Traces of Red, page 21
During the trial I was criticised for my unwillingness to work as part of a team. They said I had a self-seeking attitude towards lab work and research. I’ll admit I was ambitious. I’ll admit, also, to being so utterly focused on my work that I failed to understand what others may have required of me or, indeed, needed. Perhaps I was inconsiderate, perhaps I appeared unfriendly but I was determined to do the very best I could. I was absorbed in what I was doing and I knew I was onto something of significance.
Although I was able to pick up on the growing tension I could not comprehend that I was, in any significant way, involved in the creation of it. I was shocked and hurt by the comments by my work colleagues and, in particular, Greg Williams, my overseeing professor and former PhD supervisor that I was unapproachable, that my relationships with co-workers were ‘very poor’, that I became confrontational.
I do recall that there were incidents I found myself caught up in; they were of the type that are, in reality, of little consequence but can, in the hothouse environment of a laboratory, appear intensely significant. Most of us were guilty of not cleaning up adequately after a busy session or of mistakenly picking up equipment being used by others, and I was also at fault. At a staff seminar apparently I upset a postgraduate student delivering a proposal for research because my questions relating to the proposed topic were ‘excessively probing’. At another – that I myself gave – I appeared unreceptive to comments or suggestions.
The most serious incident, from which I might add I was fully exonerated, was that which involved Alison Butterworth. I must also add recalling that particular incident still fills me with bitterness because of the repercussions. Up until that time I’d enjoyed what I thought of as a sound relationship with Greg Williams and believed I had his full support. He appeared enthusiastic, excited even, by the work I was achieving.
What happened? From what I remember these are the facts related to the incident. Alison Butterworth was involved in a research project considered as prominent and for which the department had received a substantial grant. The project had already been granted extensions but now the money was running out and it was crucial for the reputation of the department that the work was either completed by the time the annual reports were in, or at the very least, there was proof that considerable progress had been made. I might add that ‘crucial for the reputation’ has momentous implications in that, if a department fails to deliver regarding funded projects, the funding will dry up. A research department without funding will cease to exist.
In fact I’d been surprised when Alison Butterworth was given responsibility for leading the project. Certainly she’s intelligent, even brilliant at times, but her work, quite frankly, is sloppy and, going on evidence from the past, she will initially move into a project with huge enthusiasm but swiftly loses interest. She lacks stamina, her work lacks precision, and god knows a scientist needs both. I knew she’d taken an extraordinary amount of time to complete her PhD, having applied for and received a number of extensions. I imagine that Greg Williams, who was her supervisor as well, would have nursed her through it, since she’d won a good scholarship and failure to meet the requirements could have had departmental repercussions.
While Alison’s failings should have been glaringly obvious to everyone in the lab she was somehow viewed as a rising star. She was physically attractive, small to the point of seeming almost frail and with satiny, straight dark hair. She was also vibrant and friendly to everyone, sailing in as she did flashing smiles to all and sundry, asking everyone about their weekends, making little jokes, having everyone smiling back, even laughing. I liked her too – you couldn’t help but like Alison – but she wasn’t committed to what she was doing, she wasn’t up to it and when the panic started about the lack of progress she collapsed under the pressure. There were whispers Alison had ‘personal problems’, that she was ‘stressed’, that she was ‘completely burned out’.
That was where I came in, although entirely against my own better judgement. Greg Williams called me in and asked if I’d consider becoming involved in Alison’s team for the last processes of the research. I answered that I understood, in fact, that the project was some distance away from completion and I asked him for a fair estimate of what would be involved. He hesitated before telling me, then outlined what had to be done followed by some pointed comments on the necessity of working together to promote the lab and the importance of providing support to one’s colleagues. I knew Alison had been mucking about for months, she hadn’t put in the required time and I couldn’t see why I was now required to plaster over her shoddy work. I told Greg that my own work was of paramount importance to me and I didn’t want to take time away from it.
That was the first of the difficulties which sprang up between us. I saw the annoyance on his face. He replied very firmly that my involvement was essential since it was within my area and I was a fast and exact worker. I had to agree.
What followed was nightmarish. The lab technicians working on the project had received poor information and scant direction and the thing was a shambles. I found myself working long days and then I’d try to turn back to my own work in the evenings. Alison was more a hindrance than a help and was frequently unavailable so in the end I had no choice other than to go about it in my own way and work alone. Besides the professional problems, personal problems also arose between us. I don’t like strangers to touch me. I find the present custom of embracing, even kissing, mere acquaintances unbearable. Alison had a way of draping her arm around my back, patting my arm, reaching occasionally for my hand. I had to tell her to stop. I had to tell her I couldn’t tolerate it. After that she barely spoke to me.
A few weeks after my initial meeting with Greg he asked me again to step into his office.
Alison had made a formal complaint against me. I’d upset the co-workers on her project. I’d ‘taken over’. I’d been rude and abusive.
Of course I denied all this and, in the end, the complaints against me were dropped. Alison moved on and Devon Rawley took over and completed the project successfully. I was able, to my relief, to return to my own work.
