Tim Connor Hits Trouble (17 page)

‘Henry, I enjoy your company, I wish I could be more use to you. And thanks for your offer of support to me,’ he added, as he nearly always did to offers of help, ‘but I’m fine.’

‘Well that’s ok then,’ Henry gave a wry half-questioning smile.

Tim took this as a cue to check his watch.

‘Henry. You’re welcome to come back to my place for dinner? I can offer you a choice of ready meals or we can pick up a take-away as we go. I’m sure Annette won’t miss you too much for one evening. Why don’t you call her now to let her know where you are and I’ll order a taxi?’

‘No need. I doubt if she’d miss me if I disappeared for a week.’ His voice dropped to a worried mumble as he added, ‘she’s been making threats to get me out recently.’

His words caught Tim by surprise. He had not realised that Henry’s marital problems were so serious. The man’s life was falling apart on every front. But now was not the time to play relationship counsellor. He gave Henry a sympathetic glance and called for a taxi.

Back at Tim’s place a lighter mood returned. They washed down a meal of microwaved beef lasagne and instant chips with bottled beer. They continued drinking once the meal was over, still chilling after their heroics on the golf course.

‘Henry, what type of music do you like?’

‘Most: jazz, folk, rock and roll, especially progressive rock, even some of the better rap stuff. What have you got?’

‘A pretty wide selection. How about something we can sing to? I’ve heard you can turn out the odd tune yourself.’

Tim played tracks from his collection of CDs and LPs most of them selected for them to sing along to. Well tanked up, they sang raucously and at maximum volume.

Just as they were launching into an attempt to accompany Leonard Cohen’s
Hallelujah
there was a thunderous knock on the front door.

‘There’s someone at the door,’ said Henry unnecessarily.

‘Huh, I don’t know who that can be, or maybe I do.’ Tim got to his feet and walked slightly unsteadily to the door, humming as he went.

Opening the door he found himself staring into the hostile face of Darren Naylor. Tim was about to ask what he wanted when Naylor jabbed a stubby finger into his belly.

‘Shut that fucking noise, you’re keeping my kids awake.’

Tim stumbled backwards a couple of paces, briefly disoriented. As his head cleared he could see Naylor’s point.

‘Ok… ok, ask politely and we’ll cut the noise for you.’

Naylor was not about to take a lesson in etiquette. He stepped inside the doorway shaking his fist under Tim’s nose.

Tim pushed him back into the driveway, spinning him round. They squared up, sizing each other up.

In a flash, months of pent-up tension detonated.

Naylor swung a right cross that connected hard with Tim’s left ear.

Tim staggered backwards but the blow had a sobering effect. As Naylor came after him he took a more controlled step back giving himself space to launch a long right hook in the direction of Naylor’s nose. The impact was almost as satisfying as good sex. Naylor’s nose spread like a squashed doughnut, blood and snot squirting across his face.

‘Ah… shit… you fuckin’ pillock. I’ll get ye for that.’

Naylor wiped his face with the back of his hand. He raised his fists again ready to carry the fight back to Tim.

By now it had dawned on Tim that a serious fight with his neighbour could have all manner of nasty consequences. He decided to try to cool things down though he wasn’t betting on Naylor’s cooperation.

‘Listen, we’ve landed a decent shot each, let’s leave it at that. We’re gonna have to deal with things by talking. Ok, I’ll cut the noise down, just get off my property.’

No chance.

‘Piss off, you lanky fairy. Ye’re not gonna talk yer fuckin’ way out of this one.’

Naylor had taken a bunch of keys from his trouser pocket. He gripped the key ring in his right fist fitting the keys between his fingers the sharper ends sticking outwards.
A hard hit could take an eye out. It was soon clear he had another target in mind.

‘How would you like to pick your teeth up with broken fingers?’

‘Not a lot thanks, put those keys away. You’re at risk of making a serious assault.’

Nothing infuriated Naylor more than, as he saw it, his neighbour’s condescending arrogance.

‘Who do you think you are you over-educated twat? You afraid to fight all of a sudden? No way, I have n’t started on you yet.’

Naylor shaped up to attack again. As he did so Tim noticed Henry slip quietly out of the door. Before Naylor could launch himself Henry fixed him in a half-Nelson just managing to clasp his hands behind Naylor’s thick neck.

‘Shit! What the fuck?’

Naylor bent forward, shaking his arms and torso in an attempt to dislodge Henry. Swinging in mid-air Henry hung on, enabling Tim to step in and twist the keys from Naylor’s clenched fist.

