Saving a Child From God, page 5
He crossed his legs. “Can we talk about my class now?”
“Of course. That is the main reason we are here.”
She took a drink of water and undid a jacket button, enabling him to catch a glimpse of a small gold cross around her neck. Bloody hell, to add to her sins was she a God-botherer as well?
“Firstly, thank you very much for proctoring the mid-terms and for all your hard work on the International Foundation Programme this semester.”
Term, he wanted to say. Invigilating. We’re not in bloody America. “OK.” Her face was already starting to look shiny. “Always happy to lend a hand, but I must say I’m looking forward to – ”
“However, there are some incidents that need discussing.”
He shifted in his seat. “Incidents...?”
She picked up the piece of paper again. “Yes, incidents.”
He waited for her to speak. “Such as...?”
“A student claimed you hit him across the top of his head.”
He scoffed. “I most certainly did not!”
“Then what did you do?”
“This is Boris, is it?” My coffee-supping German mate. “He was chewing gum. You can’t have that sort of thing in class. There has to be rules. And respect. All I did was hold up the bin in front of him and give the back of his head a bit of a... push. A... helping push.”
Ferninckle shook her head. “Touching the students in any way, shape or manner in this day and age is a minefield. You know that. I shouldn’t have to tell you. Memos have been sent in both paper and electronic form underlining the dangers. You must keep your distance.”
“Oh, come on! It’s not like I belted the little... I would never hit a student. Never. I’m a professor and know that sort of carry-on has long been outlawed. I’m not some fossil, you know, some dinosaur who still believes in six o’ the best. I just... I just pushed the top of his head. That’s all. It was no big deal.”
“Do not touch the students. I must have your categorical assurance on this matter.”
“All right, all right. There’s no need to gawp at me like I’m Jack the Ripper or something.”
She nodded and looked at her piece of paper again, allowing another pause to develop. “We also received a complaint that you aggressively dispossessed a phone from a student.”
Anna! That hatched-faced snake!
“I think I know the incident you’re referring to and all I can do is repeat my assertion that mobile phones should not be allowed in class. End of story. They isolate the students, they ruin concentration, they mangle question formation, they are disruptive, they – ”
“Professor Jeggert, did you take the phone off the student?”
“Well, yes... I told her she could have it back at the end of the lesson. She... I repeatedly told her to put it – ”
“They are adults. We cannot take their phones off them.”
“Well, we should be able to. What is all this kid-glove stuff? How am I supposed to build an environment conducive to learning English if they’re...” He threw up his hands. “Twittering or whatever they do.”
“Can I make a suggestion?”
“I’m sure you will.”
“Perhaps you could try making your lessons a little more... engaging?”
He stiffened. “And what does that mean?”
She seemed to make a show of picking up yet another piece of A4 before running a finger down its contents and nodding. “These are the results of the student satisfaction survey sent out at the end of the week before last.” She moistened her lips. “I’m afraid to say, Professor Jeggert, that you didn’t score particularly well.”
He leant forward with a hand out. “Let me see that.”
She sat back. “I’m afraid that will not be possible. It is confidential.”
“Typical, but let me just say this: I am a professor of linguistics. I know the language backward. They’re lucky to have me.”
“Yes, but I’m sure you appreciate that there is more to teaching than simply being a professor. It is not just about knowing your subject. It is about being able to communicate in a concise, interesting way. Putting the students at ease.”
The professor folded his arms and stared. “I have all those things in...” He blinked, trying to think of the word. It wouldn’t form. In his mind he could clearly see a picture of it. He cleared his throat. “In...” It has a wooden handle and a metal blade. You dig with it in the garden. You usually store it in the shed. “In...”
“Professor Jeggert, are you all right?”
“Yes, of course... I’m...” The room was too hot. “What?”
She took a while to answer. “I was saying this questionnaire suggests you are not engaging your students.” She laid the paper down. “The students report that your lessons are too... dry.”
“Oh, so I’m boring them now, am I?”
“I did not say that. Just try to be a bit more flexible, a bit more imaginative in your approach and – ”
“That shower is bloody well privileged to have me.”
“Shower, Professor Jeggert? Shower?”
“I could use other words for them, if you like.”
“Yes... Unfortunately, I am sure you could.”
She gave him another one of her faces. His teeth clenched. He needed to do something to regain the upper hand. “It’s getting a bit hot in here. Can we open the door or something?” She glanced down and he knew he’d hit a bull’s eye.
“I’ll open the...” She got up, avoiding his eyes. He smiled as she trudged to the window. She lifted it up and fingered the necklace while gazing out at the campus grounds.
“Professor Ferninckle...?” She slowly turned and sat back down. “Anyway, doesn’t that meaningless little survey suggest my talents are not being best utilised? That perhaps everyone would be better off if I were back teaching linguistics.”
“Grammar is an integral part of linguistics.”
