THE LAST HIPPIE

a novel by

Philip Gillett

Chapter 1

'Do you want mushrooms?' 
I want lots of mushrooms,' Sammy says, jumping up and down and banging his teaspoon on the table. 
'Yours is coming. I'm talking to Jeremy.'
No answer.
'Jeremy.'
'What?'
‘Do you want mushrooms?' Sally repeats patiently as she gives their son his breakfast. Sammy's enthusiastic attempt to cut the toast sends one piece skidding off the plate, but his mother's attention is distracted by the way Jeremy is holding out the newspaper.
'Look at it.'
'I can't read it from here,' she tells him briskly as she saves a second triangle of toast from falling on the floor.
’I'm not asking you to read it.'
'Then what am I looking at it for?'
'They've changed the layout. Even the typeface is different.'
'You knew it was going to happen,' she points out, keeping a wary eye on the activities of their offspring.
'How should I know? I'm not privy to the loony decisions of the editor.'
'They trailed it last week.'
'I didn't seen anything.'
'That shows how carefully you read it.'
‘I was reading other things.
‘I liked to follow what Major’s doing even if you couldn’t care less.’
‘I haven’t got time to read it at breakfast.‘ 
'I'm thinking think twice about getting it .’
'Just because they change the layout?‘  
'I suppose we could go back to the Guardian.'
'I quite like the Daily Mail.‘ 
'No thanks.'
'Couldn't bear to be seen reading a tabloid, I suppose.' 
'A few years ago you wouldn't have been seen dead reading it.' 
'At least you wouldn't have to spread the pages all over the table.' 
'I only do that because you never have your breakfast till later.' 
'And when I want to look at the paper, it's covered in marmalade.' 
'That’s hardly fair.‘  
'You look through the pile in the shed and you'll find the arts pages stuck together with bits of Seville orange.' 
'Now you're fantasising.' 
Sally laughs, till Sammy's cry draws her attention to a piece of mushroom on toast lying sticky side down on the floor. 'You're the one who's fantasising,' she counters, peeling the mess off the vinyl. 
'Nonsense.' 
'I don't know why you bother with a plate when you always eat over the newspaper.' 
'The point is this was a perfectly good paper, so why change it?' 
'I don't know what you're making such a fuss about.' 
'It's the principle.' 
'What principle?' 
'Change for the sake of change.' 
'So much for the left-wing rebel.' 
'What are you talking about?' 
'I thought rebels always wanted to change things?' 
Jeremy shakes his head pityingly as one who sees beyond simplistic notions. 
'And I wish you'd clear the shed,' Sally continues. 'It's all very well saving newspapers for Friends of the Earth, but you never take them.' 
'I've been busy.' 
'You had the whole of the summer holidays.' 
'Why don't you take them?' 
'Because you said you would. Why are you so ratty this morning?' 
'When I can't even find the television page in the paper, it's hardly surprising.' 
The ping of the toaster distracts Sally before she can answer. While she is buttering fresh supplies of toast, Jeremy stares at the food Sammy is spearing around his plate. Creamed mushrooms have never been his favourite. Whole mushrooms are fine, especially when freshly gathered; so are chopped mushrooms. Irrationally so is mushroom soup. It is just the creamed variety which makes him feel nauseous. It resembles something next door's cat regurgitates on the lawn. He toys with the idea of telling Sally not to bother, but this will not go down well. He wishes he might follow Sammy's example and drop a few pieces on the floor. A more effective solution might be to secrete them in a plastic bag, but he doubts that he can do this without being observed and remarked upon by their offspring. 
They could be any upwardly mobile young couple, except that mobility is slower these days and Jeremy's students would not consider him young. He comforts himself with the thought that youth is a relative concept - it is flexibility of mind which keeps him young. He squeezes his eyes closed and opens them again, hoping to see his surroundings with the eyes of a stranger. The kitchen could only belong to a generation brought up on Habitat catalogues - the rural idyll of scrubbed pine and burnished brass transmuted into the more practical and economical pine veneer and stainless steel. Sometimes he has the uncomfortable feeling that a similar ambiguity runs through the whole of his life. 
* 
It used to be called the staff room, but Dr Hodgkinson, the recently-installed principal, prefers it to be known as the senior common room. When the revelation was made, somebody asked whether the canteen should henceforward be called the junior common room. Nobody laughed. 
In spite of its change of name the senior common room is not the intellectual powerhouse which Dr Hodgkinson envisaged. Its air of hopelessness and incredulity is not unusual on a Monday morning near the beginning of an academic year. The plants on the window sill are wilting, probably irredeemably. The saucers beneath them are dry and dusty - receptacles for dead flies and cigarette ends. Mr Wheeler (economics) coughs over what is unlikely to be his first cigarette of the day. Mrs Wilberforce (French) is knitting as far from the drifting cigarette smoke as she can contrive, breaking off occasionally to fan imaginary smoke and glare at her tormentor. Jeremy surveys the familiar scene, his spirits sinking as they always do after the relative elation of the weekend. 
'Good morning,' Mrs Wilberforce greets him in the carefully enunciated tones of one beginning a passage of dictation. Jeremy nods regally, not being able to think of anything to say which will save him from becoming embroiled in a discussion about the weather. Fortunately, Mr Wheeler's determination to smoke as many cigarettes as possible before work begins leads to a bout of coughing which precludes conversation. 
Jeremy's spirits are raised by the entrance of Ms Sibley (sociology). She is new to the teaching staff. He fancies Andrea Sibley. Bodies like hers deserve adoration. He smiles, giving his best impression of a man of the world, but she is too preoccupied with transferring her plastic cup from one hand to the other to notice. She puts it down thankfully on the Formica-covered table, introducing an impressive addition to the array of rings and stains left from last term. 
'Bugger.' 
'Want a tissue?' 
'It's okay.' She produces one from her bag. 
'Try wrapping one round the cup before you pick it up,' Jeremy advises. 
'Too late now.' 
He follows her gaze. A wet trail leads across the floor to the door, as though an incontinent cat has been on the prowl. 
'Good morning,' Mrs Wilberforce repeats in tones identical to those she used to welcome Jeremy. Andrea smiles so radiantly in acknowledgement that even Mr Wheeler looks tempted to greet her were it not for the onset of another coughing fit. His powers of survival are worthy of awe. When Jeremy joined the college staff, he was convinced that Mr Wheeler was not long for this world. That was five years ago. Five years. Jeremy's first students have moved on to greater (or probably lesser) things, while he attempts to inculcate the same facts in their successors. The realisation slips unbidden and unwelcome into his mind, as it often does on Monday mornings: the best years of his life are slipping away. The post which was meant to be his stepping stone to greater things has become a millstone, dragging him down. His eyes stray to Andrea again. As usual she is wearing jeans and a sweater, both equally tight. Erotic images steal unbidden into his mind. He savours the heady mix of guilt and excitement. After being faithful to Sally since their student days it is a novel experience to want somebody else. The annoying thing is that in Andrea's presence, he feels as nervous as an adolescent. 
'Well, well, well,' he says heartily, rubbing his hands and knowing that he must come across as a bad actor in a drawing room comedy. Before he is tempted into making more crass remarks, he turns his attention to the view from the window. Litter fills the bowl of the waterless fountain. In the centre rises a graffiti-daubed sculpture erected in the days of civic munificence in the seventies. The only redeeming feature of the scene is the shoal of female students heading towards the college. They too inspire Jeremy to erotic thoughts. He turns away guiltily, only to find his gaze drawn to Andrea again. This time he does refrain from rubbing his hands, though he cannot stop himself from smiling inanely. 
'Getting on all right?' he asks. 
Andrea looks surprised by his concern, but she agrees that all is going well. 
'Good, good.' He nods encouragingly. 'Managing to keep the mob in order?' 
'It's more about holding their interest, isn't it - so they don't have time to be bored.' 
Andrea, he deduces, is still keen. He has seen others start the same way. He might have been like it himself. After two years disillusion festers. He turns the word 'fester' over in his mind. It is an appropriate term, reminding him of what happened to his toe after he cut it on the beach when he was eight. Mental festering is more subtle, but equally unpleasant. After two years people flee the college, except for survivors like Mrs Wilberforce and those who are too apathetic to do anything else, like Mr Wheeler - or himself. By a feat of imagination, he tries to visualise Mr Wheeler as a keen young teacher. It has been rumoured that the senior common room's oldest inhabitant taught in the college in the days before it moved to its present site. It had a uniform then - a college scarf was displayed in the twenty-fifth anniversary exhibition. Jeremy can imagine the jeers which would follow any attempt to impose a uniform on the present generation of students. In principle he applauds rebellion, though the expedient part of him likes the idea of students who do what they're told. The thought of a class ranged before him in regulation blazers is mind-boggling. 
'How's the coffee?' he asks. 
Andrea pulls a face. 'Terrible.' 
'It always is. I'd stick to the soup if I were you.' 
'I bring a flask of tea,' Mrs Wilberforce informs them. 
Jeremy cannot imagine Andrea preparing a flask of coffee every morning, however strong her distaste for the offerings of the vending machine. The practice belongs to an older generation - like Mrs Wilberforce and widows who go on afternoon coach outings clutching greaseproof packages of cucumber sandwiches with no crusts. Another sort of outing preoccupies him - getting Andrea to the pub one lunchtime. His first two overtures have been rebuffed, but hope is not extinguished. He remembers his exhilaration on discovering her first name. Andrea - the word conjures the fantasy of a Nordic beauty which is not quite appropriate. He has to admit that her hair is more mousy than blonde. Her face might be called sculptured or gaunt according to the angle of the light, so that a shift of position makes her seem a different person. That infinite variation excites him. He loves the way she can gaze at the world from over those high cheek bones with a look of disdain. And she has great tits. 
Unfortunately fantasies cannot last for ever. He watches the clock on the wall behind her as the hands approach nine. 
'Time to face the lions,' he announces to the others, expecting no gratitude. It saddens him to see them meekly putting aside their comforters - the cigarettes, the knitting and the half-empty cup of coffee. The new regime has made them docile. Dr Hodgkinson is keen on punctuality. As he has made clear on several occasions, nine o'clock is the time to begin work, not the time to arrive. It is a notion which has found little favour with lecturers who brave breakfasts with growing families before facing traffic jams on the ring road. Jeremy's preference is to arrive several minutes late, so that his first class is already assembled. Alas the old relaxed days have gone for ever without so much as a token protest from the union, though in common with other members of staff he obeys the letter of the dictate rather than its spirit - if he never arrives in his classroom late, at least he makes a point of never arriving early. 
One minute to nine and the corridors are crowded with students who have also ignored the dictate, or are unaware of its existence. Jeremy enjoys the bustle and the cacophony. They give him a sense of superiority over the students as he makes his stately progress along the thronged corridors and staircases. An incidental pleasure is being close enough to the girls to savour their scents, their flashing eyes and the dancing buttocks all at the same time. Sometimes the sensations are so overpowering that all thought of seniority is banished and he is transported back to his own student days in a miasma of lust - except that students were idealistic then and talked about politics rather than Neighbours. 
On this Monday a handful of students are already in their seats when Jeremy gets to his room. He hesitates to call them keen. More a matter of luck, he suspects. None of the girls is amongst them. He thumps his case on the desk, trying to contain his disappointment. The week has begun. 
Dr Hodgkinson believes that all students should be remembered by name, though fortunately he never specified when such knowledge should be attained. Jeremy feels that the second week of the autumn term is much too early. He gives a curt nod to those present. They pay no attention, being engrossed in an argument about the football match on television the previous evening. The pleasures of football have passed Jeremy by. In his schooldays he was proclaimed by the sports master to be the most inept footballer in the school, which was an accurate if damming assessment. In the weekly ordeal of picking teams for games lessons he was always the one left till last, his classmates being of the same opinion as the games master. 
Jeremy switches off from the conversation as he does whenever sport appears on television. He sits, staring glumly at his surroundings. They are not conducive to a lifting of the spirits. In the early seventies the college was doubtless a showpiece of modernity, which only serves to emphasise its decline over the ensuing years. The walls and ceiling have been discoloured by time and by a thousand illicit cigarettes. The windows have not been cleaned for a term as a result of cutbacks, but as they only give a view of  the car park this is no great hardship. Rust is eating into the window frames, much to the concern of colleagues in the department of construction, who utter dire prophesies of windows crashing into the car park. Jeremy always makes a point of parking well away from the building, just in case. He dreams of the end of term, which is always an ominous sign early in October. And how many terms are there to come? The thought makes him groan. He sympathises with Hercules in his labours. 
'Are you all right?' asks a female voice. 
He looks up. Two girls who have slipped into the front row are looking at him with concern. 
'Fine,' he assures them, nodding vigorously to reassure himself as much as his audience. The girls look unconvinced, but he does not mind. What lightens his mood is their concern. Any contact with girls is life-affirming. Perhaps he will not end up like Mr Wheeler, kept going by endless cigarettes and the imminent prospect of retirement. The room fills; the buzz of conversation swells as though Jeremy is eavesdropping on a beehive. He gazes at his unruly audience, hoping to rekindle the zeal for imparting knowledge which marked his first term. The attempt fails miserably, as always. His favourite student is not there. She is the only one of the group to linger in his mind. She is long-limbed, with glorious blonde hair which she tosses back when she laughs, so that it resembles threads of gold thrown in the air. And he knows her name, which should please Dr Hodgkinson. Tracey. She reminds him of a girl from his youth. Then the earth did move; and mercifully she was not called Tracey. Attractive girls should never be called Tracey. Her name was Juliet, which was more appropriate. He has a vision of her sitting in the garden of a country pub and looking virginal in a white dress. Did that really occur, or is the romantic patina of memory playing tricks on him? 
Reluctantly he drags his thoughts back to the present. If not eager for wisdom, the majority of his class is at least present. He beams, or rather he beams at the girls, while deciding which one will be the focus of his attention. His practice, evolved by experience and without the endorsement of any training course, is to teach one person and hope that the others are duly inspired. He looks for the most attractive girl in the absence of the lovely Tracey. His gaze alights on a pert blonde in the second row. He did not notice her arrival. She has knowing eyes. He suspects that she is well aware of the fact and uses them to advantage. She could have stepped from a chewing gum advertisement. When he observes her closely, he notices that she is indeed chewing gum. Only her clothes are a disappointment. Why does a girl with what looks like a good figure wear a shapeless top? Looking at her similarly dressed companions, he has to conclude that although college uniform may be consigned to history, young people remain conformists at heart - so long as they are left to choose what they conform to. 
'Tick yourselves - and make sure you put it in the right column,' he orders, leaning across his desk to give the register to the nearest student. Despite the bursar's strictures, he likes to delegate this tiresome task. A disadvantage is that it takes him longer to learn his students' names, which would not meet with Dr Hodgkinson's approval. More importantly he does not know the name of his chosen girl. He tries to see which line she ticks, but in vain. 
'Can we think about the Victorian working classes?' he booms, enjoying that rare moment of power as conversation dies and attention focuses on him. 'The Victorian working classes,' he repeats at a lower volume and more slowly, for the benefit of those few students intent on writing his every utterance. 'I suppose the first question is how we define the working classes.' 
Nobody takes the bait. He smiles encouragingly at his chosen girl, but without result. He hopes she will not turn out to be thick. It is one of the perennial disappointments of his work to discover that fate has thrown a joker into the intricacies of natural selection by making the most attractive girl one who remains unaware of irony, sarcasm or wit. 
'We're not quite so obsessed with class these days, but the Victorian class structure was rigid in the extreme - upper-class aristocracy, upper-middle-class professionals, lower-middle-class office workers and shopkeepers, and at the bottom of the heap the working classes.' 
Is he overemphasising the rigidity, he wonders, thinking of the clogs to clogs sagas of popular fiction which historians are taught to despise. And have things really changed when every street on his way home can be classified by class? 
'So it's clear that occupation was crucial in defining class,' he continues, casting aside his doubts. 'Working-class jobs were the dirty, dangerous and monotonous ones. We can see a pattern emerging of low income associated with poor housing which had to be near the place of work because there wasn't the time or the money for travelling.' 
Workmen's trains with their cheap fares contradict this notion, but he decides not to spoil the rhetoric for the sake of inconvenient facts, however much this runs counter to his training. Anyway, none of his students is likely to appreciate the ambiguities of the Victorian class structure. 
'So we can define the working class by its work, its income, its housing and the culture which it fostered,' he continues, counting the points on his fingers and hoping nobody notices that an extra point has entered his reiteration. 'Can you think of any examples of working class culture?' He beams encouragingly at his chosen girl. She looks blank. In despair, his gaze ranges over the assembled company, to be confronted by more blank expressions. Why are Monday mornings always the same? 
'How do you mean?' asks an acne-ridden youth. 
'Things which were part of working class life, like hunting was part of upper-class culture. Can you think of any?' 
'The tele?' a fat girl in the second row suggests. 
'The Victorians didn't have tele,' the girl beside her says scornfully. 
'When did it start then?' a youth at the back wants to know. 
'My mum remembers not having a tele,' comes another voice.
'How old's your mum?' 
'Thirty-eight.' 
'My dad's older than that and he remembers watching when he was a kid.' 
Faces are turned to Jeremy for an authoritative verdict. 
'It became popular in the nineteen fifties,' the guru pronounces. 
'Was that Victorian?' 
He groans inwardly before going on to explain, 'Victoria lived in the nineteenth century.' 
'Why is this called the twentieth century if we're in the nineteen-nineties?' 
Faces blur. He yearns for an uncomplicated working class occupation like sweeping the streets. 
'How do you know what it was like a hundred years ago? You wasn't there, was you?' 
He closes his eyes, reflecting that if there is a God, he must be laughing. 
'Was you?' 
‘I wasn't there a hundred years ago, that's quite right,' he agrees. 'I happen to know something about the Victorians because I spent three years immersing myself in what they did for my degree. That's how you find out about any period. That's what I'm trying to instil in you - a feeling for history.' 
'But if you wasn't there, somebody could feed you a load of balls for three years and you'd be none the wiser, would you?' 
'We go back to that are called primary sources,' explains Jeremy, who has asked himself the same question in his darker moments. He looks at the puzzled faces with satisfaction. This is what teaching should be about - bringing illumination to those sorely in need. 'A primary source,' he continues, 'is something produced or used at the time. You study the tools people used, their diaries, their accounts and so on.' 
'How do you know they're not forged?' 
This was another question which used to worry him. 
'Skill,' he answers with confidence. 'You develop skills in handling documents just as you might have skills in woodworking or car repairing.' 
'But if the people who were teaching you did the forging, they wouldn't tell you, would they?' 
'That's why you have to develop skills.' 
