Pecking Order (8 page)

There was a knock at the outer door, it opened immediately and Patricia let herself into the thickly carpeted room. Even in her heels she couldn't have measured much more than five feet. But that didn't prevent her making an impression whenever she walked through a door. It was all in her body language: confidence blended with just a touch of urgency. A demeanour that instantly caused most people to treat her with deference. But not Eric. He had seen this manner many times before - company bosses or politicians in the news, men in red coats mounting horses or grey-suited types getting into the first class carriage of trains. He even observed it beginning to flourish amongst the student rugby teams as they gathered outside the union buildings. It stemmed merely from class: the imperceptible link between money, power and privilege. He despised it.

She nodded to Eric. 'Are you early, or am I late?' she asked with a breathless smile. A maroon cashmere scarf was wrapped round her neck, the ends hanging over an expensive-looking coffee-coloured trouser suit.

'You're right on time,' he replied.

‘Oh, thank God for that. It was nightmare parking. Six of the spaces are taken up by skips full of rubbish from some department.'

Eric had chained his bike next to them ten minutes before. 'They're refurbishing the biology labs - that's what all the mess is about.'

'They've finished lectures already? We're teaching the wrong subject Eric,' said Patricia. She had crossed the room and was about to sit down beside him when the chancellor opened the door of his office. Patricia's attention instantly turned to the man and she swept past the seated Eric.

'Chancellor Atkins, how are you?' she strode up to him, one hand outstretched.

'Patricia, good to see you.' As they shook hands he looked round Patricia's shoulder.

'Eric? Please, come through the both of you.' He spoke with the gentle, sonorous air of someone who has spent a lifetime wrapped safely in higher study. A lecturer, a priest, perhaps a hospital consultant.

Eric lifted himself from the low leather armchair, both knees cracking loudly as he did so. He passed through the trail of perfume left by Patricia and shook hands with the other man.

As they all entered the inner office the chancellor casually said to his secretary, 'Could we possibly have a tray of coffee please Lesley?'

It wasn't a question. Once inside, the chancellor directed them towards four armchairs in one corner of the room.

'Now this is strictly an informal meeting, but one necessitated by that infamous university grapevine.

They each took a seat, the chancellor on one side of the coffee table, his visitors side-by-side on the other. On his cue everyone crossed their legs and with an exaggerated sigh the chancellor began. 'There's nothing quite so chaotic as the last weeks of the summer term, don't you think? I find it quite amazing to consider that, in just a short while, the students will have evaporated and we can all have time to hear ourselves think once again.' He smiled, holding one finger up. 'And continue our research uninterrupted. I for one am looking forward to a couple of weeks excavating a Beaker village just discovered on Dartmoor.'

His two visitors nodded as the door opened and Lesley came in with a tray of coffee. Once she had poured everyone a cup, she retreated from the room.

'Now,' continued the chancellor, methodically stirring. He lifted out the spoon, touched it against the rim of his cup so a single drip was transferred to the china, and then placed it on his saucer with a quiet clink.  'As you know, the way the Social Studies Department has evolved is highly unusual. Eric, you established it long before my time. In fact, counting the early years when you lectured part-time whilst still employed as a social worker, I think you must be one of the university's longest serving members of staff. All your hard work has led to a strong department that, over the years, has produced dozens of well-qualified graduates. Those who have gone on to a career in social work have done so with a thorough knowledge of the pertinent issues in caring for the elderly.

'Patricia, you joined the university just five years ago to establish and head up a Women's Policy Unit. In that time you have made a dramatic impact on both the Social Studies Department and the university as a whole. Thanks to your research, awareness of women's issues has risen immeasurably. I gather that four police forces now follow your recommended procedures in handling cases involving domestic violence?'

She nodded.

'What we have though is, in effect, two separate departments within one. As you'll be aware, our government grant has been cut again, and so I'm forced to examine ways in which we can streamline our resources. Now you're by no means the only departmental heads I'll be seeing over the next few days, but I have to start somewhere. Unfortunately I have been somewhat pre-empted in this by certain rumours: that's largely the reason why I've called you both in today.