But that, I believe, was what soured relationships between myself and Greg. From that time on he rarely spoke to me in any capacity other than professional. It was unfair but I told myself I had to accept it. After all, Alison’s defenceless wrists and dewy eyes would melt almost any man’s heart. I compensated by assuring myself repeatedly I’d done my best for Alison and for the laboratory. I believe it was simply pique and a need to justify her own apathy which sent her running to Greg and to the Human Resources people. But because Alison left shortly afterwards, the incident became magnified.
I’ve been described as insensitive but it is as important to me as it is to anyone else that I work in an environment where I’m well thought of. This incident upset me to the point where I so seriously considered taking up one of the offers I’d had from other universities that for a while I was in almost daily contact with Berkeley and looking closely at what they had to offer. It seemed to me a new start would be better made not only at another university but another country as well. And I thought that perhaps this kind of move could propel me out of one personality into another. My confidence had deteriorated so much that whereas I’d once been able to get myself a coffee when the staff room was largely unoccupied and speak reasonably freely to the lab technicians, I now had difficulty in crossing the room to go to the lavatory. I felt under scrutiny, and critical scrutiny at that, sometimes to the point I was close to tears.
I’d almost made up my mind to go at the end of the second semester. I raised the subject with Angela, explaining what had happened and how it was affecting me. Angela cried and asked me to stay. I was her only brother, she said, and she depended on me. While she loved Rowan and the children it was not the same, we’d always had each other, we’d never been apart and she couldn’t bear it if we were. She said the problems I was experiencing would settle down. She’d had similar problems in the florist shop where she was working part-time, one woman not getting on with another and getting her involved and then blaming Angela for everything that had gone wrong. It would settle down, things like that always did.
And so I agreed to stay. As Angela had predicted, things settled down. Other ‘scandals’ arose – Ted Barnes was accused of plagiarism, Marjorie Smith ‘came out’, one of the postgrad students vomited then passed out during the departmental graduation wine and nibbles. I gradually regained some confidence and resumed my former practice of moving freely about the laboratory and occasionally conversing with my colleagues on professional matters.
But I wonder now if I should have left when I had that chance.
I booked into a motel, left my bag and walked to a café nearby. The panini tasted like cardboard and the cheese was soapy and stuck to the plate in a great yellow wad. I pushed it to one side and drank the glass of wine I’d ordered. And then another.
According to Williams, there were no research discoveries that could jeopardise international companies. According to Williams, Alison hadn’t had the two extensions of funding Connor had told me about and he’d volunteered for the project rather than being persuaded against his better judgement to help with it. Alison was competent, she was committed, she was doing very well.
Connor had been jealous.
He was jealous of Alison. According to police he was insanely jealous of his sister.
In our phone call Linda Evans repeated what Greg Williams had said: uncommunicative, uncooperative. What was that T-shirt David liked to wear when he was a teenager? Does Not Play Well With Others.
I phoned the departmental office and asked for a list and contact details of anyone who had been working in the laboratory in or just before 2002.
Against departmental policy.
I found Lincoln Court, spoke with the neighbours on both sides and across the street and they told me what they’d already said on the phone. Angela so friendly and nice such a terrible shock never expected anything like this not in our street. Lynne Struthers took me out onto the deck at the back of their house to show me that the Dickson house was only visible from that particular viewpoint.
‘Down the drive, you see, and behind those trees. You can hardly make out the house from here and that’s why I never noticed the lights were on all weekend. Not that it would have made any difference. The police told us they all died on the Friday night. Terrible thing. They were such a lovely family. A very happy family, you could tell. I always thought that brother of hers was weird.’ I drove away. All bloody puffed up about getting another go on the telly. Worthy citizens witness a tragedy.
My story is being ripped apart and we’re filming in two weeks.
Don’t lose your objectivity, will you?
Mustn’t get personally involved. Mustn’t get personally involved.
I FREELY ADMIT I’m not good with people, that I’m oblivious to much of what happens around me. For instance, I was surprised when halfway through my PhD Angela told me she was again pregnant. When I asked her why she wanted another child she became quite sharp with me. ‘Being an only child wouldn’t be fair on Katy.’
‘Katy’s happy, isn’t she? It seems to me our lives are perfectly satisfactory as they are.’
‘It’ll be good for her to have a brother or a sister. Anyway, I want another baby. Rowan wants another baby. He said it would make the family feel more complete.’
‘He believes there’s a deficiency?’
She was shouting, ‘I don’t want to hear this, Con. Stop it right now.’
Samuel was born at the end of the year. He had Rowan’s face, Angela’s curly hair.
While I did my best to appear interested in him, I lack confidence with small children and Samuel was particularly active and unpredictable. Whereas Katy would stay quite happily in your arms, holding Samuel’s body securely was difficult. It was impossible to judge when he would lunge backwards or kick out with his legs or arms and set you off balance. I always felt I was in danger of dropping him and, in fact, once did. One moment I was holding him and the next he was lying utterly still on the floor and I was frozen with shock. Angela came into the room and as she snatched him up he gasped inwards and started to bellow.