The world of the Victorian working class, where insecurity, squalor and disease were the only legacies parents could bestow. He imagines narrow alleys fetid with sewerage - the playground of children who were probably alive with fleas and lice and riddled with consumption. Once he longed to know that world rather than to experience it at second hand through books. These days if a time capsule landed in his garden to whisk him back a hundred years, he would be more likely to hide indoors until it went away. He smiles at the sea change. Lecturer grows old and becomes detached from his subject. 
'Hands up those who've read a book in the last month - a novel, not a textbook.'
No hands go up. 
'Or played a piano?'
A predictable silence. 
'Those were the sort of things your great-grandparents might have done to entertain themselves.' It occurs to him that these activities have more to do with middle-class culture, but he sweeps on with his thesis. 'How about football? Did anybody go to a football match over the weekend?' 
Two hands go up in the back row. 
'Organised sport developed in the late nineteenth century, so that was another aspect of working class culture. How about going to a pub - anybody do that?' 
More than half the hands go up. Jeremy nods sagely at this sign of incipient decadence and reflects that he must have done something more than go to pubs in his youth. Most of these kids are too young to buy alcohol legally. 
'Pubs as we know them were a Victorian invention.’ He pauses for the gasps of amazement which do not come. ‘What other things do you do in the evenings?' he continues, intrigued by this serendipitous glimpse into his students' lives. 
Sniggers from the back row. 
'Go down the disco,' his chosen one ventures. 
‘Ah - the disco.‘ He beams encouragingly, remembering the last occasion when he visited one. He was turned away for being improperly dressed. 
'Did the Victorians have discos?' asks a girl with spots. 
'Most certainly not.' 
Surprised expressions. 
'Discos are pretty new. When do you think the first one opened?' 
'Seventy years ago?' another girl hazards. 
'Not as long as that. I went to the first disco in this town soon after it opened.' 
The stunned silence which greets his remark convinces Jeremy that he has stumbled upon the key to holding the class's attention. Whether the interest signifies surprise at the recent appearance discos, or confirmation of his decrepitude, he is not sure. 
'Victorian working class culture was obviously something different to what we have today,' he sums up, wondering how the rest of history might be transformed into a living experience. A museum visit? Too sanitised. A trip to some northern working town with mills not yet converted to heritage interpretation centres or graphic arts studios? He doubts whether such a thing exists. The notion of exposing his apathetic charges to the real thing gives him a tingle of sadistic pleasure. Working in a factory for twelve hours a day and walking home to a house with no central heating, no electricity and no bathroom, to sit down to a dinner of mushy peas and potato might give them a healthy respect for their Victorian forefathers. 
'In some ways it was a richer culture,' he continues. 
The faces look unconvinced. 
'Can you think of how this distinctive working class culture came into being?'       
Nobody can. 
'Urbanisation is the key word here. Can you tell me what urbanisation means?' 
Nobody admits to knowing. 
'The town as opposed to the country. Before the industrial revolution, most people lived and worked in the country. The only towns were market towns and ports. What changed all that was the factory system. Factories needed lots of cheap labour, houses were built nearby for the workers, so you get this new pattern of urban life evolving. And there's the legacy.' He gestures to the window. His audience gazes obediently towards the sprawl of streets beyond the car park. 'This town grew in the nineteenth century like a lot of others.' 
The revelation causes no ripple of interest. He had only faint hopes that it would. While his arm is outstretched, he takes the opportunity to look surreptitiously at his watch. Twenty past nine. Time is supposed to gather momentum with advancing age; on Monday mornings, the opposite always happens. 
'So in the nineteenth century, we have the growth of towns, with life revolving around the workplace,' he summarises. 'At the same time we had a genuinely working class culture developing. What do you think life was like for the factory worker?' 
'Bloody awful,' one youth suggests. 
'Why do you say that?' 
'They didn't have cars.' 
As Jeremy's hopes of introducing questing minds to the world of the past have long since been dashed, the answer does not throw him into a fit of depression. The structured lectures which he used to prepare with such care have long been abandoned in favour of skirting every abyss of ignorance as it presents itself and clutching at any flicker of interest. He continues unperturbed, 'So we've established that they had no cars, no television and no discos. What else didn't they have that we take for granted?' 
As the silence lengthens, his gaze drifts to the window again. He can remember watching the multi-storey office blocks being built when he was a child and marvelling at their height. The monuments to the council's flirtation with high-rise housing stand further away, beside the inner ring road which cut a swathe through the huddle of shops. For him these things are still intrusions on his mental map; his students know nothing different. 
'No electricity,' he prompts, 'and no gas in the early days. Where it was laid on, it was only for lighting. No mains water until quite late, no watches, no bicycles, no plastics, no telephones, no frozen food and hardly any tinned food.' 
The eyes of those members of his class who are paying attention grow large in amazement. 
'All the things we take for granted. What we mustn't do is to see Victorian life through late-twentieth-century eyes. They didn't have the things we've been talking about, so they didn't feel deprived. Imagine people in a hundred years time looking back on us and thinking about how deprived our lives are because we don't have space travel or telephones with built-in videos.' 
He scans the faces of his audience for some sign that they have understood his analogy. None is forthcoming. The flame of excitement in teaching which burnt brightly for an instant splutters and dies. He sneaks another look at his watch - not halfway through the lesson. 
'Can you think of any areas of Victorian housing around here?' 
Nobody can. 
'You don't know of any?' he perseveres, marvelling at such ignorance of familiar territory. 'How about something from the nineteen thirties?' 
The students give pitying smiles. 
'We weren't around then,' one calls. 
'I know that, but lots of buildings from the thirties are. Can't you think of one?' he pleads. 
'The library?' one girl suggests. 
'That's Edwardian. We're lucky to have a lot of splendid Edwardian buildings - can you think of another one? Any building in the same style as the library.' 
The girl shakes her head. 
'Anybody else?' He surveys the sea of faces, surprised that he is still capable of so much hope. 'Don't you ever look at your surroundings? Don't you ever get curious about them?' 
Nobody does. 
'It don't really matter when places were built, does it?' comes a voice from the back. 
Jeremy stares out the window ever more longingly. What he is doing could be construed as a challenge. If only it seemed less like a penance. 
 * 
Coffee in the morning break might be instant, but at least it is freshly made with the electric kettle thoughtfully provided by Mr Sanders (mathematics). Jeremy clasps his mug and wonders where intellectual curiosity has gone. Such is his concern that he consults Alf Bell (geography) in preference to his usual attempt to win Andrea's attention. Alf laughs, slopping coffee over his jeans. 
'If you expect to find intellectual curiosity in this place, you must be off your trolley.' 
Jeremy acknowledges this as a possibility. 
'They wouldn't recognise intellectual curiosity if it buggered them,' Alf declares, brushing crumbs from his whiskers like a rabbit preening itself. 
'Such is the generation we've spawned.' 
‘You didn't do it all yourself, so don't feel too guilty.' 
 'Don't you feel curious about the places you pass through every day?' 
 'It's funny you should ask that.' 
 'Why?' 
 'I was thinking on the way to work this morning - this is such a God-awful town, there's nothing about it to make you curious. You want to close your eyes to blot it out, only you can't when you're driving.' 
 'Thanks.' 
 'You did ask.' 
 'I thought I could count on you as a geographer to show a keen awareness of your environment.' 
 'And instead I'm as bad as the cretins.‘ Alf displays his whiskers. ‘How are they?’  
 'They look all right to me.' 
 'That's the trouble with cream horns - messy things.' 
 'So I notice.' 
 'Can't be helped - you need a little treat on a Monday.' 
 'You think?' 
 'Essential if you want to keep sane. You've got that shell-shocked look already.' 
 'I didn't think it showed.' 
 'You've had the first year, haven't you - all the comprehensive school dropouts still trying to work out what education's about.' 
 'I think they've switched off their minds.' 
 'It's called the Monday morning blues,' Alf diagnoses. 'You'll be happier once you get the hairdressers doing their general studies - all those nubile little scrubbers in short skirts giving you the eye. Enough fantasising there to keep you going for the rest of the week.' 
 'Can you think of an Edwardian building?' 
 Alf scratches his whiskers again. 'Is this some sort of quiz?' 
 'An Edwardian building in this town,' Jeremy prompts. 
 'The library.' 
 'And a Victorian building?' 
 'The railway station.' 
 'How about a nineteen thirties one?' 
 'The Odeon. Do I get a prize at the end of this?' 
 'You didn't have to think about it.' 
 'Is this what you've been asking the cretins?' 
 'I wanted to find out whether they noticed their surroundings.' 
 'They know their way from McDonalds to the disco - other than that, you might as well give up.' 
 'You're talking balls,' Andrea says, attracted by their conversation. 
 Jeremy watches appreciatively, aware of that quickening of the pulse which her nearness always generates. He reflects that talking to Alf was the best move he could have made. Andrea loves the intellectual rigour of a debate. He should have thought of it before. 
 'Why do you have to be so dismissive of students?' she asks. 
 'Habit,' Alf assures her. 
 'Isn't it our job to make them more aware?' 
 'Not if it isn't in the syllabus.' 
 'Surely it's what teaching should be about.' 
 'Not these days. You don’t find anything in the National Curriculum about being aware.' 
 'Don't you want to change things?' she rounds on Jeremy. 
 'It's not as easy as that,' he demurs, wary of offending her. 
 'I heard what you were saying about architecture. Why ask them something you knew they wouldn't be able to answer?' 
 'I didn't know when I asked it.' 
 'Who's going to teach them about architectural styles if we don't?' 
 Jeremy concedes the point. 
 'If they can't write graffiti all over it, they're not interested,' Alf assures her.      'You've seen their handiwork in the bogs, haven't you? Total absence of artistic talent and appalling spelling. That's if the girls' ones are the same as ours.' 
 'They've never been taught!' Andrea insists. 
 'They've been taught to spell. What you mean is they've never bothered to learn.' 
 'If you want them to know about architecture, why don't you teach them?' she persists, looking at Jeremy. 
 'We do what we can,' Alf answers before Jeremy can think of anything to say. 
 'They were written off by the time they got to comprehensives. If everybody keeps saying you're thick, you end up believing it.' 
 'It could be that they are,' Alf points out. 
 'All I can say is that I find them responsive.' 
 Jeremy imagines Andrea being responsive. The prospect is enticing. The learning difficulties of students slip to the back of his mind. 
 'What's it matter?' Alf asks, getting up to refill his mug. 'We teach what we're paid to teach and all the theories go out the window.' 
Andrea looks contemptuous. When Alf has moved out of range, she turns to Jeremy. Her brow is furrowed. Jeremy raises his eyebrows in a gesture of helpless complicity which seems appropriate for one concerned liberal to another. 
'Does he really believe that?' she asks, taking Alf's chair. 
'He likes to wind people up,' Jeremy explains, trying to concentrate on the conversation rather than on Andrea's closeness. 
'I wondered about that.' 
'Anyway, how are you getting on?' he asks as an old stager showing an interest in a newcomer. 
'Okay,' she agrees, looking surprised at this abrupt change of tack. 
'Good, good.' He has a nasty feeling that this conversation is following the same course as their last one. He promises himself to find some fresh conversational gambits. 
'They're really responsive.' 
That word again. All sorts of things happen to him when she insists on repeating it. He nods in agreement - it is the only safe response which he can manage. 
'One thing,' she cautions, lowering her voice. 'I'm worried about hidden bias.'    
'Always a problem,' he agrees, wishing he knew what she is talking about. She leans so close that for an ecstatic moment he thinks she is going to kiss him. He can see the golden hairs above her upper lip. 
'I mean in here,' she mouths. 'Look around.' 
Jeremy looks around, hoping for some clue as to what he is supposed to see. 
'Almost all men,' she explains. 
He gazes around, seeing the senior common room with new eyes. Alf, threading his way back with a second mug of coffee, gives him a sympathetic look.   
'Indigestion?' 
'No - I'm fine.' 
Andrea draws away, much to Jeremy's regret, and announces, 'I'm introducing students to feminist literature.'  
Alf stares at her. 'You what?' 
'I'm surprised nobody else has done it.' 
'Better not tell the commandant.' 
She looks puzzled. 
'Our revered principal,' Alf explains. 'He doesn't like people straying from the syllabus.' 
‘ I'm less interested in artistic merit than the image of woman that's being portrayed. I'd say that's central to sociology.' 
 'You convince him of that.' 
 'He's welcome to sit in.' 
 'He'll do that anyway.' 
 Andrea looks momentarily disconcerted. 
 'Likes to make sure his staff are up to the mark,' Alf explains. 'I shouldn't get the cretins onto feminist literature when he's there - some of them can hardly read.' 
 'They were the ones who suggested it.' 
 'The blokes think it means girlie mags. The girls think you're talking about how to get a man.' 
 'How can you be so narrow minded?' 
 'Comes with experience.' 
 Jeremy loses track of the argument as he is mesmerised by the sight of an angry Andrea. He watches her breasts heaving with indignation and he lusts. 
 'If you can get them to read a betting slip, you're doing well,' Alf advises. 
 'If you find that, perhaps it's your approach.' 
 'I have known them longer than you.' 
 Andrea's flashing eyes focus on Jeremy, much to his alarm and delight. 'What do you think?' 
 'Ah.' He tries to formulate an answer which will not antagonise either party. Unfortunately he cannot help being distracted by the way Andrea’s neck goes red when she is angry. He is intrigued to know what her partner is like. for she must have a partner. He has toyed with the notion of inviting the pair of them to dinner in order to see for himself - except that Andrea and Sally belong to different parts of his life and instinct warns him to keep them separate. Anyway it is not the moment to broach the idea of a dinner party to Sally - her moods are too unpredictable for him to be sure of a favourable response. 
 'This is pointless,' Andrea announces. She gets up abruptly, mug in hand. Jeremy watches her going to the kettle, his adoration growing deeper with every tilt of her buttocks. 
 'You weren't much help,' Alf complains, taking the opportunity to reclaim his chair. 
 'I was trying to keep the peace.' 
 'You mean you want to dip your wick, so you daren't upset her.' 
 'I don't mean anything of the kind.' 
 'God help her husband. Can you imagine feminist strictures over the cornflakes?' 
 Jeremy thinks he might put up with it. 
 'She is attractive,' he points out in mitigation. 
 'She's bursting out in all the right departments, but that's hardly unique.' 
 'And she's keen.' 
 'For the moment. Give her another term and she'll be as cynical as the rest of us.'     
 'Why do we stay here?' 
 'Because we've got nowhere else to go and we need the money.' 
 'Brutal but true.' 
 'Getting tempted to move on?' 
 'I'm always tempted.' 
 'Should we start collecting for your leaving present?' 
 'When I was facing them this morning, I asked myself what am I doing this for?'    
 'Did you find an answer?' 
 'No. You never do with rhetorical questions.' 
 'I'd steer clear of them, my old mate. They bugger you up.' 
 'What makes those kids tick?' 
 'Coke, sex, big Macs and the occasional illegal substance.' 
 'Were we like that?' 
 Alf considers the point. 'It's a long while ago now. I expect we were.' 
 'We asked questions.' 
 'That's your intellectual curiosity showing. We've decided the cretins haven't got any.' 
 'There was a sense of going somewhere.' 
 'Nepal if you felt adventurous, London if you didn't.' 
 'We had ideals.' 
 'Ah - ideals.' A faraway look comes into Alf's eyes. 'I remember ideals. First you lost your virginity. then your freedom. By the time you’ve got a wife and a mortgage, all your ideals go out the window. There must be a graveyard somewhere full of things waiting to be rediscovered by another generation.' 
 Jeremy watches Andrea surreptitiously. She stands on her own. clutching her mug and staring moodily out the window. He admires somebody whose ideals remain intact. 
 'Days of demos, protest songs and looking forward to the latest Pink Floyd album,' Alf recalls. 'Great times.' 
 ‘Great times‘, Jeremy agrees, remembering that he had settled into the ordered ways grammar school life when pictures of the Paris riots appeared on television. After that the sense of change could not be ignored, even in deepest suburbia. 
 'Remember the clothes?' Alf continues now the floodgates of nostalgia have been opened. 'You had to have the right gear to show you were with it.' 
 'I remember at school there was always one guy in the class who kept to turn-ups and Oxford shoes with the sensible toecaps.' 
 'What sticks in my mind are those big floral kipper ties - suburban kids' psychedelia. I really wanted one of those. My older brother had one - I used to borrow it without telling him. When I got ink on it, I thought he was going to kill me.' 
 'A few years older and we'd have been in the heady days of flower power.' 
 'Then there was the poetry. Every town had somebody producing an alternative magazine on a duplicating machine. Most of them never got past the first issue, but who cared?' 
 'Did you read them?' 
 'Read them?' Alf exclaims in a voice which is loud enough to attract Andrea's attention. 'You're talking to the Allen Ginsberg of the sixth form.' 
 Jeremy contemplates the amazing fact that they are talking of a time before Andrea was born. His thoughts go back to poetry readings in his student days in Liverpool. His abiding memory is of copious bad poetry made bearable by pints of bitter in the smoke-filled upstairs rooms of pubs. The in place was a tiny pub surviving amongst derelict houses close by the Anglican cathedral. It was rumoured that Adrian Henri went there, but Jeremy never saw him. 
 'Then I gave it up,' Alf finishes. 'Pressing matters like A-levels to worry about. These days kids don't bother with things like magazines and poetry. No money in it.' 
 'Were they ever supposed to pay?' 
 'That's how things have changed, you see. 'In those days you lived up to your creative ideals. Once they're gone, there's only money left. That’s what the Thatcherite revolution taught us - if you can't put a price on it, chop it. Isn't that right?' Alf appeals to Andrea, who has been drawn closer again to listen to the conversation. 'Do I detect a closet scribbler?' 
Andrea suddenly looks suddenly coy. 'I've written some poetry.' 
'Let's see it.' 
'Yes, bring it along,' Jeremy agrees, intrigued by this unexpected side of Ms Sibley. 
'Are you going to bring yours?' she counters. 
They were penned in the privacy of his bed-sit, with local radio drowning the cacophony from his fellow students. His thoughts go back to lunchtimes spent browsing amongst poetry pamphlets in radical bookshops, as he tried to generate enough confidence to submit his own efforts. Alas, those evenings of white-hot creativity spawned nothing worthy of the most desperate editor's attention. 
'Might be difficult,' he cautions, trying to remember whether his poems suffered the same fate as his lecture notes. There was so much to bring home after he graduated. Something had to go. 
'I wrote a poem about Kennedy,' Alf recalls. 'Everybody did - it was still in the communal consciousness years after.' 
Andrea looks interested. 