'Within the Social Studies Department there is a certain duplication of roles - amongst the support staff, researchers and lecturers themselves. This is, as I'm sure you're aware in the current funding climate, not economically viable. To avoid rambling on, I'm afraid to say it's unlikely we can afford to continue running the department in its present form. What I'm being forced to do is merge your departments into one. This, unfortunately, necessitates a reduction in staff levels.'

Now he stared down at his coffee cup.

'The next cycle of voluntary redundancies comes about in a year's time, and I sincerely hope we can make all the necessary rationalisations as part of it.' The weight of his skull seemed to have magnified because, with what seemed quite an effort, he looked up and stared at a point just above Eric and Patricia. 'And now we come to the dilemma facing me. I have two excellent heads of department, but room for only one.'

An awful, stifling silence.

With an almost plaintive note in his voice the chancellor carried on. 'Would either of you consider taking voluntary redundancy in the next cycle?'

Eric and Patricia made no reply.

The chancellor looked back down. 'No, I thought not. Well, as unpleasant a duty as it is, I'm going to have to ask you both to submit proposals outlining plans for your half of the department over the next three years. Anticipated research grants coming in, student numbers expected per course and the like. Full details will be given to you in writing, I just wanted to speak to you both in person first.'

He wasn't used to the oppressive atmosphere now filling his office. Finding that it was beginning to unnerve him, he lifted his voice and said, 'For instance, Patricia, I understand you've put in a proposal for a major research project from the Economic and Social Policy Research Council?'

Patricia leaned forward and placed her cup and saucer on the table. Then, in a brisk, business-like tone, stated, 'Yes, by strange coincidence it's a three year project looking at the Europe-wide disparities in sentences handed out to women who kill their husbands after suffering sustained domestic violence. Funding has been agreed at £125,000 per annum, including assistance from the EU Commission into Social Affairs - the Dutch, Swedish and Italian Governments have expressed an interest in the eventual findings. We’re actually due to hear if we've been awarded the project in the next few days. I've been meaning to see you about it, but with the end of term we're all so busy...'

'Go on,' nodded the chancellor encouragingly.

'Well, if we do win the project I'll actually need to take on a couple of researchers who will be required to assist in some lecturing duties too. One of my tutees has already expressed an interest in any position. She's in line for a first, takes an active role in student affairs and is, I believe, an ideal candidate. Salaries for a basic grade researcher-stroke-Iecturer could be comfortably covered by funds from the ESPRC grant, quite apart from what we could also apply for from the Higher Education Funding Council for England.'

'Excellent,' beamed the chancellor. 'Well all that will need to go into your proposal. And Eric, you mentioned to me the other day that you're looking at some issues not related to care of the elderly. Was it something about the ethics of modern-day food production? It sounded most interesting.'

Eric coughed uncomfortably, glanced at the chancellor then, looking down at his coffee cup, hesitantly began to speak. 'Um, it was a consideration, yes. But early investigations have been problematic. You see, the last thing these places want is any publicity.' Making up an example to illustrate his point, he added, 'I wrote to a meat processing plant just the other day enquiring about taking groups of students around - it supplies most of the major fast-food outlets in the region with their burgers. My request was flatly refused. What goes on in these places does so very much behind closed doors.'

'That's a shame. So have you anything else in the pipeline?'

Eric desperately searched his mind for something to say. 'Yes there's some debate in palliative care circles about government-funding for hospices. It could be an interesting research project.'

'Is this in response to a project on which the ESPRC is currently calling for proposals?' asked the chancellor.

'No,' replied Eric. 'I would apply for a single research grant. Perhaps myself and another colleague.'

'But no firm financial figures yet?'

'No, but obviously my early career as a social worker is a big bonus and palliative care was as much an issue then as it is today. In fact nowadays it's even more relevant, with the ever-increasing size of the elderly population.'

