
No, I’d said nothing about Steph. Nor would I until he’d got round to telling his parents. And I’d got round to telling his father.
I’d just finished a very sober supper when Ian Dale phoned again.
‘I was thinking, Sophie, we’ve got this satellite stuff, now, and if your young man’s batting, you might like to come and watch him here. Have a jar or two. Val says to bring your nightie – the bed’s aired.’ For ‘jar’ read not a pint of bitter, but the taste of at least two different wines, both no doubt excellent.
‘That’d be magic!’ And extremely convenient, given I wanted his advice. But mostly magic.
‘Come on, then. Whenever you’re ready.’
Ian had videoed Mike’s innings in the First Test for me. I’d been tempted to get my own satellite system, but Mike had been horrified by the idea, given the tiny amount of TV either of us watched. ‘It’s only my job,’ he’d said. ‘Come on, you’ll be with me at Christmas for the Fourth Test. And with a bit of luck we’ll be flying home together.’
I’d shaken my head. ‘You’ll be a dead cert for the One Day series.’ And on current form he would be. Nor would I wish it otherwise. After all, England needed at least one man they could rely on to stay put and score runs. But then the days between my return and his, mid-February, would be very bleak.
‘I’ve picked up a bit of gossip,’ Ian said, as he opened his front door.
‘Oh, let the poor girl get in the house before you talk shop.’ Val’s voice came from the kitchen. ‘The first bit of winter we get and you want to stand there letting it into the house as fast as you can.’
It took time, not to mention affectionate hugs and friendly cups of tea, before Ian could settle us all in the huge squashy three-piece suite in front of the screen. Also in front of the TV were a couple of bottles of Australian red. No, we weren’t to get tipsy, we were to taste. But I knew Val’s invitation to stay over was as much to do with Ian’s horror of drink-driving as with the cricket.
‘So the word is, things are worse at your old place than they thought,’ Ian said, pouring half an inch into a large glass and swirling it. ‘Those two managed to stash away more than we realised.’ Anyone else would have referred to them as two bastards. In my book very few words would be bad enough for the ex-Principal and ex-Head of Department, but Ian hated bad language, especially in front of women.
‘How much?’ I swirled and sniffed. ‘Yes! This is wonderful. All those blackberries …’
‘How about four million?’
‘Four million pounds?’ Val and I yelled as one.
‘They’ve called Fraud in,’ Ian said, in Eeyore mode. ‘A slow business, of course. Fraud always take their time. All that paperwork … Oh dear, look at that.’
And the first England batsman trailed dismally back to the pavilion.
Saying it was late, Ian and Val crept off to bed. But I had a horrible feeling that they were trying to be as tactful as if Mike and I wanted to do a spot of canoodling in their front room.
Funny how weekends are designed for couples. It had never hit me before, when I wasn’t part of one. Working on the principle that if I didn’t have any time to spare I wouldn’t miss him so much, I shopped, ran, washed, ironed, worked on an assignment and read two Sunday papers. All that so I could retire to bed with Mike – via the radio this time.
Bleary though I might be – and if Mike hadn’t been run out on fifty-five by the cretin at the other end wanting to take a run that wasn’t there, I’d have been a lot blearier – I turned up at UWM at a reasonable hour. But not so reasonable that Bowen wasn’t in. He was just unpacking his briefcase.
If I’d expected him to be as jolly as he’d been on the phone, I was to be disappointed. Perhaps he wasn’t a man for early – or even a mid – morning meetings.
‘I gather from Pentowski that you’re not happy with those students I put your way.’
‘On the contrary, I think they’re delightful. I’m just aware that they’ve got different language problems from students I’ve taught before. Hence the problems with my dissertation. And I wondered what language qualifications they came in with and how they’d got on in their assessment tests. She mentioned a print-out.’
‘I’ll bet she couldn’t find one.’ He mimed a frantic Ivo-like dig through mounds of paper.
I risked a complicitous grin. Face back in Father Christmas mode, he returned it, patting the significantly smaller piles on his own desk. ‘Tell you what, I’ll find mine and put it in your pigeonhole: how about that? Now, these problems with your dissertation. If you want, I could see you early next week. Monday, let’s say. About this time. Let me have all the notes you’ve done so far on Friday, so I’ll know exactly where you’re at. Oh, and the overall plan. And a brief summary of the problems you’ve got. OK?’ He sat down, smiling.
‘Great.’ I felt better already. Perhaps this degree would be what I needed to save my job at William Murdock. Or indeed, get me one somewhere else. ‘Just one more thing,’ I added. ‘Is there a system for reporting absences?’
‘Why do you ask?’ The smile swept from his face.
‘It’s just that they’re very hot on it where I work. We have to submit all these forms to the office.’
‘No need for that here!’ he said, breezy again. ‘Just tell the tutor. In their case, me. And for God’s sake don’t bother if they miss the odd session – they are adults, after all, and they’re paying their own fees. Just if a pattern emerges.’
‘Just like the old days at William Murdock, in other words.’
He nodded. ‘Before things got so bad in FE a student can’t scratch his arse without someone having to record it. Jesus, a friend of mine was saying the other day …’
He certainly kept abreast of the current further education disasters, I had to give him that. And his coffee was good. It sorted out my cricket hangover. Which brought us, if somewhat circuitously, to the wine we’d drunk at Ian’s, and my suggestions for his dinner party.
‘Pretty obscure, isn’t it? I mean, not one of your great names.’
‘Nor one of your great prices,’ I pointed out. ‘A famous label, and you’d be paying twice that. Trust me.’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I think perhaps I will.’