But whereas Katy was fairly articulate from a fairly young age, I found it impossible to decipher what Samuel was trying to communicate. Anyway, by that time Rowan was able to be more involved with helping Angela so I left it to him. I remember him grinning at me when I gently but firmly removed Samuel’s Marmite-smeared paw from my trouser leg. ‘You’re not a baby person, Connor,’ he said. Perhaps that was it. I was not a baby person.
He dropped a child. How can I trust someone who dropped a child?
Anyone can slip, anyone can make a mistake.
Fuck it. Oh fuckit, fuckit, fuckit.
32.
I HADN’T SEEN the old man since I’d left. Angela went out there from time to time but she never spoke of it other than to say that she’d called in. I did ask her once what she hoped to gain by keeping up the relationship. By that time he was pissed more often than not and Angela’s main occupation during her visits would be to clean up the mess he lived in. She said she felt it was her duty to call in and see how he was doing. ‘After all, he is our father,’ she said.
He was never that. At school I’d see boys with their fathers. I’m cynical enough to have come to the opinion that appearances are rarely as they seem, but still there were times back then when the sight of some kid hanging fearlessly onto his father’s hand sent spasms through my gut.
The fathers who stood around sports fields, the fathers who waited in cars outside the school gates on those days when rain sheeted down, the fathers who sat on those undersized wooden seats in the hall, their arms folded across their chests at prize-giving.
Molly Ryan phoned. While she and the old man hadn’t spoken in years she’d kept an eye out for him because Angela had asked her to. She hadn’t seen his truck go out in quite a few days. There was junk mail piled up around the gate.
No, she wouldn’t go in and see what was going on.
I said he’d probably been on a bender, and either he’d be sleeping it off or he’d have crashed at one or another of his mates’ places. But Angela wanted to go out there. She was determined and she wanted me to come with her. She wouldn’t take the kids in case something was wrong and so Rowan would have to stay with them and she didn’t want to go on her own. I had to come.
I said she should call Jack Hayes, the local cop, and get him to check it out. He knew the old man well enough to stick his nose inside the door. But Angela wouldn’t do that, she’d got it into her head she should go and that I must go with her. She had to, she said. She had to see for herself he was all right. ‘After all, he is our father.’
When Angela fixed her mind on something there was no shifting her. I told her I’d stay in the car when we got there. She’d have to go in there on her own.
In fact, I wasn’t all that reluctant to go. I rarely got a chance to be alone with Angela any more and I enjoyed the hour or so drive out there. It was the middle of spring. There was blossom on the trees, everything was green. It felt slightly festive; we bought ice creams on the way and then called into the supermarket at Foxton and bought bread, cheese, olives and a couple of bottles of wine for when we got back home. The plan was that Angela would check out the old man and then we’d go down to the beach and eat before we headed back.
We stopped outside the property a short distance from the gate. I watched as Angela walked over the gravel towards the house. I’d brought notes with me on a paper I was about to write, which I intended reading over while she was inside. I thought what would most likely happen was she’d end up making the old man a cup of tea and cleaning up the place. I pulled my notes out of my satchel and wound down a window.
But in the end I couldn’t concentrate and put them away. The sun was beating through the windscreen and it was far too hot in the car for careful reading. I looked over at the house. The paint had peeled off completely in some places and you could see bare timber beneath, dried out and cracked. I thought about my mother. What had she thought of the place when she first saw it? Had she been excited, seeing potential in the cottage and the land around it with the glimpses of sea, or had she wondered what the hell she’d got herself into?
I saw Angela coming back towards the car. He wasn’t anywhere inside, she said, and the place was a shambles. I said he’d be all right, he’d sleeping it off somewhere like I’d said, but Angela wanted to give Jack Hayes a ring and ask him to check around. She had to do that before we left, she said, and then she’d know she’d done what she could.
‘Come inside with me,’ she said. ‘Please, Con. Just until I’ve rung Jack. I don’t like being in there by myself.’
I followed her in. She picked up the phone in the passage and I went into the kitchen. It’s on the south side of the house and gets no sun. The curtains were pulled across the windows, tattered and faded almost white in places and somehow, the cold and the gloom so got to me I jerked them open and they ripped apart in my hands. The stove and bench were thick with grease, the sink full of murky water and the table covered in newspapers.
Sitting on your arse reading that shit get that fucking wood cut up.
I’d wait for Angela outside.
I walked about trying to warm up in the sun. It was then that I heard the muffled, high-pitched hum coming from the wash-house. I opened the door. The flies and stink hit me.
The door to the lavatory gaped open. He was on the seat slumped against the back wall, his pants around his ankles. There was vomit and shit on the floor and his mouth hung open with his tongue swelling up from inside it, blue-black. His eyes stared right at me. I slammed the door shut and fell back against it and retched.