'Looking back after the Vietnam War and Watergate, we thought the assassination was a watershed,' Alf explains. 'The end of innocence - even if Kennedy was a randy old sod. Most original title - Elegy to JFK.  Very proud of it, I was. Don't know what happened to it, mind you.' 
All Jeremy's efforts had a Pre-Raphaelite obsession with beautiful girls and unfulfilled love. On looking back he is glad that they were never revealed to the public. 
'The other thing that everybody wrote was a protest poem,' Alf continues. 'The Bomb was the issue which sorted out the goodies from the rest. We had our annual pilgrimage to Aldermaston. Great stuff.' 
Jeremy remembers, though he never got as far as joining those Easter marches. His mother wouldn't let him. Fortunately nostalgia has not taken such a hold that he fails to notice the time. Three minutes to the end of break, when the bell will summon faithful seekers after knowledge back to the classroom. Dr Hodgkinson is keen on bells, even though they are redolent of school rather than the intellectual powerhouse to which he aspires. Jeremy makes for the kettle before Mr Sanders locks it away. Soon he will be back amongst the cretins.

Chapter 2

As befits a new age couple, Sally and Jeremy eat brown rice with their mung bean curry. Sammy, who refuses all exotic food, grapples with fish fingers and chips. Jeremy watches enviously, as one denied such simple pleasures. He toys with his food, wondering how to broach the topic which preoccupies him.
‘You're quiet,' Sally observes, unwittingly giving him the ideal introduction.
'Things on my mind.'
'I gathered that.'
'I was thinking today - do I want to stay at the college for the rest of my working life?'
'And what did you conclude?' Sally asks without much surprise.
'That I didn't.'
'Amazing.'
Her sarcasm makes him think that he would have done better to keep quiet.
'We have this discussion at the start of every year for the past three years,' she points out, making him certain of his error. 'Usually it's in the first week, so perhaps you're really liking things better.'
'I'm certainly not liking things.'
'Then look around for something else.'
'I think I shall.'
'Bearing in mind that your age counts against you.' 
'Thank you.' 
'You can't ignore it, especially if you're after a university post.' 
'I'm not trying to.' 
'This is where we always get to.' 
'I'm trying to talk it through with you. I thought that was what you wanted us to do - talk about things.' 
'Don't spit rice over Sammy.' 
'You weren't at the college this morning.' 
'What happened?' 
He shakes his head. 'I don't want to go into all the details, but it's grinding me down, Sally.' 
'I remember you getting this job. You were over the moon.' 
'That was five years ago. Things have changed.' 
'Or you've changed.' 
'Perhaps.' 
'So what did happen this morning?' 
He hesitates. 'Nothing specific.' 
'So all this is because nothing specific happened?' 
'It was more that I had a particularly thick group of students. I might as well have stood in the car park and lectured to the birds. At the end of the session we were looking at each other and all I could think was, "What am I doing this for?"' 
'You don't have to be a lecturer to think that.' 
'It's the prospect of doing it every working day for the rest of my life that bugs me.' 
'So what are you going to do about it?' 
Jeremy broods, turning over those thoughts which usually come to him in the small hours. 
`You know you've tried everywhere else,' Sally continues remorselessly. 
Jeremy knows. Those lunch hours in the library scanning the Times Higher Education Supplement were followed by marking sessions devoted to drafting letters and loitering near the college photocopier to copy his c.v. when nobody was looking. The result of his efforts was an inexplicable silence. Cambridge showed no interest; neither did Oxford, nor any university from St Andrews to Exeter. After that the impetus was lost. Three months of heart-thumping expectation as the post fell on the mat each morning gave way to grave suspicion of the postman. The last round of applications yielded one ray of hope: Hong Kong Polytechnic promised to keep his name on file should any future vacancies occur. 
'Don't fancy Hong Kong, I suppose?' he ventures. 
'We can't afford a holiday like that, Jeremy.' 
'I wasn't thinking of a holiday.' 
'Then what are you talking about?' 
'Nothing. Just me nattering on. I like the rice.' 
Sally looks puzzled. 'It's the same as we always have. Sometimes I think you never notice what you eat.' 
'It's got a nutty taste.' 
'It's got ground nuts in it.' She hesitates, watching him. 'You haven't done anything silly, have you?' 
'What do you mean - silly?' 
'Like giving in your notice.' 
'No - not yet.' 
'Then don't. Are you listening, Jeremy?' 
Jeremy puts down his fork. 'We've got to watch ourselves.' 
'Gnomic utterance time.' 
'We're sinking into something I don't like very much.' 
'It's called middle age.' 
Jeremy frowns. Age is a word he tries to avoid, along with talk of pensions and greying hair. Aging is for other people. 
‘It's called being complacent,' he explains.  
'I don't know what's wrong with that.' 
'You give up struggling.' 
'What's so marvellous about struggling for the sake of it? I know you like to do everything the hard way. If you wanted to go to the States, you'd go by rowing boat.'
'A slight exaggeration.' 
'What about you and your walking holidays?' 
The walking holidays have been a focus of criticism since Jeremy proposed them as a green alternative to package holidays in Greece. Their visit to the Lake District took place in what proved to be the wettest August on record. Apart from complaining about the weather, Sally complained about the impracticality of taking Sammy on a walking holiday and about her sore feet. Jeremy made a point of not complaining about his blisters. The twisted ankle which kept him in a hotel for the last three days came as an unexpected but merciful relief. 
Sammy's demands for more fish fingers provide a fortunate distraction. Jeremy toys with his rice, musing on that perennial dilemma of whether it is better to eat curry with a spoon or a fork. He looks longingly at the last of the fish fingers which Sammy is smothering with tomato ketchup. 
'Sometimes I think I've got two children in the house,' Sally observes, following his gaze. 
Jeremy tries to eat, but food has lost its appeal. 
'You seem to think you're still twenty,' Sally complains. 
'That's better than being middle aged.' 
'Is it?' 
'Unless you want to settle down to knitting and watching Max Bygraves on the tele.' 
'It's better than making a fool of yourself.' 
'It limits your potential.' 
'Or makes you aware of what you have got, looking at it the other way.' 
'I want to feel I've got some freedom.' 
'Now we're coming to it. It's a case of what you want, not what responsibilities you've got.' 
'Do you want to be tied down?' 
'We're already tied down, Jeremy. What about the house? What about Sammy?' 
He pushes away the congealing curry. 'Don't you think about your twenties?' 
'Not as much as you do. Aren't you going to eat any more of that?' 
Jeremy shakes his head. ‘It’s lovely, but no. Haven‘t got much appetite.‘ 
Sally rises to collect the plates. 
‘There’s no hurry,‘ he soothes her. ‘How about some wine?’
'I want to get everything cleared up. They'll be here in half an hour.' 
'Who's "they"?' he asks, suspecting that he already knows the answer. It gives him a sense of foreboding. 
'The other girls.' 
'Dikes' night.' 
'I wish you wouldn't call them that.' 
'What?' he asks innocently. 
'You know very well.' 
'Dikes, you mean.' 
'They're just women who are concerned about their place in society.' 
Jeremy smothers a laugh. 
'If you want to help, try doing the washing up instead of smirking,' Sally says  irritably. 
'Man’s true place - at the sink.' 
'You don't exactly make a habit of it.' 
'And whenever I do it, you complain.' 
'That's because you leave grease on the plates. Sometimes I think you do it on purpose.' 
'Why should I do that?' 
'To make sure I do it the next time.' 
'I don't like using a lot of detergent.' 
'There are such things as ecologically sound detergents, if you're so concerned.' 
'Then why don’t we use them.' 
'Because they cost twice as much and you’d moan if your white shirt looked grey. They’re not very good, you know. Anyway, I don't want to discuss detergents. The others are going to be here soon.' 
'Another workshop, is it?' 
The last one remains in his mind with surreal vividness. He made the excuse of looking for a book in the sitting room, so that he could catch a glimpse of the first arrivals. A singularly unattractive girl in dungarees was sprawled on the settee. Her expression made him feel like a barman touting for business at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. On the floor was a girl dressed entirely in black, her face hidden by dark glasses, her legs tied in a knot which would not have looked out of place in a textbook on masochism. If she noticed him, she gave no sign. On the rug was a girl reading what looked suspiciously like one of his books - and bending the spine. He leant closer to see. 
'T S Eliot,' she explained, glaring at him. 
'Surprising.' 
'Why?' 
'I shouldn't have called him a feminist writer.' 
Her glare became ferocious, till he feared she might throw his book at him and damage it all the more. 
'Just an opinion,' he murmured, backing away. 
'I'm applying a feminist critique to Eliot for my thesis.' 
'I should have thought of that. Silly of me.' 
The knotted girl hissed like a punctured inner tube, either as a feminist expression of disgust, or because she was in pain. He might have asked which it was, except that stepping back against the settee started a baby crying. 
'Now look what you've done,' the girl with dungarees accused him. 
'Sorry.' 
'Why don't you think?' 
He retreated further before her venom, vowing that next time the group met in his house, he would raise strenuous objections. When objections failed, he would go out. 
'I thought you took it in turns to have meetings at each other's houses,' he objects. 
'We do,' Sally agrees. 
'Then why are we having two meetings here within a month?' 
'Because it's convenient - it's easy to get to and we've got larger rooms than some of the others.' 
'I hope we're not having them here every fortnight.' 
'I told you - we do it on a rota.' 
Rather than explore the flaw in the logic, Jeremy hoists Sammy on his shoulder and takes him upstairs in the hope of absenting himself before the first arrivals make themselves at home by ruining his books and drinking his coffee. What he cannot work out is how ardent feminists can have babies, thus putting themselves in the traditional feminine role as well as taking the risk of bringing more men into the world. Would they drown male offspring, given the choice, he wonders. 
Sammy wants to be read a story, which delays Jeremy. The feminists are arriving as he creeps from Sammy's room. He hides in his own bedroom and tries to decide whether to stay there. An alternative is to be sociable and use the opportunity to meet up with one of his acquaintances. The alarming thing is that they are all connected with the college - and they are all married. The chances of one being free to come out at short notice are remote. He could visit a pub, except that he does not like drinking alone. A better option is going to the cinema. He used to enjoy seeing a film on his own - companions distract him from the fantasy world on the screen by whispering, rustling sweet wrappers or sniffing at inopportune moments. A stranger doing the same thing is less annoying. 
The doorbell rings as he reaches the hall. A mixture of apprehension and truculence assails him as he answers it. On the doorstep is the girl in black. Evidently black is her favourite colour - or she only has one set of clothing. She does not acknowledge him, but greets Sally who has emerged from the sitting room. 
'Just going out,' he announces to anybody who might be listening. 
Sally turns from her visitor to ask, 'What about Sammy?' 
'He's asleep.' 
'I thought you were going to stay in case we wakes up.' 
'You'll be here, won't you?' 
'I shan't be able to hear.' 
'You will if you leave the door open,' Jeremy points out, struggling into his anorak. He would like to know what happens at a workshop, but not so desperately that he contemplates listening outside the sitting-room door for the evening. He suspects that his name will crop up in conversation as an example of the selfish male. 
* 
'What you need is a drink,' Alf diagnoses when Jeremy rings him from a call-box. 'I'll be with you in half an hour. Meanwhile get yourself a pint and start the treatment.' 
In Jeremy's childhood, pubs were places of mystery. The older ones smelt of beer and had green glazed tiles to the height of the windows. Pubs were places where old men closeted themselves behind sand-blasted windows for reasons which remained a mystery at the time; now he suspects that all they wanted was to get away from women. Other pubs were modernised to attract young people. He remembers looking inside one and being awed by the sheer number of bottles behind the bar and by the glowing juke-box which spilled its music onto the pavement. Rumours of drugs and depravity surrounded such places, which was why he wanted to sample them for himself. The experience proved a disappointment, though he tried to persuade himself that he was participating in  something decadent. Groups of his peers drank halves of Red Barrel and tried to attract the attention of the schoolgirls, self-conscious in makeup and short skirts. In desperation he sampled the older pubs. These were equally disappointing, with old men watching the newly-installed television and making a Guinness last all the evening. His principal discovery on these forays was that he had no head for alcohol. One pint of bitter caused no problem, though he did not like it much. The second made him look at things differently. Any more and he could be certain of retribution the following morning. His companions drank steadily through the evening, seemingly unaffected. This defect in his chemistry worried him, much as he assumed girls worried about not having breasts - or having them in abundance. If age has yielded no explanation, it has allowed him to accept his failing with equanimity. By avoiding pubs as much as possible he has also managed to keep it hidden. But on this occasion he has to agree with Alf - a pub is the obvious refuge from feminists. Unfortunately Alf's chosen rendezvous is the sort of place where Jeremy would prefer to leave without ordering. It is a pub for locals, where entering as a stranger is like straying into a private party. The few people deign to notice him look wary. Most ignore him. The foci of attention are a pool table, a television and a fruit machine. The carpet has worn to an indeterminate grey under the onslaught of dropped cigarettes and spilt beer. Jeremy leans against the bar, tapping his foot in time to the piped music. He surveys the ever-intriguing array of spirits - and more surreptitiously the barmaid's cleavage. Even in his present mood barmaids are exempt from the disapprobation which he applies to the rest of their sex. 
By the time Alf arrives, Jeremy has almost finished his first half pint and is looking forward to his second. 
'So what's up?' Alf asks as they settle at a Formica-covered table awash with beer. 
'Got turned out, didn't I?' 
'Out of your own home?' 
'That's it.' 
'Serious.' 
'I thought so.' 
'Let's have all the details. Don't spare me.' 
Jeremy gives the details. 
'Well, well,' says Alf, studying the barmaid's cleavage as she leans over the table to give it a cursory wipe with a dirty cloth. 'Well, well.' 
'Sorry story, isn't it?' 
'Sorry story all right,' Alf agrees. 'You know what you've done?' 
'What?' 
'Blown it.' 
'You think?' 
'Sure of it. You accepted her terms, didn't you?' 
Jeremy concedes the point. 
Alf sighs. 'Then you've blown it. You've buggered things up right and proper.' 
'I suppose so.' 
Alf peers into his beer as Jeremy's grandmother once peered into teacups for messages in the tea-leaves. 'All you can do now is see what you can pull out the shit.' 
'Not much, as far as I can see.' 
'I wouldn't say that - it's when she throws your dirty magazines out the window  that you really start worrying.' 
'It is my house - well, our house.' 
'That's no safeguard.' Alf rolls a cigarette with practised fingers. When the task is done, he asks, 'You know what you should have said?' 
'What?' 
'Fuck off.' 
'She caught me off balance.' 
'That's not much of an excuse, is it?' 
'Not really,' Jeremy concedes. 'I was going to stay upstairs, out the way.' 
'Why shouldn't you go where you want in your own house?' 
An unanswerable question, Jeremy concludes as he watches the barmaid. 
'Now you've given up the high ground, all you can do is damage limitation.' 
The advertisement break on the television heralds an awakening of activity as old men creak towards the bar. 
'You never know what goes on in other people's marriages,' Alf reflects. 'I know you fancy Andrea, but I didn't think things were this bad.' 
'It’s not as though we're married.' 
'It's marriage in the eyes of the world. I don't say in the eyes of God, because I take it you're an unreformed atheist.' 
'It's strange we don't have any way of measuring relationships. I mean we can measure stresses in materials, but not in relationships, even when we know the stresses are there.' 
'Profound thoughts, my old mate. That's what something like this does to you.' 
'What you said about other people's marriages - I suppose the trouble is you look at things with the facade in place. You never see the relationship in situ.’  
'Don't know if I'd always want to. I'd hate to see Dr Hodgkinson's wife in situ. Have you met her?' 
'Never had that pleasure.' 
'Scrawny. Looks as if he keeps her short of housekeeping, or else she's the oldest anorexic in the business. Talks like a duchess come to give the school prizes.' Alf sips his beer. 'I'd love to hear them having a row.' 
'Perhaps they don't.' 
'Every couple does, even if they deny it. I think you need a little marital tussle sometimes - broadens the horizons.' 
'Have yours been broadened?' 
'Frequently. We go at it hammer and tongs.' 
'Sally and me have never really gone in for rows.' 
'How long have you been together?' 
'Five years.' 
'And you've never had a row?' 
'I wouldn't say that exactly.' 
'Now we're getting there.' 
'We have differences of opinion.' 
'You've got the chance to savour the fully-blown experience now.' 
'Usually things simmer.' 
'That's bad. Doesn't clear the air.' 
Conversation lapses as they drink. Their eyes follow the barmaid on her progress in clearing the tables. 
'Was she at the Christmas party last year?' Jeremy asks. 
'The barmaid?' 
'Dr Hodgkinson's wife.' 
'Had to be, didn't she? She was dispensing the British sherry. You probably overlooked her, which wasn't difficult.' 
Jeremy's main recollection is of drinking too much. Whether his intake included British sherry, he is not sure. 
'Our annual descent into masochism,' Alf muses. 
'Soon be time for the next one.' 
'If you want any decent booze, take your own and hang on to it.' 
'I don't usually drink much.' 
'It's a skill, drinking. Once learnt, forever enjoyed.' 
The prospect is not appealing, but Jeremy drains his glass to show willing. 
'Now you've got the taste for freedom, we'll get in some practice. What are you having?' 
Jeremy has the same again. While Alf goes to leer at the barmaid, Jeremy watches his fellow drinkers. They are exclusively male. The younger ones cluster around the pool table. He wishes he could arouse that sort of enthusiasm for history amongst his students. Retired men in shapeless cardigans sit alone, staring at the television from which issues the desperate laughter of a studio audience. A few drinkers show no interest in the television. They are sunk in contemplation of wasted lives, or failing digestions. Jeremy wonders whether he will be like them when he retires. A dog in the terminal stages of boredom lies under a table, watching him with one baleful eye. To avoid the accusing stare he looks back at the youths playing pool. They could be his students; if they are, he does not recognise them. 
'There you go.' Alf sets down two more glasses. 
'I didn't want a pint.' 
'You've got one now.' Alf settles himself facing the bar. He leans towards Jeremy to murmur, ‘Did you see that?' 
'What?' 
'The barmaid.' 
Jeremy tries to revive his flagging interest. He views her from a distance. She is a stately figure - an ocean liner amongst tramp steamers. 
'You don't get knockers like that on the skinny bints at the college,' Alf breathes appreciatively. 
Jeremy has to concur, though his preference is for the skinny bints. For a moment domestic problems are put aside as both men gaze in rapt contemplation at this icon of femininity. 
'We should have done this earlier,' Alf decides. 'Takes a drama to get you out of your rut.' 