Cursing, Naylor turned to face away from the house and started to batter Henry against its pebbled wall. After thudding into the wall several times Henry was forced to release his hold. Suddenly free of his load Naylor reeled backwards cracking his head against the wall. Pebble and plaster exploded onto the driveway but Naylor’s head appeared undamaged. The only effect was to further enrage him. Bellowing in anger he hurled himself at Tim who quickly sidestepped as his neighbour charged several yards past.

What the outcome might have been had the fight continued was not put to the test. Out of the blue came the blaring of a police car’s siren - getting louder by the second. Naylor looked the most alarmed of the embattled trio. Without even a parting insult he swiftly exited through a hole in the fence. He was about to disappear through his front door when the police car screeched to a halt, veering giddily onto the pavement between the two houses. Three
large male police officers tumbled out. Two made for Tim and Henry while the other retrieved the vehemently protesting Naylor.

Tim decided that it might defuse matters if he invited everybody inside ‘to explain.’ The senior policeman’s response was that he himself intended to provide all the explanation required. Were they aware that he had the option of charging them with a number of offences and was inclined to do so considering the distress they had caused their neighbours; two of whom had called the local police station? At this point Tim and Henry adopted studiously penitent expressions. Naylor attempted to interrupt the officer’s homily but was promptly told to ‘shut up’ unless he ‘fancied a trip down to the station.’ In the end the officer settled ‘on this occasion’ for giving them an informal caution as to their future conduct. The police had more important things to do than chase around after supposedly mature men behaving like juveniles. Didn’t they also have more important things to do? Tim and Henry agreed that indeed they did and insisted that the current incident was entirely unique in otherwise scrupulously busy and law-abiding lives. Cornered, even Naylor nodded glum assent. The police officer concluded with a warning that in the case of any future incident there would be charges.

Nothing quite like it did occur again. Whatever it was that cowed Naylor he never threatened another physical confrontation. But his campaign to force Tim to sell up and leave carried on. Tim continued to experience nasty incidents that he was sure were Naylor’s work but he could never prove it. The most dangerous was when one of his car-tyres burst causing a horrific skid. Fortunately there was no damage done to either the car or himself. Changing the tyre he extracted a shard of glass from it. Returning home he found a couple of more shards of what looked like the same kind of glass on the exit to his driveway. As he turned round after picking them up he noticed Naylor’s van draw up. He found himself staring straight into Naylor’s
eyes. There was a cold hatred in them that carried a clearer message than any spoken word. Naylor would like to see him maimed or killed.

As far as the fence was concerned Tim woke up one morning about a week after the fight to find it flattened between the two driveways. He left it there. He had the feeling it might be his neighbour’s last, self-defining act in their conflict. He was right. In the end it was Naylor who moved on. Tim cleared the old fence and built a new one fully six and a half feet high, entirely at his own cost.
You have to pay to get out of going through all these things twice
.

Henry had finished his morning’s teaching and was pondering what to do next. His head was leaden and inspiration failed to spark. He was reluctant to go home where the atmosphere was now terminal. Annette was close to completing her chapter for Rachel Steir’s edited collection of what he referred to in a moment of drunken provocation as ‘old women telling young women what to do.’ Hardened through years of emotional attrition, Annette gave as good as and often better than she got. She made it clear that his ‘aimless presence’ was an unwelcome distraction to her serious work. Twisting the knife she suggested that ‘instead of loafing about’ he might be better employed attempting to write something himself. His offer to provide a dissenting chapter for the women’s book was met with contemptuous silence. Still, he didn’t regret his taunt - it gave him belief that he had some fight left in him. But the days when Annette was in awe of his intellect were long gone. In desperation he began to reply to her clever jibes with choice selections from his extensive macho and toilet-based
vocabulary. His coarser insults seemed to annoy her more than his attempted intellectual put-downs and he got an extra kick out of using politically incorrect language. Relief was temporary. To himself he admitted that he was hopelessly out of control and that many of Annette’s comments were ‘a fair cop.’

Occasionally he drifted from depression and despair into wishful thinking. He would pull himself together - eventually. Maybe he would get round to some writing. But for now the prospect of long hours running into endless days and months in front of a computer screen unsettled him. What was blocking him? Perhaps it was just a temporary loss of confidence. Or maybe, he conceded, it was the alcohol. He would cut down. What he didn’t allow himself to think was that the cold, unyielding screen might bring him face to face with his own failure.