“Oh, please! Don’t give me that. I could teach that stuff in my sleep. It’s... beneath me. I just want my old job back. Come on... What do you say, Jayne? I’ve stepped into the breach, helped out like a gentleman should, but this chat’s gone on long enough and we’ve finished the foreplay so let’s...” He flapped a hand, not sure what he was going to say as she stared at him.
Eventually she rested her forearms on the desk. “I’m afraid I have some news that you’re not going to – ”
“Don’t you dare tell me that I’m still on the IFP next term. We had an agreement. You told me one term. One term!” His voice half-broke and he had to cough behind his hand to cover it up. “Just cover for Monica while she has the baby and – ”
“Professor Jeggert, please calm down. Monica has decided to extend her maternity leave so we’d like you to – ”
“But – ”
“Cover for another semester.”
“No. I just... no...”
The world was floating away. Another term with the likes of the Virgin Ostrich and that phone slut Anna? It would drive him insane. The IFP was twenty-five contact hours a week, the sort of workload more fitting for a wet behind the ears teacher at a private language school than a university professor. What’s more, it was nothing but a cash grab, a poorly disguised programme that promised students the chance to become undergraduates at a foreign university when they had zero or very little chance of meeting the entry requirements. He objected to it in both principle and practice.
What had happened to the days when he’d enjoyed a fifty-minute lecture once or twice a day complemented by a handful of tutorials? He’d earned the right to teach less not more and should be used sparingly. He was a treat for the students like, like... cinnamon vodka.
He folded his arms. “I will not teach that IFP stuff again next term. Absolutely not. You’ve given Hooligan a shot at the big time and that’s great for him, but it’s time for the old master to step back in before this university becomes a laughing stock. You know what I’m saying?”
“Not really, Professor Jeggert. I only vaguely followed what you just said but if you are referring to Mr Hoonagan, then the faculty is very pleased with his performance.” She smiled. “As are the students. They report that – ”
“But it’s my course. I’ve been teaching it for more than ten years and – ”
“Yes, I know, but the change is proving most – ”
“He doesn’t even have a PhD!”
“He has an MA in Linguistics and – ”
“An MA!”
“ – a Celta and a Delta and he’s just published a very well received introductory book on semantics. It’s received excellent peer-to-peer reviews. Have you read it?”
“Of course I haven’t read it! What could I learn from a dunder...” He trailed off, focusing his anger on the butterfly silently bumping around the inside of the jam jar. Hoonagan. So smooth and self-assured. Thought he was God’s bloody gift. Whenever he clapped eyes on the guy, he was always reminded of a dignified young Sidney Poitier.
“I really don’t think the faculty is asking you to do anything unreasonable. After all, we have given you every morning off to help you work on your latest paper. And how is that coming along by the way?”
“It’s...”
He thought of the two outline chapters on lexical semantics he’d managed to complete in the last three months and cleared his throat. He couldn’t seem to concentrate on the words. What’s more, he didn’t seem to have anything new to say. Writing, just getting his thoughts down on paper, seemed so much harder these days.
“It’s going reasonably well, but it’s a very complex look at hyponymy and hypernymy and the research is... is... very time-consuming and...”
She nodded. “And when do you think it will be ready for publication?”
“It’s going reasonably well.”
“You just said that. When do you think it will be ready?”
He shrugged and began studying his feet. “How long’s a piece of string?”
A long pause, the longest yet. He struggled to look back up.
“Professor Jeggert... Please don’t take this the wrong way, but... It has been a while since your last publication, hasn’t it?”
“Well...” He shifted in the seat. He couldn’t bear the sympathetic tone in her voice. “You can’t rush these things, you know.” He half-laughed. “Not if you want quality, for it to be any good.”
“May I remind you that as a professor, as the head of your department, you are expected to publish original research, to lead by ex – ”
“Please don’t tell me my job. Please don’t do that. I know what my job is but you won’t let me do it.”
“But your recent publishing history... Well, to put it generously, you seem to be going through a... shall we say, dry patch.”
“We all have our dry patches,” he replied, wishing he could have been looking between her legs as he said it.
“I feel that... you’re not promoting the linguistics department in any meaningful way. Neither are you providing any expert commentary to the newspapers and radio and so on. Do you ever issue media releases? Your colleagues do. Just look at Mr Hoonagan’s book and – ”
“I was on TV not so long ago. That BBC 2 documentary on texting and the... er, effect it’s having on modern English. The dumbing down of language and where it’s all going to lead. I had a full two minutes there.”
She looked at him. “And when was that?”
“OK, it was... five... no, four, I think... Look, just give me my old job back.” He swallowed. “Please.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible. As you know, we are still struggling to implicate all of last year’s funding cuts. Hence, we require a degree of flexibility from our teaching staff, especially those who are not tenured, and – ”
“You’ll have me sweeping the floor next.”
She tutted. “Don’t be so ridiculous. Why do you always overreact?”
“I am a professor and I’ve been working here for twenty-five years.” He leaned forward and rapped his knuckles on her desk. The butterfly seemed startled. “A quarter of a century! I deserve some goddamned respect. And you’ve got me teaching retards.”