'You might be right,' Jeremy agrees, nodding thoughtfully. Strange things are happening to his head as he tackles his second pint. Anger and frustration are dissipated, replaced by a calm encompassing everything important in his life - and an uncharacteristic lust for the barmaid. 
'How are you getting on chasing the lovely Andrea?' Alf asks. 
'I'm not.' 
'What you ought to do is prise her from her mate.' 
'Have you met him?' Jeremy asks, feeling his lust expanding to embrace womankind in general. 
'Not yet. That's one reason for looking forward to the Christmas party - see the poor sod.' 
Jeremy feels the pangs of jealousy being fanned. 
'Fancy being married to her,' Alf is saying. 'With somebody like that, either you're at it like rabbits, or you're going for each other's throats.' 
The prospect of living dangerously appeals to Jeremy. 
'She's got a good body, I'll give you that,' Alf continues, apparently unaware of the effect of his words. 'It's a matter of whether you could put up with the feminist stuff. Still, you know all about that if you're getting it at home.' 
'Could you imagine Andrea in a place like this?' 
'She might like it - meeting the proletariat on their own ground.' 
'Too many male chauvinists,' Jeremy decides, his vision of Andrea mingling inextricably with images of the barmaid. He grins. 
'What's up?' Alf asks.
'Nothing.' 
'The beer's getting into your system. I told you this is therapeutic.' 
'What made you suggest this place?' 
'The barmaid.' 
'Makes sense.' 
'Kept passing the place. Thought I must go in - and there she was in all her glory. She's here weekday evenings except Fridays, if you fancy another eyeful.' 
Jeremy takes another look. 
'I was glad you rang,' Alf confesses. 'Good excuse for not going to Claire's PTA meeting.' 
'You haven't got children, have you?' 
'No - it's the school where she teaches. I usually go along as moral support in case the parents get uppity.' 
'I didn't know your wife was a teacher.' 
'There you are, you see - all this time and we're strangers to each other until we get in a pub for the evening.' 
'Apologies to Claire for dragging you out.' 
'Like I said, I was glad of the excuse. Hate meetings, especially committee meetings - all that talking to chairs.' 
'I used to be on a committee,' Jeremy recalls. 'We were trying to prevent a merger between the poly and the teacher training college. Neither side wanted it.' 
'And what happened?' 
'Merged.' 
'Bureaucrats always get their way. What were you - lecturer at the college?' 
'Research assistant at the poly. Kept wanting to be a lecturer, but it never happened. Rather than be the oldest research assistant in the business, I thought I'd better get out.' 
'And that's when you came here?' 
'The start of my glorious career.' 
'Full of hopes for giving enlightenment to a new generation.' 
'Something like that.' 
'Then you find life's all meetings on curriculum development and the students don't give a bugger.' 
As an analysis of Jeremy's situation, it seems too accurate for comfort. He bangs down his glass in mute frustration, slopping more beer on the table and knocking Alf‘s cigarette off the table. An old man, roused from slumber by the disturbance, stares at the beer dripping on the carpet. 
'That was heartfelt,' Alf sympathises. 
'You feel you're lecturing to a void.' 
‘You're getting paid for it - think of it that way.' 
'They don't question. They don't have ideals.' 
'Sounds about right.' 
'The boys don't care about anything except football and cars. All the girls worry about are boys, clothes and discos.' 
'Not like us,' Alf agrees, rolling another cigarette. 'At least we were politically aware.' 
'And we had some sort of optimism. We thought we were building a brighter future.' 
'Right enough.' 
'Then something happened.' 
'Something?' 
'The decline set in.' Jeremy stares into his glass. 'How did it happen?' 
'Perhaps we were looking at things differently.' 
'You think it was as simple as that?' 
'You get an era of optimism, then it runs out of steam. You know all about these things - you're the historian.' 
Jeremy's thoughts go back to his student days, when sit-ins regularly closed the polytechnic library and each week there was a student newspaper to read - erratic in layout and printed hurriedly on the student union's aging press. He remembers the noisome union bar - a dark shed running with condensation, where the beer was cheaper than in the pubs and duffel-coated females could be discerned huddling in the gloom. 
'Remember the demos?' Alf asks, his thoughts running in the same direction. 'Great, they were. Really felt you were cocking a snook at authority, whatever a snook is. Can you imagine our kids going on a demo?' 
Jeremy tries, but without success. 
A gleam lights Alf's eyes as more memories surface. 'Do you remember the music? We had classic groups like the Who and the Stones. I got one of the scrubbers to let me listen to her Walkman. It was like the musical equivalent of sliced bread. Pap. Terrible stuff.' 
'Fairport Convention did a gig at the poly,' Jeremy recalls, mining the vein of nostalgia with enthusiasm. 'That was one up for us because usually the top bands went to the university. Sandy Denny was with them in those days. The whole hall went quiet when she was about to sing. Amazing.' 
'Didn't go for Sandy Denny myself,' Alf admits. ‘Preferred the dolly birds.' 
'It wasn't about fancying her - she was like an earth mother. You wanted to worship her.' 
'I preferred going to films. You felt you were making an intellectual voyage when you went to a foreign film.' 
'Art form of the twentieth century.' 
'It's true.' 
'Mind you, it was a film director who said it,' Jeremy adds, trying to remember whether it was really a television director talking about television. 
'Too pretentious for Eisenstein. Must have been Richard Attenborough.' 
'I saw Antonioni's The Passenger in the ABC in Lime Street one Saturday night. There was a gang of us watching Jack Nicholson being impelled by forces he couldn't control and meeting his destiny. Afterwards we went to Upper Parliament Street . Do you know it?' 
Alf shakes his head. 
'These terraces left over from Liverpool's prosperous days. Some were falling down. The rest were used as curry houses and West Indian clubs. We used to go to this tatty Somali curry house - plastic table-cloths and chairs that had a habit of collapsing if you leant back on them. The crockery must have come as job lots from hotels and liners, because every piece had a crest on and you never found two the same. We went there because you got massive helpings and everything was incredibly cheap. Why don't we have a place like that around here?' 
'Our sad decline,' Alf muses, gazing around at their fellow drinkers. 'Once we could partake of all the intellectual delights a university city could offer. Now it's leering at pneumatic blondes in back street pubs where the sausage rolls get changed once a month - which is how often they clean out the pipes, judging by this beer.' He puts down his glass. 
'You wanted to come here.' 
'Such is the way our horizons contract. You know what's to come? Lusting across the nursing home lounge at any old biddy who can still use her Zimmer.' 
'Don't.' 
'Rail against the dying.' 
'I'd agree with you there.' 
'It doesn't have to be.' 
'It doesn't have to be,' Jeremy muses, grappling with the implications which flood his mind. Unfortunately he has drunk too much to sort things out easily. 
'What we ought to do is get pissed.' 
'I thought we were.' 
'I'm talking about getting seriously pissed.' 
'No,' says Jeremy firmly, holding up one finger. He wags it at Alf. 'We must reverse this decline.' 
'What decline?' 
'The one you were just talking about. All this.' He gestures around. 
'How?' 
'There's the rub.' 
'How about not going back?' 
Jeremy looks puzzled. 'Back where?' 
'Back home. Come and doss down at our place. Claire won't mind. You've met her. haven't you?' 
Jeremy has a dim recollection of meeting Alf's wife at the previous Christmas party - she was surprisingly unglamorous given Alf's healthy interest in the opposite sex. Perhaps other people's wives always look plain to outsiders, he reflects. Perhaps for marriage to take place, you have to see your beloved through rose-tinted spectacles. It is an alarming concept. He tries to imagine Sally as others might see her. 
'So what about it?' Alf is asking. 
Jeremy is torn between his dislike for staying in other people's homes and the certainty of sarcastic comments from Sally when all the feminists have gone. On balance the latter seems preferable to going without brushing his teeth and being the unwilling participant in other people's breakfast squabbles. He confesses, 'I was thinking about something else.' What he was thinking about is difficult to recapture. He tries to pick his way amongst the ideas swirling in his mind. The sunset glow of nostalgia still envelops him, making the old men around them seem like benign extras in an episode of Coronation Street. He is aware that Alf is waiting for him to continue. 'I was thinking in more general terms,' he finishes. 
'I see,' Alf says without conviction. He sips his beer. 'No, I don't see.' 
'I was thinking about our destiny.' 
'Weighty stuff.' 
Jeremy is nodding. 'Weighty stuff indeed.' 
'Did you reach any conclusions?' 
'I didn't get that far.' 
'That's life. What you want is another pint to make you see things clearer.' 
'No!' Jeremy's cry makes the old men look up. 
'Yes - 'fraid so.' Alf goes to the bar, leaving Jeremy staring at the ceiling where are affixed curious silver shapes resembling egg cups. He has noticed them on ceilings at the college and they still baffle him. 
'What are you smiling about?' Alf wants to know, setting two more pints on the table. 
'Thinking about being a student. Good times those.' 
'If you forget the lousy digs and being short of money.' 
'You're student life must have been more bohemian than mine.' 
'The grant always ran out by the middle of term,' Alf recalls. 'From then on it was overdrafts, jam butties and trying to avoid the landlord - unless you could find a girlfriend to take pity on you.' 
'Sure I didn't have problems like that.' 
'You must have had digs problems. Everybody does.' 
'Sort of,' Jeremy admits, remembering life in Wavertree beside the main line. Trains never disturbed him. Paradoxically it was the laundry which proved the only intrusion in his tranquil life - on weekdays the neighbourhood reeked of hot, wet clothes. As student lodgings go, it was an enviable room. If children had not lit a fire against the outside wall, burning the waste-pipe so that a bucket had to be left permanently under the sink, he would have said life was idyllic there. 
'I used to sleep a lot on people's floors,' Alf recalls. 'One time I woke in the middle of the night and there was this scuffling sound. It was a mouse running between the joists right underneath me. I thought it was in my sleeping bag at first.' 
'That’s why I tried to keep off people’s floors.' 
'You were lucky.' 
'We had lots of noise, arguments about who left the bathroom filthy and bits falling off the furniture, but nothing too terrible. No mice.' 
'You were definitely lucky.' 
'I suppose I was.' 
'I found this really seedy bed-sit. It was in the red light district, but I didn't know that when I moved in. It was the sort of place where you double locked the door at night. You could hear the comings and goings - and the row when somebody wouldn't pay up. One time I took a girlfriend back for the night. She thought it was disgusting. Walked out at one o'clock. I had to get a taxi for her - and she nearly got picked up when she was waiting on the pavement. She wouldn't come again.' He takes a mouthful of beer. 'It was high drama in that place all right. Somebody tried to set fire to it once - pushed newspaper through the letter box and lit it. Fortunately it went out.' 
They drink companionably, musing on half-forgotten student memories. 
'You don't sound as though you hated it,' Jeremy has to admit. 
'Who said I did? It's being young that's the good bit - all the things you can get away with that you wouldn't do now.' 
'Why not?' 
'Why not what?' 
'Why wouldn't you do them now?' 
'There speaks the man with drink inside him.' 
'We're not in our dotage, are we? Physi-physicallily we can do all the things we could do then.' 
'Except pronounce "physically".' 
'That's the drink. You don't take any notice...' Jeremy waves away the impediment. 'You're the one who goes on about not being tied down!' 
'So what do we do?' 
'We bring the old times back.' 
'Great idea.' 
'What I want...' He struggles for the words. The old men nearby have receded into a blur. 'What I want is a place full of energy.' 
'I like it.' 
'All the creative talents - artists, musicians, poets, actors, all brought together.' Jeremy gestures grandiloquently. 
'You weren't a wealthy Italian nobleman in some previous life, were you?' 
'It was all happening in our lifetime. You don't have to go back to Renaissance Italy.' 
Alf raises his eyebrows. 'You amaze me.' 
'You know when, don't you?' 
Alf raises his eyebrows.  
'In the sixties,' says a triumphant Jeremy. 
'Absolutely amazing.' 
'Arts laboratories!' 
'Eh?' 
'Places where experiments could happen. All the things like pop art and experimental theatre started there. And we let them wither and die - think of that. How could we let it happen?' 
'Don't ask me.' 
'They all collapsed. They came, they flowered briefly and they went. Never struggled beyond the sixties.' Jeremy focuses on Alf - a task which entails more effort than he anticipated. 'Why? That's the important question. Why?' 
'Went broke - that's what usually happens to these things. Too many ideals and not enough of the readies.' 
'Where are all the people with vision?' 
'Being copywriters and design consultants. Anything to earn a crust.' 
'What we need in this town is an arts lab.,' Jeremy insists. 
'What we need is to get even more pissed, then arts labs. won't matter so much.' 
'I'm serious.' 
'So am I.' 
'This is the age of the arts lab! The time is ripe for a renaissance.' 
'Balls.' 
'The people are crying out.' 
'Not in here.' 
'People with aspiration, not these types.' Jeremy glares at his fellow drinkers who seem unaffected by his strictures. 'We need a cultural maelstrom.' 
'You're pissed,' Alf accuses. 
'How many have I had?' 
'Too many, considering you were at it before I got here.' 
'One half - that's all I had.' 
'And all the rest since.' 
Jeremy leans closer. 'The thing is,' he confides, 'the thing is, I'm not used to drinking.' 
'You don't say.' 
'True.' 
'I'd never have guessed.' 
'Mind you...' Jeremy gropes for words. 'Mind you, I've had enough.' 
'So do you want to come back to our place?' 
'I don't think I will, thank you very much. Thank you very much for the offer.' 
'I don't think you're in a fit state to take on the massed ranks of women.' 
'They'll all be gone by the time I get back.' 
'So no showdown?' 
'Except with Sally.' 
'That can be the worst sort.' 
'She gets intense about things.' 
'Like feminism.' 
'We've never had any problems till recently.' 
Alf nods. 
'Not sure what set it all off,' Jeremy confesses. 
'Who can tell these things?' 
'Like the weather turning cold in autumn.' 
'Eh?' 
'Changes like the weather. Perhaps it's the season for our parting.' He gestures around. 'I've got out the habit of all this - pubs and drinking and everything.' 
'I told you - all it needs is a bit of practice.' 
Jeremy leans closer. 'Do you think they come here every day?' 
'Who?' 
'Those old boys.' 
'Got nothing else to do, poor buggers.' 
'Don't think I could stand a place like this night after night.' 
'You would if you were desperate.' 
The thought is sobering enough for Jeremy to hope that the point will never be reached. 
* 
When Jeremy returns home at the hour reserved for cats and drinkers, the house is quiet. The hall light is on, which he suspects is a good sign. The warmth envelops him like a blanket, adding to his drowsiness. He gropes his way to the stairs across a carpet which feels as soft as a mattress. There is a cloying smell of perfume which is not Sally's. He scales the familiar stairs, clinging tightly to the handrail to help in this gargantuan effort, and visits the familiar bathroom, glad that he did not take up Alf's offer. Finding his way to an unknown bathroom in the night is not a task which he relishes. Anyway there is something comforting about using one's own bathroom at a time when nobody else will bang on the door. 
And so to bed. He tries to undress quietly, but his clothes have become larger and more stretchable since he put them on. Sally does not move. He sees her outline under the duvet and some of the old lust stirs. He shivers as he slips in beside her. Her back is turned to him. When he puts out his hand to her, there is no response. The rejection does not leave him feeling too disappointed. It is difficult to feel anything when his thoughts keep spiralling away. It is not long before sleep closes over him. 

Chapter 3

The following morning is not an occasion for meaningful conversation. Jeremy opens his eyes experimentally and acknowledges his mistake by closing them again. Fragmentary memories of the previous evening flood back. His head feels as though it has grown in the night. He vows never to drink again, whatever the provocation.
A voice booms, 'You'd better have this.' 
He screws up his eyes. The clattering of what sounds like a bin of crockery being emptied onto concrete sounds next to his ear. He lies still, gathering his strength. As the smell of coffee reaches him, he opens his eyes again. He is alone. The curtains are still drawn. He looks at the clock and looks again. Then he screams silently, but even that hurts.
When Sally's head appears around the door, he is sipping coffee.
'You look terrible,' she greets him.
'Why didn't you tell me what the time was?' he asks, alarmed by the way his voice has acquired a husky bass timbre.
'I thought you were past caring.'
'I'm going to be late.'
'Not today.'
He stares at her, disbelieving.
'Tuesday.  You start with a free period. Remember?'
He settles back, partially reassured.
'You were going on about it enough last week,' she reminds him.
He remembers. He also remembers Dr Hodgkinson’s memo about it. Lecturers should arrive by nine, even when they have no lecture timetabled for the first period. Thus spake the principal. But at least arriving late for a free period is a less heinous crime than missing a lecture. With luck his absence might not be noticed.
Simple tasks like dressing and washing assume a formidable magnitude when his head pulses with every movement. It passes through his mind to ring the bursar and plead sickness, but that would be admitting his failure to Sally. He gropes his way downstairs to the kitchen. The effect of the coffee is wearing off.
'Feeling better?' Sally asks.
He grunts.
Evidently not. You know you don't get on with drink, so why have it?'
He gropes for the nearest chair. 'I don't want a lecture. I wouldn't mind some coffee.'
'You'd better have black. I take it you don't want any breakfast?'
Waves of nausea threaten to engulf him.
'We'll keep to the coffee,' Sally decides.
Jeremy rests his head in his hands until the coffee is ready. It tastes like medicine, but it makes him feel fairly normal again.
'How was the meeting?' he enquires after the second cup. 
'Why do you want to know?' Sally sounds suspicious.
'Just asking.' 
'You're not usually interested.' 
'I still don't know what you do at these things.' 
'What you mean is you never listen when I tell you.' 
'So tell me again.' 
'We're trying to explore what it is to be a woman. I know that doesn't sound much to you, but I happen to think it's important.' 
Jeremy tries to unravel what this means, but without coming to any conclusion. He resolves to ask Andrea when an opportunity occurs. 
'Don't you?' Sally is asking. 
'Don't I what?' 
She raises her eyes to the ceiling. 'You ask me and then you don't bother to listen!' 
'Sorry.' 
'What made you go out drinking?' 
'You did, basically.' 
She turns away in annoyance. 
'I couldn't stay, could I? Your friends wouldn't like it.' 
'We meet about once a month. That's all we're talking about.' 
'So when's the next time?' 
'Next week.' 
On this occasion it is Jeremy who looks towards the heavens for patience and inspiration. All he notices is that the crack in the ceiling is getting wider. 
'It just happens to have worked out that way,' Sally explains. 'It is exceptional.' 
'And you wonder why I go to the pub.' 
'You don't have to go out - so long as you don't disturb us.' 
'So how exactly do you explore being a woman?' he perseveres. Now that he is destined to miss the nine o'clock deadline, there seems no point in hurrying. 