He left his office and wandered, vaguely pensive, towards the quieter part of the university grounds, still undecided about what to do next

He hated the way his image of himself had slowly begun to change. Like many sensation-loving romantics he had consigned the inconvenient matter of growing older and then old to the far recesses of his mind.
We were young so long it seemed we would never grow old…
‘Not now we’re not,’ he acknowledged. He had never quite believed in ‘forever young’ but the alternative was too depressing to contemplate. And too disturbing. Of course the ‘never grow old’ culture of his youth had come up with one solution to the problem of getting older: youthful death.
Hope I die before I get old…
For a few of the brighter lights ‘hope’ was not enough and one way or another they gave death a helping hand. Henry had always felt that in courting death the likes of Jim Morrison and Janice Joplin were really seeking to cheat it: self-destruction as the ultimate form of transcendence. Or perhaps dazzled in a haze of mass adulation they imagined they were on the brink of deification:
any day now, any way now, I shall be released
. More prosaically others
like the American protest singers Phil Ochs and Tim
Buckley
made calculated decisions to kill themselves: idealists, they simply couldn’t stand the sad, bad ways of the world.

Self-destruction, driven by excess or narcissism, still less through the slow drip of existential despair had no appeal to the younger Henry although he found the phenomenon interesting in archetypal others. Back then life was too much fun for him to seek an early exit. Better to be a campus king than a rock god worshipped by the adoring but amorphous mass. More than thirty years on, contrary thoughts occupied his mind. Self-awareness was catching up with reality and reality was not quite what it used to be. As Oscar put it, he had a great future behind him. Judged by the definitive Freudian tests of achievement in work and love, the unavoidable verdict was that he’d messed up. Or, in the brute win or lose terms of his re-set profession, he had failed his assignment. At sixty-two there was no chance of a resubmission. He had no children, his relationship was sliding into mutual loathing, and he had virtually nothing solid or permanent to show from his long professional life. Set against that litany of absence and inadequacy, an extended period of youthful and early middle-aged self-indulgence seemed flimsy in the balance. More so now that it was over.

To start again! But start what again? As far as women were concerned his easy charm of yesteryear had turned into a reverse charisma apparently so boring that few stayed around long enough to grant him a decent conversation let alone indulge him in the pretence of flirtation. Not much mileage there, then. Work was not quite such a dead end. Even if it was too late for him to publish he still sporadically enjoyed teaching. He could still put in a fair shift as long as the new model army of smart arses didn’t try to tell him how to do it. He liked the students and he knew most of them liked him. Probably, most of them did. That was it! He would end his career on a teaching high. He’d show his
detractors that he could still hack it. Fuck the technology! Fuck the jargon! Fuck the new fangled, bone-brained directors of this, that and the fucking other! He’d fucking show them! Then he would retire at peace with himself. The voice in his head was at full throttle: but not quite loud enough to drown out a quiet whisper –
Henry, you’re kidding yourself
.

‘Henry, stop talking to yourself.’

It was Bradley Purfect.

‘You Brits are so eccentric. You were definitely mumbling to yourself. No doubt profound stuff. Why don’t you share it with me? I’m in need of a good conversation. Why don’t I join you for a walk and a chat?’

In normal circumstances Brad Purfect was not Henry’s idea of someone likely to throw up a worthwhile conversation. He almost preferred the over-earnestness and aggressive egocentricity of American business people to the same qualities packaged in the form of a crude, Marxist pedant. Strident self-promotion elided with cultural myopia seemed to affect even American lefties and Brad more than most. But today Henry was willing to be more welcoming, if only to escape his own gloomy thoughts. He fell into step with Brad.

‘Hi Brad. I’m sorry you’re feeling neglected. So what have you been up to?’

‘I’ve been trying to get a handle on the left in this country. I thought Britain was the home of real socialism but nobody seems to talk seriously about getting rid of capitalism. Oh, yes. I hear lots about how greedy capitalists are, but not much about how to replace the capitalist system or even what to replace it with. What we need is a good old fashioned revolution.’

Henry had no wish to discuss this issue, but any distraction, even in the form of Brad, was better than being left with his own company. He’d go along with it for a few minutes. Brad’s gung-ho, roll on the revolution attitude had the unaccustomed effect of making him feel quite moderate
and sensible. He made a few perfunctory remarks about the almost certain futility of attempting violent revolution in Britain: it wouldn’t work and the vast majority wouldn’t support it. Brad grudgingly conceded that ‘the conditions weren’t yet quite right’ but was reluctant completely to dismiss the possibility.

They continued to bandy ideas about, Henry taking the opportunity to launch into a monologue on his pet theories of ‘institutional democracy’ and ‘the industrialisation of the education system.’ Unaware that he was doing most of the talking Henry almost felt that he was having a half-decent conversation with Brad.