Her mouth actually fell open. “Professor Jeggert, please tell me I did not just hear that.”
“Well, what am I supposed to bloody well say?” He flapped a hand in her direction. “I have no idea why some of them are even in a classroom and – ”
“Professor Jeggert, not for the first time, your language has stepped beyond being highly inappropriate and become downright offensive.”
“I’m just being honest. When did plain speaking fall out of fashion so hard? Why do we have to make our language so soft, so palatable for the listener now? What’s all that about? Those kids... There’s just no way I’m gonna get them up to an IELTS five point five. It’s not my... thing, you know? I teach linguistics, not ESL.”
“As I have already explained, you – ”
“Yeah, and while we’re on the subject of honesty, let’s be a bit more honest.” He wagged a finger at her. “I know what’s going on. Don’t think I don’t know.”
“I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”
“You’re punishing me for being an old white guy who talks straight, the likes of which make me an endangered species around here. Well, you won’t force me out. I’m a – ”
And then he just stopped, feeling like he’d been encased in glass. They really were trying to get rid of him. Just heap the humiliations up until he quit or snapped. The knowledge opened a terrifying black hole in the centre of his chest.
“No one is trying to force you out. Please stop being so melodramatic. Why is it so difficult to have a conversation with you? Staff get moved around. It is perfectly routine and – ”
He got up on legs that felt made of plastic. He needed a drink.
“Professor Jeggert, sit down. This meeting is not over yet.”
“Spades,” he said, pointing at her without looking. He walked unsteadily toward the door. “Spades.”
****
Chapter Four
Abdullah jumped out of the car and ran around to the boot. Ibrahim glanced at him in the rear-view mirror as he popped his seatbelt and turned to Khayla.
“That boy...”
“He’s happy. Humdullah. By the way, now that he’s a rich man, has he given you any clue about what he will spend his ill-gotten loot on?”
“Yeah, he wants to buy a football to practise his keepy-ups.” Their son was in a state of near-constant giddiness since the birds had brought him a pound coin yesterday morning. “I think footballs, even plastic ones, cost a bit more than a quid so I’ll probably have to help out. Then again, he might just put the coin with the rest of the rubbish.”
She clucked. “Don’t ever let him hear you call those gifts ‘rubbish’.”
“I wouldn’t be that silly.”
“Hey,” she said, squeezing his hand. “Wouldn’t it be nice if they brought him a pound every day? He’d have a nice little nest egg by the time he was eighteen.”
Ibrahim glanced sideways at his wife. “Nest egg...?”
She smiled. “Just a figure of speech. Now go and help him shift that monstrosity and I’ll put the tea on.”
He leaned across and pecked his wife on the cheek before getting out and walking to the rear of the car. Abdullah already had the boot up and was struggling to pull the birdbath out.
“Careful, son. Don’t scratch the paintwork.”
Ibrahim picked up the ornate birdbath with some difficulty and righted it on the front path. It was a three-foot high, freestanding stone structure that must have weighed seventy or eighty pounds. Abdullah had wanted to bring home a solar-powered, multi-tiered birdbath fountain from the garden centre but he’d put his foot down. Forty quid was quite enough to spend on their little feathered friends in one day. Besides, he didn’t want to turn the rear garden into a fulltime aviary. Everything back there was already getting coated in their mess.
Abdullah dropped to his knees to grasp the birdbath’s base, but quickly found he was only strong enough to partly lift it an inch or two and make it wobble.
“Help me, daddy...”
“Abdullah, hang on a moment. I want to tell you something.” The boy stopped struggling and looked up. “This is the last thing for the back garden. No more birdbaths or bird tables or feeders suspended on a chain or... Well, anything. OK?”
“Yes, father.”
“I mean it.”
“OK.”
“Right. Are you ready for your school talk tomorrow?”
“Yes! Yes! Yes! I can’t wait to show them the videos. They’re gonna love it. Everyone loves my birds.”
“Well, if you need an audience, if you want to have a dry run, you can practise on me. It might help you straighten a few things out.”
“OK. Maybe. Let’s move the birdbath.”
Ibrahim grabbed the top of the birdbath and carefully tipped it toward him, stopping when his peripheral vision picked up next door’s front door opening. A blonde woman began waving at them.
“Coo-ee!”
He frowned and looked around only to find no one else in sight. She began a wiggly, tottering walk toward them that must have been self-affected. Then again, her three-inch heels and the tightness of her pencil skirt probably didn’t help.
Abdullah came to his side, allowing him to put a hand around his shoulders as they waited for her to arrive.
“Is she our new neighbour, dad?”
“Guess so.”
“Her hair’s so... yellow.”
“Yes, but best not comment on that, eh? Just be polite and hope she’s polite back.”
They watched her teeter along the front path and make it to the pavement before abruptly losing patience with her shoes. She bent to undo the straps, completing the last fifteen feet or so barefoot with them dangling from a hand.
“These flaming shoes!” she said breathlessly. “They’ll be the death of me. Who’d be a woman, eh?”