'We look at our life experiences and see how they're shaped by being women.' 
'Things like having babies, you mean?' 
'If all you can do is sneer, there's no point in discussing it.' 
'I should have thought having a baby was the ultimate feminine experience.' 
'That's the sort of patronising remark we complain about.' 
'Do you talk about me?' 
'Don't be arrogant.' 
'What's arrogant about it?' 
'Thinking we're so interested in you.' 
'All right - what other things do you talk about?' 
'I thought you were in a hurry?' 
'I'm interested.' 
'We look at feminist literature. Some of us read our own poetry...' 
Jeremy wonders who the poets of the group might be. He suspects the girl in black is amongst them. He would be intrigued to listen outside the door when she reads. 
'We consider the role of women in different countries and different professions,’ Sally continues, ’and how their position could be improved. Then we finish with a meditation session.' She frowns as she sees Jeremy's expression. 'What's wrong?' 
'Nothing.' 
She looks unconvinced. 
'Nothing at all,' he insists. 
'So you won't mind if we have another meeting here next Monday? You don't feel your personal space is being violated?' 
'I do as a matter of fact, but don't let that stop you.' 
Sally glares at him. 
'I'd better go.' he mutters, pushing the cup away. Getting up quickly proves a mistake, but he tries not to let it show. He drives to the college with more than usual care. The road has more potholes than usual. 
* 
The first lecture proves an ordeal. When his voice does not fail altogether, the extra resonance of his bass tones aggravates his headache. He tries to ignore the knowing grins of his students. 
'Are you all right?' Andrea asks at the mid-morning break. 
He croaks that he is not, though her concern almost makes his sufferings worthwhile. He clings to his cup of black coffee. 
'We got pissed last night,' Alf reveals, which causes Andrea’s sympathy to ebb visibly. Her upper lip curls in a way which fascinates Jeremy in spite of his preoccupations. 
'You drank as much as I did,' he accuses Alf. 
'I didn't go weaving down the road singing Annie Laurie.' 
'Neither did I,' Jeremy responds without conviction. 
'And there was your little contretemps with a lamp post.' 
'Nonsense.' 
'Why do men always have to get drunk?' Andrea asks. 'Is there something macho about spewing in the gutter?' 
Jeremy tries to remember whether he spewed in the gutter, but the latter part of the evening remains an ominous blank in his memory. 
'You have to throw up to get more beer in,' Alf explains. When Andrea turns away in disgust, he pulls a face at Jeremy. 'Think I've upset her.' 
'Not surprising.' 
'Mind you, you've gone down in her estimation as well.' 
'Only because of what you said.' 
'Sorry about that. Forgot you were after her.' 
'I'm not after her!' 
'Who are you kidding?' 
'You're reading too much into it.' 
'Pity you can't see yourself when she's around.' 
'What do you mean?' 
'You get nervous,' Alf explains. 'You look like a schoolboy with a crush.' 
'Thanks.' 
'And she knows you're after her.' 
Jeremy digests this revelation. 
'Did you think it was a secret passion?' Alf probes. 
'I wouldn't have said it was a passion exactly.' 
'Whatever you want to call it, she knows.' 
Jeremy groans. 
'She's right though - you look pretty awful,' Alf confesses. 
'Don't go on about it.' 
'You need to get more practice in.' 
Jeremy closes his eyes. He longs to know whether he really was singing Annie Laurie, but he cannot bring himself to ask. 
'Thing about drinking is you've got to keep at it,' Alf is saying. 'Few more sessions and you'll find you can take it.' 
Jeremy opens his eyes and regards his companion blearily. 'Think I'd prefer it the other way - not drinking at all.' 
'Tactical error, the way things are.' 
'I'll risk it.' 
'Did you have a showdown when you got home?' 
'No - went straight to bed.' 
'Very wise. You'd only have got your words muddled up.' 
'Had a skirmish this morning.' 
'How did it go?' 
'Not quite sure.' 
'Ah.' 
'That's partly why I was late getting in.' 
'You know that's a capital offence these days?' 
'Did anybody notice?' 
'Not that I know of. Trouble is you never know whether Commandant Hodgkinson's on the prowl.' 
'I'm not sure if I'm going to get through the day.' 
'Course you will. Show them a video and threaten to ask them questions on it next time. They'll be happy enough and once the blinds are down, you can have a kip without them seeing.' 
Jeremy stares at his companion in admiration. 
'You come to your Uncle Alf when you want any tips,' Alf says modestly. 'There are ways around most problems.' 
'Haven't got anything for a hangover, have you?' 
'I told you - what you want is the hair of the dog. How about coming for a quick one lunchtime?' 
'I don't think so.' 
'Best advice you've ever turned down, my old mate. Set you up for the staff meeting, that would.' 
Jeremy slops coffee over his trousers. 
'Haven't forgotten the meeting, have you?' 
'It did slip my mind.' 
'Hear the inspiring words of our master. Absolutely unmissable if you fancy keeping your job. I suppose you do want to keep it?' 
Jeremy is saved from answering by the insistent ringing of the bell. 
'I'd grab yourself a video while you've got the chance,' Alf advises. 
'Good idea.' Jeremy gets up with more alacrity than he has shown all the morning, but only because he wants to make a quick exit from the staff room. He suspects that over the course of the day, he will be seeing more than he wants of the graffiti in the bogs. 
* 
The video proves a success. Newsreel clips on appeasement in the thirties might have little relevance to the study of Victorian political intrigue, but his students seem willing to believe that the two themes are related.  Privately Jeremy has little hope of reaching anything later than the First World War by the end of the year, but he does not want to dampen the students’ enthusiasm, such as it is. A new era of teaching opens before him, in which all he has to do is to select a tape on the appropriate topic and let the class watch, leaving him free to dream dreams. If the idea had been mentioned during training, how much work would have been saved. 
Taking the video back to the library whittles away at the lunch hour. As he waits patiently behind the students arguing about overdue books, Jeremy considers asserting his authority and jumping the queue; but he cannot be bothered. As an added incentive to keep to the rules, the librarian on duty is a campaigning socialist who might tell him to go back to his place. 
With the video returned, he makes his way carefully towards the staff room. If there is not a spring in his step, at least he does not have to navigate by keeping close to the wall. His head feels clearer. The sour taste has left his mouth. So long as nobody eats in his presence or mentions food, he should make it through the day without disgracing himself. 
The staff room is crowded. Holding a plastic cup of black coffee in front of him like a talisman, Jeremy struggles to the window. Here he can enjoy a little fresh air and avoid becoming entrapped in conversation. He gazes outside longingly. Bands of students head towards the town centre in search of burgers and chips. The thought makes him queasy again. He takes a deep breath and tries to concentrate on the more innocuous and infinitely pleasurable activity of spotting the most attractive girl. Even this is less satisfying than usual. When viewed from above, the sexual chemistry disappears, leaving only a comical, swaying walk. He tries to recognise any girls from his last class and fails. 
'How did it go?' Alf asks, settling on the window sill beside him. 
'What?' 
'The video. Or didn't you try it?' 
'I did, as a matter of fact. Highly successful.' 
'Told you.' Alf leans closer. 'Fancy going down the pub for a jar and giving the meeting a miss?' 
'Better not.' 
'Thought you might have changed your mind.' 
'No.' 
'Pity. I wanted a word.' 
The phrase hangs in the air. 
'What sort of word?' Jeremy asks. 
'If you won't come down the pub, I can't tell you, can I?' 
And that is all he is willing to say. Jeremy sips coffee and turns his attention back to the world beyond the window. The succession of students wending across the courtyard seems never-ending. Watching them means that he fails to notice when Andrea comes in the room. Turning to find her looking as delectable as ever fills him with pleasure. He wonders whether his intentions are as transparent as Alf claimed. He does lust after her. In such stark terms the admission alarms him, yet thinking of how Sally has behaved makes his action seem not quite so disloyal. And the seduction is in his mind. 
As he glances out the window again, long and raven-black hair catches his attention. She walks by the empty fountain with her friends, tossing those glorious locks back unselfconsciously. He has noticed her before. If she were one of his students, his lecturing skills would be sorely tested. Attractive girls do devastating things to his concentration. The most stunning girls belong to the drama or art and design departments. The idea forms in his mind to propose a joint course, perhaps on art in its historical context... 
The room falls silent. Jeremy looks back to find all eyes apart from his own turned towards Mr Quick, the deputy principal. Jeremy watches Andrea. She has taken up a position near the front. He toys with the idea of moving closer, but Mr Quick has already assumed his welcoming smile. His chubby face makes him resemble a loveable but naughty schoolboy from the William Brown stories - an image belied by the rest of his appearance. He is a small man, neat in his clothing and precise in his actions. Like a senior bank clerk from the 1950s he always wears a dark suit, white shirt and conservative tie held in place by a clip. To complete the image he has expanding bands around the elbows of his shirt. These fascinate Jeremy, who remembers one of his own teachers wearing them. 
'Not used to getting attention so quickly,' Mr Quick calls with unbecoming joviality. The more sycophantic members of the department smile back, but the levity is over as though it was never more than a mirage as he continues, 'Thank you for giving up part of your lunch hour, ladies and gentlemen. I know how valuable your time is, so I don't want to keep you long.' 
'So why don't you shut up?' Alf murmurs. 
Jeremy watches Andrea and wishes he could see her legs. Meanwhile Mr Quick is rubbing his hands as though the central heating is off. 'Not very warm in here. Is there a window open?' 
Everybody looks in Jeremy's direction. Old schoolboy instincts make him abandon his perch on the window sill and stand up straight. The consolation is that Andrea notices him. He closes the offending window, feeling that he is doing it to keep her free from draughts. 
‘I want you to feel free to raise any questions at these meetings,' Mr Quick assures the company, causing the faces to swivel in his direction again. 'I want you to think of them as a channel for communication rather than as an intrusion on your free time. Of course you're always free to come to me if any problems arise which can't wait till the next scheduled meeting.' He beams. 
Jeremy ventures another look at Andrea, trying to divine her feelings as she gazes on her superior. 
'I might have a busy schedule, but not so busy that I can't listen to my staff,' Mr Quick assures them. 
Jeremy often speculates on what the deputy principal does, apart from holding fatuous meetings. 
'So if there's nothing you'd like to raise...' 
The silence is broken only by Alf's crunching crisps and Mr Wheeler's wheezing. 
Mr Quick assumes a serious expression. 'One matter I shouldn't need to mention is punctuality.' He lifts his hand to forestall any criticism. 'We can't expect students to be punctual if we don't set an example. I've mentioned this before, but one or two people are still not arriving in their classrooms on time.' He scans his audience, some of whom shuffle uncomfortably. 'I should remind you that Dr Hodgkinson asks you be in your room five minutes before the lecture is due to begin.' 
'It's not going to start without us,' Alf murmurs. 
'Now we can go on to a more pleasant matter - Dr Hodgkinson's proposals for a degree programme.' Mr Quick's enthusiasm is patent but not infectious, judging by the lack of response amongst his audience, but he sweeps on without appearing to notice. 'As you know, our independent status means that we've been able to consider the possibility for the first time. Well I can tell you that Dr Hodgkinson has had preliminary discussions on validation which look promising. Now we can go on to the next stage.' If Mr Quick is disappointed by his audience's lack of enthusiasm, he does not show it. 'This is the most exciting development for the college since we moved to our new campus.' 
'What new campus?' Alf asks. 
Mr Quick looks disconcerted. 'This one.' 
Jeremy tries to hide his grin. He cannot think of the speculative office block sandwiched between the railway and the main road as a campus. 
'I thought you meant we were on the move,' Alf says, straight-faced. 
'No.' 
'I mean I'd hardly call this place new.' 
'The college used to be split over several different sites,' Mr Quick explains with uncharacteristic patience. 'The breakthrough in the seventies was the building of this campus. In the nineties, we have our change to degree status to look forward to. Is that clear?' 
'Absolutely,' says Alf, and pushes a handful of crisps into his mouth. 
'Both Dr Hodgkinson and myself are optimistic that within two years we can offer a degree programme. We're looking forward to students from all over the country being attracted here.' 
Alf chokes on his crisps. 
'We'll be looking for students of high calibre,' Mr Quick continues as though he has not noticed. 
'Make a change,' Alf murmurs. 'It's going to mean a lot of work, but I'm sure you'll all agree that the result will be worthwhile. Not only will the status of the college be enhanced, but so will your own positions.' 
'Does that mean more money?' somebody asks. 
Mr Quick smiles as though he has been expecting the question. 'I can't promise you that, but if you did ever consider moving on to another job, you'd be able to say that you had taught on a degree course. I think you'll find that stands you in good stead.' He pauses, perhaps anticipating a ripple of appreciation at this new perspective. It does not come. 'So what we've got to do is to prepare syllabuses for a degree,' he continues. 'As my own interest is the humanities, I shall be co-ordinating work on syllabuses for humanities and social science, while Dr Hodgkinson will concentrate on science and technology.' 
Jeremy tries to decide whether the plural of syllabus should really be syllabi. 
'I've already given some thought to this,' Mr Quick continues. I think the best approach is to set up a working group - three or four people who can thrash out the issues involved. Have we any volunteers?' 
Andrea puts up her hand, closely followed by Jeremy. 
'Crawler,' Alf hisses. 
Jeremy avoids looking at his companion. 
'I think we should have at least one other person,' Mr Quick decides. 'Would anybody else...' 
'I should like to join,' Mrs Wilberforce calls. 
'Serves him right,' Alf mutters. 
'Excellent,' says Mr Quick, beaming. 'Anybody else?' 
Nobody responds. 
'Of course everybody is welcome to make an input to the process. What we'll do is produce a draft which is based on our ideas and which will be circulated for your comments.' 
'Don't you think degrees are going to get devalued if every tuppenny ha'penny college is giving them?' Alf asks. 
Mr Quick's expression of goodwill fades. 'We expect a high standard of work. We're not giving degrees away, you know.' 
'Of course not.' 
'Then I don't understand your question.' 
'Just making a general point,' Alf says airily. 'You've thought about the practical things, of course - like needing more photocopiers?' 
'We shall be looking into all that.' 
'And improving the library so we have a decent selection of journals instead of old editions of the New Scientist.' 
'I said we'll be addressing all the problems.' Mr Quick's tone has lost its joviality. 'If you're so concerned, perhaps you'd like to join the working group.' 
'No thanks.' 
'Then I'd leave it to us to consider the points you raise.' 
'I thought you wanted input?' 
'If you've got any useful thoughts, perhaps you'd write them down.' Mr Quick rubs a finger inside the back of his collar - always a sign of displeasure - and tries to recapture his enthusiasm. 'We're at the beginning of our academic year. Let's show that we're ready to offer degree standard work now.' His voice rises to a rallying cry, which arouses no obvious excitement from his audience. 'Is there anything you want to raise?' 
Silence. 
'Then I'll leave you to your lunch. Thank you ladies and gentlemen.' 
The buzz of conversation begins as the deputy principal closes the door. 
'Stupid wanker,' Alf says. 'Can you see students flocking from all over the country to a clapped out tech. college with no facilities?' 
Jeremy has to admit that he cannot. 
'It's all balls.' Alf screws up the crisp wrapper, throws it in the direction of the ash tray on the table - and misses. 'We know why you volunteered - the prospect of all those cosy sessions with Andrea.' 
Jeremy's eyes turn automatically towards her. He feels a pang of jealousy as she talks animatedly to Mr Sanders. 
'Sure you don't want to come down the pub?' Alf offers. 
'There isn't time.' 
'Where's your rebellious spirit gone?' 
'I lost it somewhere.' 
'You weren't talking like that last night.' 
'Things were a bit different last night.' 
'You mean you were pissed.' 
'Was I really sounding rebellious?' 
'Like a rebel without a cause. Don't you remember any of it?' 
'Not in detail.' 
'You came out with some good stuff.' 
'I don't want to know.' 
'What we need in this town is an arts laboratory, you said.' 
'That was the drink talking.' 
'Actually it's a great idea.' 
'Great idea. Totally impracticable, but a great idea.' 
'Where's your vision gone?' 
'I'm sober - that's where it's gone.' 
'Don't lose it.' 
'Can you see the council funding anything like that?' 
'Arts labs. were created out of vision, not council grants. Your words.' 
'And they need money. Did I say that as well?' 
'I told you - keep your vision.' 
'The drink was talking.' 
'The drink was loosening your inhibitions. Don't get imprisoned again.' 
'I can't just go out and open an arts lab.' 
'Why not?' 
'I don't know anything about it for one thing.' 
'It's called learning on the job - popular concept in education these days. Your working group can produce a paper on it.' 
'And what about the money?' 
'You can lease a warehouse cheaply enough - last night you were talking about remortgaging your house.' 
'Was I?' 
'You haven't forgotten, have you?' 
Jeremy refrains from confessing that he has. 
'Don't let your vision whither and die,' Alf urges. 
'Things like that need thinking about.' 
'Thinking,' Alf says contemptuously. 'You've been brooding over it for years. It took a few drinks to bring it to the surface.' 
'Why don't you start one if you're so keen?' 
Alf snorts. 'I haven’t got a burning ambition like you. All I want is an easy time. I'm a lazy sod really.' 
'And you're telling me to get off my arse!' 
'Pure hypocrisy - that's me all over. I stand before you as a degenerate - all piss and wind. Look at me.' 
Jeremy looks. Alf may not reach Mr Quick's sartorial standards, but he does not compete with the no-hopers who haunt the station bar. 
'Do you want to be cramming second rate students for second rate degrees in Dr Hodgkinson's brave new world?' Alf asks. 
It is a disturbing prospect when couched in those stark terms. 
'Do you think the people around here would be interested in an arts lab?' Jeremy muses. 
'They haven't got anything else.' 
'True.' 
'Then don't let your vision die,' Alf urges. 'Do you want to get like that?' He nods towards Mr Wheeler, sunk in an easy chair, a packet of cigarettes balanced on the arm, spam sandwiches in a parcel of greaseproof paper unwrapped on his lap. 'That's your alternative.' 
Jeremy shivers. 
'Or like Mrs Wilberforce? Look at her.' 
Jeremy looks. She is placidly knitting another pullover. He has visions of a cowed Mr Wilberforce confronting a mountain of pullovers each morning and knowing that whichever one he chooses, he will be in the wrong. 
'Go for it,' Alf urges. 
'I'll think about it.' 
'You mean you'll put it off.' 
'I mean I'll think about it.' 