He glanced at Brad, who wasn’t used to being out-talked.

‘Sorry, Brad, you’ve started me off. Let’s drop the serious stuff. You didn’t answer me when I asked you what you’ve been doing in your time over here.’

‘No, don’t worry. I agree with a lot of what you say. At least you’ve got some idea of how we might move forward. But talk about ‘a long revolution’, gradual change – I mean real change - could take forever or more likely just not happen. There’s a need for leadership, some sort of vanguard, not violence necessarily. I’d go a lot further than…’

Brad was about to expand on how much further he would go when Henry abruptly stopped walking, giving him a perplexed look. As far as he could see the American had scarcely ‘agreed’ with anything he had said: rather the opposite. He remembered why he avoided arguments with Brad. It was not so much that the discussion went round in circles rather Brad’s logic was highly linear and rigid, as if concession in argument personally undermined him. Henry decided to change tack altogether.

‘Let’s talk about something else. I’m taking time off from planning the revolution at the moment, “temporally like Achilles”, as someone said.’

‘Achilles?’

‘Yes, you know, Achilles?’

‘Not personally but I think I know who you’re referring to. Wasn’t he some ancient who had something wrong with his foot? Anyway who said they were temporally like Achilles?’

‘Dylan.’

‘Thomas?’

‘Bob.’

‘Bob Dylan?’

‘That’s right.’

‘It sounds like the sort of thing he’d say or rather croak.’

‘Don’t tell me you don’t like his Bobness. If it helps, Abraham Lincoln might also have said it.’

‘I doubt that. It’s not the sort of remark he’d make. But if he did he would have meant something different than Bob Dylan. Not that anyone can work out what Dylan does mean, assuming he means anything, which I doubt.’

The two academics had resumed walking. Henry was glad they’d dropped the testy topic of revolution but didn’t particularly want to stay with the Dylans or Abraham Lincoln either. Typically Henry’s conversation veered between the highly intellectual and the lowly vulgar. Deciding that the first was beyond Brad and the second would be seen as beneath him, he made a rare effort to hit the bland middle territory that he imagined was Brad’s natural habitat.

‘Brad,’ Henry spoke with exaggerated emphasis as he tried to redirect the conversation, ‘have you seen much theatre since you came over here? It’s about the best cultural experience this country has to offer. Or what else have you been doing to entertain yourself?’

‘Oh, the usual things.’ Brad paused as if the switch in the conversation had sparked a reminder. ‘By the way have you picked up your invitation to the party that Aisha Khan is putting on at her place? I must say it’s very kind of her, quite a sociable gesture, especially as she’s only been working here for a few months I believe. In the States it’s usually senior colleagues that host departmental get-togethers.’

Henry was interested. He liked Aisha Khan but hadn’t seen much of her other than when they had chatted in the so-called staff-room.

‘No, nothing has come my way yet. If it had, I would have noticed, I checked out my emails last night.’

‘The invitation came as a card. I picked up mine from my tray. You’re sure to have been invited. In fact the card is a general invitation to all of us - partners and kids are welcome too. I’m sure your card will be in your tray.’

This piece of news gave Henry a convenient exit opportunity. ‘Brad, as always it’s been a pleasure to talk with you. Right now though, I want to check that I’ve been invited to this delightful young woman’s party.’

‘Sure, you’re invited and you better behave yourself you old rogue. You realise she’s married.’

‘I’d be surprised if she wasn’t.’

‘How about a cup of coffee once you’ve picked up your invitation?’ Brad called after the departing Henry.

Already well on his way Henry was almost out of hearing range. He decided to pretend that he was.

Henry used to look forward to checking his in-tray. As well as work- related bumph and publishers’ catalogues, it served as a conduit for the odd personal message or letter. Now even personal communications came as emails – when they came at all. Sometimes he failed to spot them in the dump of official rubbish and global spam. Maybe he should get a mobile phone and learn to text properly. Otherwise he risked losing his younger friends and contacts.

He reached the bank of trays at a brisk geriatric jog. His tray bulged from neglect. On top was a bunch of publishers catalogues. He tossed them towards a nearby waste bin missing it by a handsome margin. Underneath he found a large mauve envelope with his name embossed on it in large gold italic script. Never since he had seen it inscribed on his PhD certificate had the name of ‘HENRY JONES’ looked so pucker. He opened the envelope carefully to avoid tearing
the invitation card. Inside there was the expected invitation and an added personal message from Aisha saying how much she had enjoyed their recent conversation and that she hoped that they would talk again soon. Henry flushed with pleasure.