The suggestion was greeted with a strained silence and the chancellor struggled for something to say, 'As an archaeologist you'll have to forgive my ignorance, but palliative care is..?'

'Care of the dying,' Eric replied matter of factly. 'Terminal illnesses - cancer and so forth.'

'Good,' said the chancellor. 'Good.' As if repeating the word would make his utterance of it any more convincing.

'Well, Lesley will be sending you both the proposal forms in the next few days. So if you could find some time in the coming weeks to complete and return them.'

As he put his coffee cup on the tray he noticed the copy of the
New Statesman
on the table. 'Oh, Patricia,' he said, picking it up. 'I loved your piece on the undermining of senior female officers within the police. "Witch Hunt", a very provocative title. And always good to see the university receiving mention in such high-profile publications.'

As they all got up, Patricia replied, 'Thank you, Chancellor. An edited form of the article will be appearing in
The Observer
next Sunday too.'

'Very good,' he said, then turned his attention to Eric who was standing silently to one side like a butler. 'Thank you both very much for coming in, and sorry to have to finish your summer terms on such a note.'

After shaking his hand at the door, Eric and Patricia continued across the lobby area and out into the hallway. Once on the steps outside, Patricia breathed deeply. 'So the rumour becomes reality. I suppose I shouldn't be shocked.'

Eric just nodded grimly.

'Well,' she hesitated, hoping they were going in separate directions. 'I'm parked over there. 'Whereabouts are you ...'

'That way too,' he answered.

They walked along in silence. Now officially in competition with each other, conversation didn't seem appropriate. Yet at the same time, civility demanded it.

Patricia eventually said, 'Have you any plans for a summer holiday?'

'Maybe a few days away. Some walking in the Lake District probably.'

'Have you got relatives there then?' Patricia asked, trying to string the conversation out.

'No, my parents lived in a colliery village called Burton Oak, near Saint Helens. Thatcher decimated it and put my father out of a job. After the pit closed, he crumbled away with it. Some people – I suppose - just aren't suited for a forced retirement.’

Even though they were both left of centre in their political opinions, Patricia knew that - in Eric's opinion - her moderate views made her little more than a Tory in disguise. Keeping away from where he was steering the conversation, she asked, 'And your mother?'

‘She went within months of him,' he replied emotionlessly.

 'I'm sorry.'

By now they were approaching the skips Patricia had mentioned earlier. Parked with two wheels on the grass verge was a silver BMW. 'Michel is back from Brussels for a couple of days - so I've borrowed his car.' The vehicle pipped as she pressed the remote unlock. Eric noticed the ruts gouged by the thick tyres in the carefully tended grass.

‘My bike's just over there,' he said, pointing to the old green Raleigh chained to the thin trunk of a nearby tree.

'Right, well - I'll see you in the department soon,' Patricia said, getting in the car.

‘Yes,' Eric replied, fiddling with his keys.

He unchained the bike and turned it round. Patricia meanwhile had reversed the car onto the tarmac. She put it into first gear, waved briefly and pulled away. Eric pushed down on a pedal, moving straight into the cloud of her exhaust fumes.

As he cycled home, he reflected on the coming process; he'd seen it applied countless times to other permanent lecturers over the years. Their specialist area of research comes to be regarded as outmoded, unfashionable or just plain irrelevant. Forced to employ the lecturer until their sixty-fifth birthday, the university then seeks a voluntary redundancy. Failing that comes a sideways move into an administrative role.

But worse, far worse, was the thought of Patricia being made head of department and assuming full control of the budget. The prospect made him seethe. All that he'd built up over the years would be dismantled piece-by-piece. First she would cut the money for any of his research programmes, diverting the funds towards her own. Then the finances for his modules would shrink. Lastly, because of his reduced presence in the department, his lecture and tutorial rooms would be taken over. Slowly all his efforts would be reduced to nothing. And he would have to watch it all from some back office, while creating the very timetables that would instigate the process. He could not, would not, let it happen.