* 
The first few moments of the evening bode well for Jeremy - that feeling of being somewhere safe and welcoming as he lets himself into the house. The stresses of the college are left behind. He looks forward to dinner and a restful evening, if Sally has got over her mood. His spirits always rise at the first sight of the hall with its stripped pine, grey Berber and brass fittings. Habitat country. The green glass shade casts a mysterious glow over the ceiling, so that for a moment he can imagine that he has travelled back in time to some Victorian counting house. His pad - the place fashioned by Sally and himself where he can be himself. Framed Pre-Raphaelite, surrealist and Andy Warhol posters on the walls, reflect their divergent tastes. In the living room his paperbacks overflow onto the floor - favourites like Kurt Vonnegut, Alan Ginsburg and R D Laing. His Bob Dylan and Joni Mitchell albums are waiting. He looks forward to unwinding to the familiar songs; except that when he opens the living room door on this occasion, the dungaree-clad feminist scowls at him from the settee. She is breastfeeding a baby, watched with interest by Sammy. 
'Sorry,' Jeremy says, closing the door hastily and heading for the kitchen. It is empty. He goes upstairs to find Sally on the landing, rummaging for sheets in the cupboard. 'What's going on?' 
'What do you mean?' She does not turn from her work. 
'Down there.' 
'You're not very coherent for a lecturer.' 
'Who's that downstairs?' he asks patiently. 
'That's Vickie. You've met her before.' 
'She's got a baby.' 
'She can't leave it behind, can she?' 
'She's feeding it.' 
'She would do - she feeds on demand. And don't call the small person "it". Her name's Saskia.' 
He tries not to laugh. 'The what?' 
Sally emerges from the cupboard. 'What are you talking about now?' 
'I thought I saw a baby, but no, I'm mistaken. It's a small person!' 
'Saskia's an individual. She still deserves respect even if she is a baby.' 
'So what are Vickie and the small person doing in our living room?' he perseveres. 
'I said she could stay with us.' 
'I should have guessed, shouldn't I?' 
'She had a row with her landlord.' 
'Can't they make it up?' 
'He's thrown her out.' 
'So of course she came here.' 
'I said she could stay until she sorts herself out.' 
'It looks as though she's got everything sorted to me.' 
'What do you mean by that?' 
'Why should she look for anywhere else when she knows we're a soft touch?' 'You can be so petty sometimes, Jeremy.' 
'So I'm being petty? You know what Sammy's doing? Watching Vickie breastfeed her small person.' 
'Well?' 
'Did you know?' 
'No.' 
'And it doesn't worry you?' 
'I'm not going to make an issue of it, if that's what you mean.' 
'I didn't know anything about this. Supposing I'd gone in there without any clothes on?' 
'You don't usually wander around the house naked - especially this weather.' 
'You know what I mean.' 
'I'm not sure if I do.' 
'Do I have to ask permission before I can go in my own living room?' 
'You can go in there. Who's stopping you?' 
'Vickie. She's taken it over.' 
'What exactly are you objecting to - Vickie, or the breast-feeding?' 
'Both of them when they're in my house.' 
'Our house.' 
'Our house then.' 
'I breast fed Sammy.'
'Not in other people's sitting rooms.' 
'You can be so unreasonable sometimes, Jeremy.' He leans against the banisters. 'So what was this row with her landlord all about?' 
'I don't know. Ask her if you're so interested.' Sally bangs the cupboard door closed. She is holding a pile of sheets and blankets. 'Can you get out the way, please?' 
'I suppose "landlord" is the politically correct way of saying the poor sod she lives with and who pays the bills.' 
Sally gazes at him scornfully. 
'You don't understand at all, do you?' 
'It just seems a bit implausible that she should be thrown out without notice. It's illegal apart from anything else.' 
'He was harassing her.' 
'Ah - of course.' 
'What's that mean?' 
'People like her are always being harassed, aren't they?' 
'Why do you have to be so biased?' 
'All I want to know is how long she's staying.' 
'I told you - until she finds somewhere else.' 
'Great.' 
'You will try to make her welcome, won't you?' Sally pleads. 
Jeremy grunts non-committally as he imagines sharing a kitchen with Vickie and her offspring - and even worse, sharing a bathroom. In spite of his love for Sammy he breathed a secret sigh of relief when the messiness of babyhood was left behind. No longer was the house filled with those unpleasant smells which babies produce. No longer were spare corners filled with prams, cartons of disposable nappies and the other impedimenta of babyhood. Instead plastic toys were spread over the carpet; but that was a small price to pay. Now the whole process is beginning again - and it is not even his baby. 
'Is she going to share things with us?' he enquires. 
'What sort of things do you mean?' Sally asks warily. 
'I mean are we supposed to treat her like one of the family? Does she eat with us? Does she watch television with us?' 
'We can't ask her to stay in her room, can we?' 
Jeremy does not see why not, but knows better than to venture his opinion. 
'Anyway, I thought you were a socialist,' Sally adds. 
'Eh?' 
'Socialism is supposed to be about sharing.' 
'There are limits.' 
'So you're a NIMBY socialist? Support the people so long as it doesn't affect your comfort.' 
'I'm just a bloke who likes some peace and quiet when he gets home - and I don't look like getting it.' 
'Then why don't you go down the pub again?' 
'I might well do that.' 
* 
Mealtime. Hardly a happy company of three adults, one baby and one toddler. Jeremy looks at the salad and back at Sally. 
'What's the matter?' she queries. 'Aren't we having soup?' 
Her brow furrows. 'Why did you think we were?' 
'You usually make soup when we have salad.' 
'Not tonight.' 
'So what else are we having?' he perseveres, anticipating the worst. 
'Nothing. That's why you've got a big bowl of salad.' 
He pokes among the sprouting seeds. 'I was looking forward to something a bit more substantial after a day's work.' 
'Salad is substantial if you have enough of it.' 
'I meant something cooked.' 
'Vickie only eats raw food.' 
'Ah - I should have thought of that, shouldn't I?' 
As Sally goes into the kitchen, he glares across the table at Vickie who spoons salad into her bowl, unconcerned. He dreams of a burger glistening with fat and of ice cream running with red syrupy juice and served in a thick glass dish - all the things their guest would abhor. This line of thought spawns another fantasy - dragging a screaming Vickie to a burger bar and forcing her into eating a giant burger. 
'Are we going to be eating a lot of salads?' he calls to the unseen Sally. 
'Don't you like them?' Vickie asks. 
'Just interested. Old-fashioned soul that I am, I ask the occasional question when my life's turned upside down.' 
'Raw food is good for you.' 
'Who says so?' 
'Everybody who’s studied nutrition.' 
'Evidence?' 
'I wish you wouldn't pretend you're Rumpole,' Sally complains, coming back with a plate of sunflower and pumpkin seeds. 
'I'm just making the point that we don't have to take up every fashion that comes along.' As Sally purses her lips, which is always a bad sign, and Vickie pretends not to be listening, he presses on, 'I mean there's a fashion every year in diets, isn't there? Raw food, macrobiotics, high fibre diets and the rest. Wait long enough and you'll have the steak and kidney pudding and jam roly-poly diet. It'll probably do us more good as well.' 
'Can you please stop talking about diets?' Sally demands. 
'Difficult to avoid when apparently we're on one.' 
'We are not on a diet.' 
'Sorry, my mistake. I thought we were eating like this because of Vickie.' 
'Vickie is our guest. I've told you - she doesn't eat cooked food.' 
He nods. 
'Ah yes - our guest.' 
'That's right - if you can remember it, please.'
'Not allowed to forget it, am I, if I can't even have a decent dinner.' 
Sally pushes her chair back. 'I've had enough of this.' 
'Sally - ' He watches helplessly as she storms into the hall and stamps upstairs. Vickie abandons her salad to follow, leaving Jeremy staring at the doorway. The small person gurgles in the high chair. Sammy observes the events in wonderment. 
'I don't think mummy's feeling well,' Jeremy explains. 
'What's the matter with her?' his son asks. 
'You'll find women are like that - bloody difficult.' 
Sammy looks none the wiser. 
'They create problems and then blame you for them,' Jeremy confides. 'You wonder why we bother sometimes.' 
Sammy pokes at his salad with a lack of enthusiasm which matches his father's.
'I don't know what happens now,' Jeremy confesses. 'I'm going to be in the doghouse whatever we do. Are you going to eat up your salad?' 
Sammy shakes his head. 
'Then that's one problem out the way.' Jeremy takes their plates into the kitchen and disposes of the contents in the waste bin. The act is symbolic as much as practical - the end of truly terrible meal. At least it prompts an idea. Back in the living room he asks Sammy, 'Do you want to come to the fish and chip shop?' 
'Great!' 
'Let's get our coats and creep out before the women see us.' 
The small person watches balefully. Jeremy wonders which side she is on. He suspects that women stick together, whatever their age. 
* 
The habit of Jeremy's neighbours is not to draw curtains, except on particularly intimate occasions. Lighted windows reveal to interested passers-by the occupiers' tastes in stripped pine, William Morris wallpapers and potted plants. Jeremy's curiosity on these matters has long since been sated. He walks quickly, holding Sammy's hand tightly so that the boy keeps breaking into a run to keep up. Their breath is visible in the cold night air. 
'Think I'm in the doghouse,' Jeremy confides. 
Sammy looks up solemnly at his father. 'We haven't got a dog.' 
'It's called a figure of speech. Means your mum's not talking to me. I'm not her favourite person at the moment. Never mind, we'll survive,' he adds with a confidence he does not feel. He has never taken Sammy out at night before without Sally being with them. This makes the occasion an initiation into the world of men. He thinks his son needs something to counterbalance Vickie's malign influence. In the shop, he watches Sammy gazing with unashamed curiosity at its Chinese owner.  The tiny man conducts an orchestra of fryers larger than himself, hissing their overtures to a hungry audience. Jeremy salivates in Pavlovian fashion as his plaice is laid on the paper for wrapping. It is a pity to leave the warmth and conviviality of the shop. Father and son linger there to eat chips liberally doused in salt and vinegar. When they do go outside, the lining of warm food makes the cold feel less penetrating. They meander homewards, crunching the batter on the fish, hands greasy with oil. 
'That was better than a salad, wasn't it?' 
'Yes.' 
'Now we'll have to see what mood your mum's in.' 
Their steps slow as they near the house, but the moment can only be delayed. The television is on, which makes Sammy run into the living room before Jeremy can stop him. Sally appears in the doorway. Anger shows in her eyes. She looks impressive when she is in that mood. Jeremy wishes he could enjoy the experience more objectively. 
'Where have you been?' she demands. 
'We went for walk.' 
'Sammy's got grease on his anorak.' 
Resisting the temptation to look at his own clothes, Jeremy confesses, 'We had some chips.' Some of his bravado has ebbed away. 
Drawn by the raised voices Sammy comes to the doorway. He peeps around his mother's legs to watch his father being scolded. 
'Can you go and watch television with your auntie Vickie, please,' Sally tells him. 
Jeremy wants to object that Vickie is no auntie to his child, but a glance at Sally's face suggests that the moment is not opportune. When Sammy has gone back to the television, Sally comes into the hall, closing the door behind her.  Jeremy can still hear the muffled American voices. He suspects that a row is imminent. He wonders why he always feels at a disadvantage on such occasions. 
'What do you mean by being bloody rude to my guest?' she opens. 
'I thought she was our guest,' he counters with all the truculence he can muster. 
'Is that how you behave to your guests then?' 
'Depends who they are.' 
She draws him into the kitchen and hisses, 'What have you got against Vickie?' 
'Nothing.' 
'It doesn't look like it.' 
'I'm sure she's a charming girl once you get past the abrasiveness. I just didn't expect to find her living in my house.' 
'Our house.' 
'All right - our house. I don't know why you had to invite her here.' 
'She turned up on the doorstep.' 
'Par for the course.' 
'She didn't know where else to go.' 
'So she thought of us.' 
'She was upset. She was crying when she came here.' 
Jeremy tries to imagine Vickie crying. The result is unconvincing. 
'Did you expect me to close the door in her face?' Sally is saying. 
'Couldn't she go to a refuge?' 
'I'm her friend!' 
'You hardly know her.' 
'What do you know about it?' 
He backs away, unable to remember her looking like that before. It scares him to enter this unknown territory of anger and recrimination. 'I just thought as you haven't been going to the group for long...' His tone is conciliatory. 
'We do see each other between the meetings.' 
'Ah.' Jeremy wonders whether to lay down an ultimatum - either Vickie goes or he does. Another glance at Sally's expression and he thinks better of the idea. He announces, 'I'm going out again.' 
'You seem to be making a habit of it all of a sudden.' 
He wants to say that she can hardly blame him, but instead he tells her, 'I'm going to the pictures.' 
'You can be so annoying sometimes, Jeremy.' 
'What have I said now?' 
'It's not what you say, it's your attitude.' 
'I don't know what you expect my attitude to be.' 
'More open-minded.' 
'Don't you mean more gullible?' 
'There's no point in talking.' 
'I'll see you later on then.' 
But Sally has already turned away. 
* 
The film is not to Jeremy's taste, though the predominantly teenage audience seems to appreciate it. Audiences have become younger and rowdier since the days when he was a regular picture-goer. Whether this reveals more about his own progress towards middle age than about audiences, he is not sure. One thing is clear - his fellow cinema-goers have an insatiable need to eat, judging by the barrage of tearing sweet wrappers and the pervasive smell of hot dogs and onions. The start of the film after seemingly endless advertisements and trailers brings no diminution in the noise or the smell. He settles deeper in his seat, trying to resurrect such childhood sensations as watching smoke curl in the beam from the projector and letting the seat tilt on its hinge. In a darkened cinema, surrounded by strangers, he feels at ease. He can enter that nirvana where his problems and the drama enacted on the screen come together, unfolding like a dream in which he is an observer. 
It is easier to wax indignant about events at home than to decide what to do about them. Either he waits for Vickie to leave of her own accord, or he must devise a way of forcing her to go without upsetting Sally in the process. The former is easier, requiring no effort on his part; the latter is quicker, though fraught with difficulty. He curses Vickie for putting him in such a position. And he curses the women's group for disrupting his home. The plans which flit through his mind are as ephemeral as the images on the screen - to choose a moment when she is out to put all her belongings on the step, to order her from the house in the style of some latter-day Barrett of Wimpole Street, or to make life so unpleasant that she will not want to stay. The latter appeals to him, though he suspects that if he tried it, Sally would make his own life equally unpleasant. 
Alas, the fantasy world of celluloid provides only a temporary escape. As Jeremy joins the rest of the audience filing out the cinema, the pubs are still open. Turning up his collar against the cold, he gazes with mixed feelings at the cosy interiors. Though any opportunity to delay his return home is welcome, the sensations of the morning are still vivid enough to put him off chancing another drink. Restaurants abound in the main roads around the town centre, the jumble of neon signs creating the illusion of a cosmopolitan lifestyle unfolding in the darkness. Indian restaurants in garish colours jostle with Chinese restaurants resplendent with the trappings of orientalism; restrained Italian restaurants nestle between down-at-heel kebab houses, dark-panelled bistros with candles on the tables, and brightly-lit takeaways. It always surprises him that so many people eat out. His experience of taking Sammy to a restaurant makes him squirm with embarrassment months afterwards. He vividly remembers the waiter skirting the chips and peas spread over the carpet. On this occasion, he resists the blandishments, even if a meal would delay  going home - the fish and chips still sit uncomfortably in his stomach. 
The end of a less than perfect day. In his haste to get out of the house, he left the car keys behind. At first this annoyed him; now it seems more like serendipity. He does not feel lonely, walking by himself when everybody else has company. Being distanced from other people brings him a sense of freedom which grows stronger as he turns his back on the bustle of the main road. It is easier to focus on his problems in the side streets, yet he can view them as an outsider. The walkers of dogs have long since gone to bed. An old man exploring the contents of a skip pauses to watch him suspiciously. The raucous voices of youths kicking a lager can along the gutter grow distant. During the day, such stillness belongs to early risers like milkmen and newspaper boys. He feels at peace in this strange world where the familiar is made different. Edwardian terraces he has driven past countless times without noticing reveal their elegant proportions now that he is on foot. He marvels at the glazed tiles of porches with their patterns of sinuous, surreal flowers. There is time to admire the panelled front doors with their intricate designs in coloured glass. In front rooms family groups are slumped on settees and easy chairs, oblivious to everything except the flickering television screen. The sight of a family sitting together brings him a pang of resentment. Vickie has made that impossible in his house. 
Such tranquillity as he has achieved does not overcome his foreboding as he nears home. He opens the front door with reluctance, not knowing what he will find. At least the warm draught of air in the hall is welcoming. After taking off his anorak, he ventures into the sitting room. It is empty. Only the lingering odours of the small person and the smell of Vickie's perfume serve as reminders of the dramas earlier in the evening. His forebodings seem overdramatic in such tranquil surroundings. Suddenly home means a lot to him. He understands why man has always staked out territory. 
Feeling almost at peace with his fellow man and with Vickie, he sinks on the settee to savour the stillness of a house with sleeping children. It is only then that he notices the blankets neatly folded on the other cushion. Underneath them are sheets, also neatly folded. Tranquillity is banished as he pads determinedly upstairs. All the bedroom doors are closed. A note is pinned to the stripped pine door of his bedroom: 'Your bed-clothes are on the sofa.' He stares, his forebodings vindicated. The idea of a showdown passes through his mind, but he feels too tired. Anyway, he has a nasty feeling that the door might be locked, which would spoil the effect. Instead he goes about his bedtime rituals in the bathroom before creeping downstairs again to make up a bed on the settee. The only consoling thought is that the front door was not bolted against him.

Chapter 4

Jeremy is awakened by the cold. An orange glow from the street lights filters between the curtains. After an unsuccessful attempt to read his watch he contents himself with retrieving the blankets before trying to sink back to sleep. The trouble is that the settee is not designed for use as a bed. If he tries to stretch, he stubs his toes on the armrest. If he hangs his feet over the armrest, they get cold. He sits up once more to drape a blanket over them. As he lies back, he curses Vickie for depriving him of his bed.
It is daylight when he next opens his eyes. Sounds emanate from the kitchen. Half past seven. He groans and sits up, searching for his trousers in case the early riser should be Vickie. To his relief it is Sally who is looking in the cereal packet.
'Had a good night?' he enquires.
'Yes, thanks.'
'I'm glad somebody did.'
No reply.
'Perhaps we ought to get a bed-settee if you're going to make a habit of locking me out of the bedroom,' he jokes, but without any eliciting any response. His tone is defensive as he adds, 'I wasn't all that late.'
'I didn't know when you were going to come in.' 
'I went to the pictures. I told you.' 
'For all I knew, you were having another session in the pub.' 
'Hardly.' He watches her filling a dish with muesli and notes that she doesn't ask whether he wants any. 'So what was the reason?' 
'For what?' 
'For banishing me to the settee.' 
'I told you - I didn't know when you were coming in.' 
'I've been late before.' 
'I didn't want you disturbing me.' 
'It wasn't because Vickie suggested it?' 
'No.' 
'Okay. Fine.' He leans against the worktop, watching Sally sit at the table to eat her muesli. 'It's very quiet around here this morning. Where's Sammy?' 
'With Vickie and Saskia.' 
'Ah.' He wants to add that in his opinion Sammy should be kept well away from Vickie's child-rearing theories, but he judges that this would not go down well. Instead he reminds her, 'It's a long time since we've been to a film.' 
'We could hardly take Sammy.' 
'We could have got a baby-sitter. Anyway, he's old enough to see a Walt Disney.' 
'Why didn't you take him yesterday, if you were so keen.' 
'It wasn't a Walt Disney.' 
'Perhaps you should have chosen a different film.' 
He tries to think of a way to steer the conversation towards safer channels - and fails. As he watches Sally eating, he thinks nostalgically of the days when there was no need to weigh every word. 
'If you want to use the bathroom, I should get in there now,' she advises. 
He accepts the dismissal gratefully and pads upstairs in his socks. The bathroom is indeed free. He locks the door thankfully, savouring those few minutes when no woman will disturb him. Not that he has entirely broken free - Vickie manages to stamp her personality on everything she touches. The bathroom impedimenta fill every available surface. Her scent lingers in the air. He opens the window. Being cold is better than being incessantly reminded of Vickie. 
Sally is in the bedroom when he wants a fresh shirt. The prospect of further confrontation makes him decide not to bother. Instead he goes back to the kitchen and peers inside. To his relief Vickie is not there. What surprises him is that Sammy has remained quiet for so long. Whatever his reservations about the new lodger and her offspring she does have the knack of engaging Sammy's attention. 
Breakfast is a hurried affair. He despises himself for behaving furtively in his own house, but at least he manages to escape from the house without encountering Vickie. For once he enjoys the rush hour traffic. The consequence of his early departure is that he arrives early for his first class. He lingers by the notice-board outside the principal's office, hoping that Dr Hodgkinson will take note of such keenness - until the great man's secretary breaks the news that the commandant has gone to a conference on exploiting motivational skills and will not be in college until the afternoon. A second disappointment is that Andrea is not in the staff room. Mr Wheeler is there. Mr Wheeler is always there, coughing gently in the corner and causing Jeremy to marvel anew at the resilience of the human body. He harbours suspicions that Mr Wheeler lives in the college, wheezing to some forgotten stock room every night, where he has set up a camp bed, a primus and a portable television. Any more nights like the one just gone and Jeremy thinks that he might do the same. 
Alf arrives at ten to nine. He is rubbing his hands. 'By heck, it's chilly out there. I was hoping to see you. I was going to have a word.' 
'You said that yesterday morning,' Jeremy reminds him. 'Haven't seen Andrea, have you?' 
'Pining for her at this time in the morning? You've got it bad.' 
'All I wanted was a word.' 
Alf takes the Sun from his case. 'Something I can pass on if I see her, or is it personal?' 
'Nothing important.' 
'Good luck to you, mate. So long as you remember to make sure her bloke’s smaller than you.' 
'I'm not after her.' 
'No need to justify yourself here.' 
'Just thought I'd sound her out on a few things.' 
'Going for the marriage of minds approach, eh?' 
'Nothing of the sort!' 
'I take it from all this that things still aren't too good at home?' 
'Not too good,' Jeremy agrees. 'Spent the night on the settee.' 
'Sounds pretty serious.' 
'It's not made for sleeping on. I'll tell you that.' 
'Thought you looked a bit haggard.' 
'Could have been worse. She could have been locked me out the house.' 
'Don't even jest about it.' 
'I suppose I was a bit over the top.' 
'Never admit you're in the wrong.' 
'I was out for the evening. When I came back, everybody else had gone to bed. There was a "Keep Out" notice on the bedroom door and a pile of bedclothes on the settee.' 
'You could have pretended you didn't notice.' 
'I didn't fancy an argument.' 
'That's what she was counting on.' 
'I'm sure it was Vickie's idea.' 
'Your erstwhile lodger. You've got problems there, my old mate.' 
'Don't tell me.' 
'You should have put your foot down.' 
'Easy to say.' 
'Now she's wormed her way in, she's going to stay put.' 
'I've worked that out.' 
'I don't know what you can do about it now.' 
'Neither do I - apart from hoping she falls out with Sally.' 
'It might be a long wait.' 
'She's so abrasive, it might not be all that long in coming.' 
'I don't know her. You do.' 
'Alas.' 
'You should have given me a ring if you were out on the town.' 
'It was a spur of the moment thing - after a row.' 
'Say no more.' 
On cue the bell rings. 
'You were going to tell me something,' Jeremy urges, reaching for his case. 
'It can wait - I'll be out lunchtime, so don't go looking for me.' 
Jeremy considers whether he is supposed to ask where his colleague is going, but with a rare burst of conscientiousness, Alf is already heading towards the door, ahead of Mr Wheeler and Mrs Wilberforce who labour in the same direction. Andrea has not appeared, which is disappointing though not unusual - staff do go straight to their classrooms, especially if they are late. Jeremy tries to recall which room Andrea is in first period, though without success. A trek along the corridors on two floors, peering hopefully though the glass panel in each door, proves fruitless and takes more time than he anticipates. The only course open to him without committing the ultimate sin of being late for a lecture is to scuttle to his room without seeing her. As it is, his class is already there when he arrives, breathless and disappointed. It does not occur to him till he sees pens poised over notepads that he has nothing prepared. His lecture notes are still in the bureau, where they have lain since last year. Nor is there time to get a video. He feels the clamminess of panic making yesterday's shirt stick to his back as he makes vain efforts to recall what he should be teaching. Then he thinks how somebody like Alf might approach the same dilemma - get the students to solve the problem for you. That makes him smile. 
'Do you remember what we were talking about last week?' he queries.
'Housing,' vouchsafes a plain girl in the front row - the sort who in his childhood insisted on trailing around with him and talking incessantly. 
'Good. What aspect of housing?' 
'We were going to look at what happened after the First World War.' 
'An interesting period.' He watches the more assiduous students writing every word and he wonders whether to give all his lectures at dictation speed. It would cut down preparation time. 'A time of social upheaval,' he continues. 'Can you think of any reasons for that?' 
He lets the silence stretch for longer than usual, till all the pens are stilled. Nobody gives any sign of answering. 'Think of the social disruption,' he urges. 
'All the men who died?' a girl with spots suggests. 
'Yes, that's part of the disruption, but it wouldn't cause pressure on housing in itself, would it?' 
She looks crestfallen. He feels sorry for her, though he cannot help wishing that she would do something about her spots. Vickie would doubtless see them as symbolic - a stand against woman as sex object - in spite of preferring a flawless complexion herself. 
'The place of women is one thing,' he explains, his thoughts still on Vickie. 'Many of them hadn't worked before the war. Then suddenly they were taking over men's jobs and earning money of their own for the first time. Things couldn't go back to how they were before.' 
It occurs to him that convincing as he might sound he has no more explained the housing shortage than did the girl with spots. Fortunately his audience does not appear to notice. 'New homes were wanted as couples got married,' he explains. 'That always happens after a war. Then there was the lack of maintenance - houses hadn't been looked after for four years, materials were scarce and there was a lack of skilled labour. Added to all that the houses weren't always in the same places as the jobs.' Unwittingly he has speeded up. He watches as most of the class are writing furiously. None of the girls strikes him as particularly attractive. He tries to speculate on what it must be like to have a daughter whom no men lust after. Does it engender a sense of failure, or desperation, or pity? He marvels at the lottery of life. Sometimes he wishes that the human race could give up breeding. 
'"Homes fit for heroes," he continues. Have you heard that saying?' 
Nobody has. 
'That was the slogan politicians coined when the soldiers started coming home. People had high expectations. The trouble was that the politicians couldn't deliver and there was a very real threat of revolution. It happened in Germany and Russia, don't forget.' 
How absurd the thought of a revolution must seem to young people who have known only stability. Fighting in the High Street does not happen. Tanks do not ring the Houses of Parliament. Nobody tries to take over the BBC. Even talk of revolution that he remembers as common currency in the sixties has passed this generation by. 
Pens have stopped moving. Time to talk again, except that no words come. He stares in horror at the faces. When he pulls himself together, he looks away before anybody realises what has happened. Housing after the First World War was his chosen topic for a dissertation. Every relevant piece of legislation was at his fingertips. Now all that knowledge has slipped away. He shivers as senility beckons. 
'Do you ever think about revolution - about wanting to change the existing order by taking to the streets?' he asks, looking at the faces again. Blank incomprehension reveals the answer without the need for words. He feels saddened by such complacency, yet as one who might be overthrown by any insurrection, he cannot help being a little relieved. 
'You're happy with the way things are?' he probes. 
A snort comes from the back. 
'You're not?' he presses. 
'You must be joking.' 
He does not recognise the youth who makes this heartfelt statement, but he sympathises. 
'Can't do nothing about it if we wasn't,' comes another voice from the back. 
'Nothing would make you rise up against the powers that be?' 
'It wouldn't do no good,' retorts the first youth. 
'Not everybody thought that. As I said, there was revolution in the air around 1920. There was a revolution in this country, don't forget, when the king was beheaded and Oliver Cromwell became Lord Protector.' More a question of not knowing than of forgetting, he suspects. Time to bring out the arcane knowledge which every self-respecting lecturer keeps to amaze his audience. 'In the nineteenth century, there were communities set up all around the country by groups of revolutionaries in contact with their comrades in Russia. You can still find traces of some of them.' 
No gasps of astonishment. He decides not to pursue that line. 
'How about the nineteen sixties? Have you heard about the revolutionary movement then?' 
Nobody has, but at least he sees a flicker of interest on the faces now he is talking of a time closer to their own. 
'Paris was the centre. French students took to the streets.' 
'Were you there?' the youth at the back asks. 
'Alas, no - a bit before my student days. The legacy stayed, though. Even in the seventies, to be a student was to be radical. You wanted to make the world into a fairer and a more caring place. You thought change was coming.' 
'And did it?' the girl with spots asks. 
'Not in the way we were expecting. We got Maggie Thatcher.' 
His words elicit none of the knowing smiles which he expected. He suspects that he is on a different wavelength to his students. All he hopes is that what he is saying never gets back to Dr Hodgkinson. 
'There are still people who want to change things,' he points out, aware of his own failure in this respect. 'They've still got ideals.' 
Nobody contradicts him, but the faces are sceptical. 
'Haven't you got dreams?' he appeals. 
'Playing for Spurs,' comes a voice from the back. There is laughter. 
'It's a dream. Nothing wrong with that. But has anybody got a dream that involves changing the world?' 
Silence. 
'Have you thought how a song, or a film, or a television programme can change us?' 
More silence. 
'Can you think of one that's had an important effect on your life?' he pleads. 
One girl grins. 
'Tell us,' he prompts. 
She shakes her head. 
'Go on.' 
'Neighbours,' she announces, bursting into giggles. 
'And how's that changed you?' 
After struggling to regain control, she manages to say, 'It makes me want to go to Australia.' 
'That's fair enough, but it’s changing you, isn't it? Does it make you want to change the world?' 
She shakes her head. 
'Sometimes you listen to something or see something and you can never look at the world the same way again. That's what I was thinking of. Has anybody felt that?' As he scans the blank faces, he considers telling the class of his own dream; but he has already strayed too far from the syllabus. Anyway he suspects that they will not understand. The absence from their world of those pivotal moments which art or intellectual understanding can provide depresses him. It makes him long to offer something which will change their lives - always assuming he can drag them away from Neighbours. 
'Has anybody been to the theatre the recently?' 
Blank looks. 
'Has anybody been to the theatre at all?' 
'I saw Les Miserables,' one girl ventures. 
'Good, good. Anybody been to an art gallery?' 
The back row is getting restless. 
'Who's been to a film lately?' 
'We wait till they come out on video,' the same girl explains patiently. 
'I saw Terminator 2,' comes another voice. 
'Has anybody seen a Fellini film?' Jeremy asks.
More blank looks. 
'Goddard? Roeg?' 
'There's a video called The Rogues,' another girl offers. 
'Has anybody been to a concert?' 
'I saw Michael Jackson,' the girl with spots tells him. 
'I saw Prince,' says her companion. 'He's terrible.' 
'He's better than Michael Jackson.' 
A growing buzz of conversation from the back signals that interest has been finally been lost. 
'Can we get back to housing?' Jeremy appeals. 
'What's Prince got to do with it?' a voice from the back appeals. 
'Nothing.' 
'You're the one who asked about concerts.' 
'Red herring,' Jeremy explains enigmatically. He sees his audience exchange pitying glances, convinced that their lecturer is eccentric. He smiles at the girl with spots and decides that if eccentricity involves believing in a meaning to life beyond Spurs, Neighbours and Prince concerts, then he is proud to be eccentric. 
* 
The mid-morning break comes as a blessed relief. Jeremy seeks out Andrea, which involves not getting embroiled in conversation with Alf who signals his willingness to continue their conversation of earlier in the morning. Alf looks reproachful at being ignored, but Jeremy does not care too much. 
'Didn't see you this morning,' he opens, favouring Andrea with his most winning smile. 
'I wanted to see a couple of the students before we began.' 
'You're keen.' 
'They're the ones who are keen - I didn't want to miss an opportunity like that.' 
Jeremy tries to remember when he last had keen students. It was a long while ago; or perhaps he is past noticing. That possibility disturbs him - it is something to avoid admitting to Andrea. It makes him wonder whether he is too old for teaching. 
'Sometimes I don't think we stretch our students enough,' she is saying. 
'Some of them don't want to be stretched.' 
'That's a bit glib, isn't it? It becomes a self-fulfilling prophesy - they don't want to be stretched, so they're not stretched, which means we think they're incapable of original thought and we feed that impression back to them.' 
'I see what you mean,' he agrees, humbled before such logic. What is obvious is that his innocent remark was a mistake. He tries to make amends by saying, 'At least we'd avoid that with degree courses.' 
'We'd still be running a lot of non-degree courses.' 
'True.' 
'I'm all for the providing more access to degree courses, which is why I volunteered for the working group, but I'd be unhappy if we became a two-tier college - the cream and the rest.' 
'Support the underdog.' 
'If the underdog isn't getting a fair deal.' 
He is glad that Alf has not joined them. To use Andrea's vocabulary, her remark might provoke a display of overt hostility. 
'What do you think?' she is asking. 
'It's a difficult balance.' 
'It's too easy to write people off.' 
'Sometimes they do live down to your worst expectations.' 
'Depends what your expectations are. You sound as though you haven't got many for a lot of our students.' 
'I wouldn't say that,' Jeremy cautions, beginning to wish that after all he had got into conversation with Alf. 
'What bugs me is that they can have some quite original ideas, yet they're so apologetic about it. They don't think anybody's going to take their views seriously.' 
He agrees with them, but diplomacy and lust prevent him from saying so.  He grunts non-committally, hoping that Andrea will not probe his own views too deeply. He gazes in mute appeal towards Alf, who is immersed in the Sun and does not notice. 
'Like when we were talking about inequalities in the work place,' Andrea continues. 'They know the distinction between blue collar and white collar workers isn't breaking down in spite of what politicians say, and that businesses are still top-heavy.' 
'Do they know what to do about it?' 
'Do you?' 
He shakes his head. 
'And we wonder why they get frustrated.' She shakes her head in despair. 
'It's a problem,' he mutters, edging in the direction of Alf. Andrea does not follow. 
'You were deep in conversation with there,' Alf says, abandoning the Sun with reluctance. 
'We were analysing the class struggle.' 
'Thought you were into your chatting up routine and you didn't want me to cramp your style.' 
'It wasn't quite like that,' Jeremy defends himself, not sure whether Alf is being serious. 
'That's how it looked.' 
'I'm sorry.' 
'Everything I'm doing for you, as well.' 
'How do you mean?' 
'I'm giving up my lunch hour for you.' 
'What are you talking about?' 
Unfortunately the bell prevents further revelations. As Jeremy cannot face improvising another lecture, he has to hasten to the library to find a video suitable for the next session. The amazing thing is that using a video never occurred to him before. Fortunately, Days of Hope is on the shelves. He remembers it from a screening during his own student days. Good social history material - if he cannot recall anything useful to say about the General Strike, at least he can talk about socialist filmmaking. Fortunately the video turns out to be long enough to occupy most of the period, leaving him little time to talk and plenty of opportunity to brood on Alf's cryptic remark. When lunchtime comes, he goes in search of his colleague. It proves a fruitless search. Even Andrea is not to be found. He settles disconsolately in the canteen for his meat pie and chips and thinks about how he will get through the afternoon. 
* 
Alf puts his head around the door as Jeremy settles into the first of the first video of the afternoon. 
'See you afterwards, all right?' 
Jeremy frowns, but as the opening credits of Days of Hope appear on the screen again, there is no opportunity to discover what his colleague is talking about. When the class subsides into relative silence, he broods on what Alf's news might be. A flat for Vickie is too much to expect, yet nothing else strikes him as so eminently desirable. He suspects that it will turn out to be something which Alf wants, like a cask of real ale. 
Alf's words slip to back of Jeremy's mind during the course of the afternoon, only to come to the forefront again when it is time to go home. Any excuse to delay his next encounter with Sally is welcome. He waits in the car park, amusing himself by trying to predict when rust will get the better of Alf's car. His suspicion is that only bribery gets it through the test. 
Alf arrives panting. 'Got a bit held up. Been doing you a favour, my old mate.' 
'How?' 
'Told Andrea what we're doing - see whether I could entice her along.’
Jeremy's spirits rise. 'She's coming?' 
'No. She's got something on tonight.‘  
Jeremy's spirits sink again. 'So what are we going?' 
'To turn your dreams into reality.' 
'What are you talking about?' 
'You follow in your car. We don't want to come back here.' 
'It'll be easier if you tell me where we're going.' 
'It's not far.' 
Jeremy goes back to his own car. The light is fading and the rush hour beginning. He concludes that Alf must have discovered a pub which sells cheap beer. The idea has some appeal - whiling away a few hours each day until Vickie goes and he can make amends to Sally. He will have to organise flowers, chocolates and a candle-lit meal. The old, romantic gestures are the best, even with semi-liberated women like Sally. He is not so sure about Vickie. 
Following a car looks easy on television; the reality is different. Jeremy soon regrets bringing his own car. The straight section of dual carriageway presents few difficulties, except for when a bus pulls out. The roundabout is more problematic. Alf's car joins the flow of traffic with ease, but is out of sight by the time Jeremy finds a gap. He slows, ignoring the hooting and flashing lights behind him as he scans each turnoff. He espies his quarry stationary on the ring road, hazard lights flashing. As he pulls in behind, Alf moves off again. 
They leave the main road at the second roundabout, to plunge into the residential streets close to the town centre. This is a part of town where Jeremy rarely ventures. It is not a place where he would care to leave his car. The cramped terraces are entering what looks like a terminal decline. Only the names are familiar - the kerb crawling which goes on there figures regularly in the local newspaper. The possibility passes through his mind that Alf has found a prostitute for him. While keeping a wary eye on the car ahead he tries to work out an excuse for declining the kind offer. Mercifully the red-light district is left behind before the ideal wording comes to mind. Jeremy reverts to the notion of a pub as the most likely destination. The streets are flanked with four-storeyed Victorian town houses, still impressive in their scale, but sad now, with crumbling stonework and overgrown gardens. Lighted windows reveal rooms crudely divided with plasterboard partitions. 
The brake lights of Alf's car draw Jeremy's attention back to more immediate matters. He follows his companion into a mews. Tyres drum on granite setts. The stables are converted into workshops and garages. He slows to a walking pace, threading between haphazardly parked cars. While Alf parks across the doors of a locked garage, Jeremy has to go further along the mews before finding a free space. The damp setts glisten in the sparse streetlights. There are no welcoming lights of a pub. Out of his car, the smell of paint spraying catches his nostrils. He can see Alf talking to a man in a suit, which is strange in itself: Alf despises men in suits. Whatever they are talking about, the conversation ceases as he approaches. 
'So where are we?' 
'What do you think of it?' Alf gestures to the building before them. It is taller than the stables. The frontage of a small factory or engineering workshop looks as though it has been superimposed on a Victorian chapel with a steeply pitched roof. The double doors are padlocked. Flanking them are frosted windows protected by grills. The space between the wire mesh and the glass is stuffed with dead leaves and litter shrouded in dust. The eye-catching feature is on the first floor - a semicircular window extending the width of the building. A faded estate agent's board is nailed above the doors. 
'What is it?' Jeremy asks, suspecting Alf is about to introduce him to an illicit drinking club. 
'What's it going to be?' Alf corrects him. 
'So what is it going to be?' 
'An arts centre.' 
Jeremy looks again. Then he looks at Alf again. 'You're off your trolley.' 
'It's perfect. Wait till you see inside.' 
The man in the suit is battling with the padlock. 
'Bit stiff,' he explains. 
'How long has the place been empty?' Jeremy wants to know. 
'Some while now. With the recession, there's little demand for commercial property.' 
With a property like that Jeremy is not surprised. He watches the estate agent struggling to push open one of the doors. 
'After you,' Alf says. 
Jeremy steps through the accumulation of circulars, yellowing free papers and buff envelopes strewn over the floor. 
'You might need this.' The estate agent offers him a torch. 
On one side of the low-ceilinged lobby are toilets. The beam of the torch shining through one doorway reveals crazed and discoloured white tiles and a long-disused washbasin choked with dust and cobwebs. The light swings across the lobby to a small office on the other side, where linoleum curls on the concrete floor. Foam rubber pushes through the fabric-covered seat of a typist's chair. On the wall is a yellowing calendar with a photograph of a pin-up. 
'I heard about this pub with a stripper. I was cruising around looking for it when I happened to see the place,' Alf explains proudly. 'Came here lunchtime to suss it out and it's perfect.' He pushes open the inner set of double doors, which protest at the unaccustomed use. 'Here we are.' 
Jeremy gazes into a hall which confirms his impression that the building was a Victorian chapel. In the gloom, he can make out the varnished timbers and metal tie rods of the roof. The silhouettes of bars show through frosted windows. Bolts in the floor mark the position of machinery long removed; the concrete is stained with oil. 

'This is the bit I like,' Alf says, picking his way across the litter of newspapers, cans, cartons and machinery casings. Jeremy follows him up a metal staircase to a mezzanine floor over the lobby. 
'What do you think of that?' Alf breathes. 
They are on a level with the semicircular window. Its size brings a luminosity to the space, in spite of the failing light. In Jeremy's mind he is showing Andrea around an art exhibition. Her eyes open wide in wonder at what he has brought to fruition. As long as the image stays with him, he knows that he will be looking for a way of running his own arts lab. 
'What about the rent?' he queries.
Alf leans closer. 'They want two hundred a week, but it's been empty so long, I think they'll be glad to get shot of it.' 
'It's going to need a lot of work.' 
'Get the students on it. Work up their enthusiasm and then you tap in.' 
'Sounds like sex.' 
'Same principle.' 
'It needs thinking about.' 
'So long as you don't leave it too long.' 
'I can't see any other prospective tenants coming along.' 
'It's tailor-made for an arts centre - admit it.' 
'Arts lab., not arts centre.' 
'You could get a film club going - have the projection equipment up here.'  
'That would mean blacking out the window.' 
'So what?' 
'The window's the glory of the place. You want to use the light to show off paintings.' 
'So you like the idea?' 
Jeremy peers through the dusty panes to a mews becoming lost in darkness. 'It's worth thinking about.' 
Alf slaps him on the back. 'That's what I wanted to hear. We can sort out the details later.' 
'I'm not agreeing to anything yet.' 
'You're not going to rush into it. I don't expect you to.' 
They go downstairs to the waiting estate agent who looks resigned to seeing clients lose interest in one of his more difficult properties. They leave him to lock up. 
'Fancy going for a drink?' Alf asks. 
'Don't think I'd better.' 
'Sounds as if she's got you house-trained. You want to watch that.' 
'Getting hungry.' 
'I'm the one who missed lunch, remember - turning your dreams into reality.' 
'I owe you one.' 
'I'll hold you to that.' 
'You don't think this place is a bit out of the way?' 
'Not at all. I mean it's close to the town centre, not far from the buses. What more do you want?' 
'Somewhere to park.' 
'Admittedly it gets a bit crowded down here during the day, but it's empty at night. Anyway, you've got the multi-storey car parks.' 
'They're miles away.' 
'Hardly miles.' 
'Too far for people to walk.' 
'That's defeatist talk.' 
'I'm being practical.' 
'Sure you don't want a drink?' 
'Well...' 
'Come on.' 
Jeremy envisages an evening with Vickie exerting her malign influence and Sally indulging in a mood. A drink does have its attractions. 
'Anywhere you like,' Alf offers, sensing that Jeremy is wavering. 'We don't have to stay long.' 
'I ought to phone Sally.' 
'Of course.' 
'Assuming we can find a decent pub.' 
'The George is our best bet.' 
'Okay.' Jeremy wanders back to his car. In his mind the mews is thronged with the local intelligentsia on their way to a play or an exhibition.  The idea is undeniably exciting. He remembers happenings - that strange hybrid of art and theatre which everybody knew about even if he never met anybody who went to one. Whatever became of happenings? He has never thought about them for years; now a happening seems an appropriate event for an arts lab. 
The pub is empty. Jeremy chooses Perrier. Remarkably, Alf does not prompt him to have anything else. 
'You were quiet back there,' Alf says. 
'It was a bit of a shock. You said you told Andrea?' 
'Thought you'd like her tagging along if I could wangle it, but alas...' Alf turns to his pint for consolation. 
'I must admit the place has got potential.' 
'My feelings precisely.' Alf wipes froth from his mouth. 'If you don't go for it, you'll be kicking yourself for ever after.' 
'If I do, I'll be paying the bills for ever after.' 
'Negotiate. They’ll be glad to get shot of the place.’  
'I suppose I could try.' 
'We're on our way.' 
* 
Sally and Vickie are watching television when Jeremy gets back. 
'Fascinating evening,' he announces. 
Neither woman looks up. They are watching a news report on unemployment. Jeremy suspects that Vickie's solution to unemployment would be to eliminate men. 
'Been to look at a potential arts lab,' he announces.
The women seem hypnotised by the screen, confirming in Jeremy‘s mind the rightness of his project. 
'Think we need one in this town. We need something.' 
'The pub seems to do you these days,' Sally observes, not looking up. 
'We popped in afterwards to talk about things, but we didn't stay. I only had Perrier.' He hesitates before adding, 'I was going to phone you.' 
'But you didn't.' 
'The phone wasn't working. You know what these payphones are like.' 
Sally gives no sign of knowing. 
'Sorry and all that,' he adds. 
'What's an art's lab.?' Vickie asks as the picture on the television switches back to the newsreader. 
'Arts laboratory. Like an arts centre, but as it's privately run it can be more experimental.’ 
'Where is it?' 
'Marchant Mews. Mostly it's mews garages,' he explains, flattered by her interest, 'but one of the buildings is bigger, like an old church hall. And it's got this amazing semicircular window.' 
'And that's the one you were looking at?' 
'There's this mezzanine floor behind the window that would be ideal as a studio or an exhibition area.' 
'You're really thinking of going ahead?' 
He nods. ’It’s certainly worth thinking about.’ 
'That's interesting.' 
The prospect of Vickie as a supporter is as alarming as it is unexpected. He looks at her in a new light, trying to imagine her walking around the exhibition alongside Andrea. 
'How much is it?' she asks. 
'We're negotiating on that,' he answers, suddenly wary. 
She turns back to Sally. 'I said we've been looking for somewhere we can use as a women's centre.' 
'It's too big for that,' Jeremy objects. 
'We need somewhere big - so we can have meetings and theatre workshops.' She turns to Sally again. 'We could start a women photographers' collective - that's something I'd really like.' 
'We've already agreed to take it in principle,' Jeremy announces. 
'Where's the money coming from?' Sally asks. 
'We'd take it on a short-term basis and see how it goes.‘  
'Who's "we"?' 
'Alf and one or two of the others.' 
'So you're spreading the cost between you?' 
'We're sorting it out,' he agrees, wishing that so obvious an idea as sharing costs had occurred to him. 
Sally looks unconvinced. 'What about your job?' 
'What about it?' 
'Are you going to give it up?' 
'I'll see how things go.' 
'You'll see how things go.' 
From her tone he suspects that he is destined for another night on the settee. He ventures, 'Is there anything to eat?' 
'No.' 
'Don't put yourself out.' 
'I'm not going to.' 
'Perhaps I ought go out again then.' 
'There's plenty of food in the kitchen. You can make yourself something.' 
'No thanks.' 
He thinks he hears a snort of contempt from Vickie. Whatever common ground they found belongs in the past. 
* 
Going to McDonalds is one possibility Jeremy considers as he drives from the house - except that his students might be there. He does not mean to return to Marchant Mews, but curiosity draws him once he is close to the town centre. There are no lights near the building he visited so recently. He sits with the engine running, looking at the darkened, semicircular window and letting his mind roam free. He can imagine the frontage floodlit like the cinemas of his youth. Crowds are already gathering for the evening's performance. The idea is not going to be given up easily.

Chapter 5

'So how was the arts centre?' Andrea wants to know.
'Arts lab.,' Jeremy corrects before he can stop himself. 
'Is there a difference?' She does not sound annoyed by his pedantry.
'Arts centres are what local authorities set up for a grateful populace. Arts labs. are by the people, for the people.'
'I'd like to have come along.'
Her interest sends a surge of excitement through him. He fumbles in his pocket. 'I've got the estate agent's blurb, if you'd like to see it.'
The sheet is more crumpled than he expected. He makes an unsuccessful attempt to smooth it out before giving it to her. She leans forward to read it in a way which endears her to him, even if it is the consequence of myopia rather than calculation. 
'Looks great,' she says at last.
'I was pleasantly surprised.'
'So you're going ahead?'
'I'd like to.'
'You should.'
'You think?'
'I just said so, didn't I?'
When he explains, 'It's a big step,' he wants to cry out in vexation at his timidity.
'You were interested enough to get this far.'
Time to redeem himself if he is going to keep up the momentum of Andrea's interest. Casting caution aside, he asks, 'Would you like to see it this afternoon?'
'Love to.'
‘Great.' He claps his hands, which makes Mr Wheeler look as surprised as Andrea. 'After work then.'
'I'll meet you in the car park.'
‘Great. Absolutely great.' He breaks into a grin at his good fortune. 'Do you want a coffee?'
She smiles. 'I've already got one.'
'I meant another one.'
'Not just now, thanks.'
He picks up his notes and fingers them nervously. 'I'll see you at break.'
'Do you want this?' She holds out the sheet from the estate agent.
'Keep it.' He gives a magnanimous gesture which sends his notes sailing to the floor. 'I can get plenty more.'
'Okay. Thanks.'
'Right then.' He crouches to pick up the papers, trying to show his lack of concern that Andrea is looking at him oddly.
'Don't forget we're having a working lunch,' she reminds him as he gets up. 'The working group for the degree syllabus,' she adds, seeing his puzzlement. 'You haven't forgotten, have you?'
'I didn't realise it was today.'
'Our little get-together in Mr Quick's room.' She is smiling.
'Right,' Jeremy repeats, unnerved by this new familiarity. 'I'll get some coffee.'
'For yourself, but not for me.'
'That's it - coffee for myself.'
She looks at her watch. 'You've got three minutes. Don't want to walk into a lecture with a cup of coffee in your hand, do you?'
'Don't I?'
'I don't think Dr Hodgkinson would appreciate it.' 
'You're probably right.' 
'So you'd better hurry.' 
* 
It is not until the morning break that Jeremy encounters Alf. The moment is not propitious - Jeremy is nerving himself to speak to Andrea again. 
'So did you sleep on it?' Alf wants to know, oblivious of his companion's unease. 
‘You don't think Marchant Mews is a bit off the beaten track?' 
'Not really. You can't get any more central without it costing a bomb.' 
'It's not the sort of area people go to.' 
'There's nothing to go there for, is there? That's what we've got to change. Create our audience.' 
Jeremy raises his eyebrows at this reference to we. 
'I was thinking about what we need to do,' Alf continues, checking the points off on his fingers. 'First there's checking up on planning permission - no use going ahead unless we know we're okay there. Then there's the entertainments licence - we'll have to hope they don't want a lot of structural alterations. After that we can go ahead with the lease.' 
Jeremy notices Andrea heading towards them. 
'Once we get the decorating out the way, there's the interesting stuff like publicity and booking artists to worry about,' Alf is saying. 
Jeremy nods dumbly. 
'I reckon we could open in three months barring any problems. What do you think?' 
'I haven't thought that far ahead.' 
'You've got to think ahead when you're booking gigs.' 
'I mean I haven't agreed to anything yet.' 
Alf turns to Andrea. 'You'll have to see this place. It's tailor-made.' 
'It's also derelict,' Jeremy murmurs, but nobody pays attention. 
'We're going after work,' Andrea explains. 
'Great. I'll come along,' says an enthusiastic Alf. 
Jeremy wants to say that there is no need, but the moment for objecting has passed. 
'I happened to notice it when I was down there having the clutch looked at,' Alf is explaining. 'It's a great barn of a place - been empty for years by the looks of it. We should get the lease for a song if we play our cards right.' 
'I've got to dash,' Andrea breaks in. ‘I’ll see you in the car park at four o’clock.‘ She grins conspiratorially at Jeremy.  'See you at lunch time.' 
Both men watch her going to the door. 
'What's happening at lunch time?' Alf queries. 
'The working group.' 
'Rather you than me, me old mate, even if the lovely Andrea is there.' 
'Are you fancying her now?' 
'Not me. Good body - not my type, though. Not feminine enough.' 
'I'd say she was totally feminine.' 
'Too abrasive - put it that way.' 
'You invited yourself along quickly enough.' 
'Didn't realise you had designs there. Sorry and all that.' 
'I'm not going to seduce her.' 
'You want to take her for a drink afterwards, now you've got her sniffing around. Say no more. What I'll do is make myself scarce when she's looked at the place.' 
'Nothing's going to happen,' Jeremy insists, hoping that it might. 
'She's gone for the arts lab. idea, all right.' 
He has to agree. 
'You're onto a winner there.' 
'Makes a change. It seems to be all losers lately.' 
* 
The only advantages of being in the working group are the presence of Andrea and the free sandwiches. The latter prove a disappointment. Jeremy suspects that they are the previous day's leftovers from the canteen. His spirits sink as he scans the agenda. 
'Welcome to you all,' Mr Quick greets them when the sandwiches have been offered around and refused by everybody. He smiles. His teeth have the suspiciously white and even appearance of dentures. Jeremy imagines them grinning in a glass on the bedside table, while a toothless Mr Quick recounts the highlights of the day to his long-suffering wife - like some major innovation in assessment procedures. 
It is difficult not to be fascinated by Mr Quick's teeth. When Jeremy does manage to look away, his gaze is drawn inexorably to Andrea's legs sheathed in blue denim. His fantasies grow more wonderful. 
'Thank you for showing your commitment to the college by giving up your lunch hour.' 
Jeremy drags his thoughts from Andrea. He tries to concentrate on what the deputy principal is saying by visualising him in a different persona. The ruffled hair and oil-stained clothes of domestic man messing about on Sunday hardly fit the dapper figure fingering his tie. More outlandish but intriguing is the thought of Mr Quick in sequined suit and illuminated bow tie, telling jokes in a night club. The incongruousness makes Jeremy stifle a grin as he tries to focus on the conversation flowing about him. 
'...it's going to involve hard work, but I'm confident you'll rise to that. I'm only sorry more people didn't offer their services.' 
'We shall get on far better with a small group,' Mrs Wilberforce informs them with certainty. She looks incomplete without her knitting. 
'I should have liked more volunteers, but as you say, we might get on faster.' Mr Quick looks around as though challenging anybody to disagree. When nobody does, he asks, 'Have we a volunteer to take the minutes?' 
'I shall do that,' says Mrs Wilberforce, producing her shorthand pad. 
'I'm sure I speak for everybody in saying that we're most grateful to you.' 
Jeremy thinks that there must be a proverb about the dangers of obsequiousness, but he cannot bring it to mind. He wonders whether Andrea knows. 
'I shall have to remember my shorthand,' quivers Mrs Wilberforce, alone in appreciating her jest. 
'I'm sure you won't have any problems,' Mr Quick assures her, watching in some alarm at what looks like a seizure. 
'So long as you don't go too fast.' 
'Tell us if you think we are, Mrs Wilberforce.' 
'This is a most exciting development, if I might say so.' 
'Tremendously exciting,' Mr Quick agrees, the rhetoric making his voice throb. 'I think we're privileged to serve the college at a time of such change.' 
Some gesture of support seems expected. Jeremy nods.
'What I hope we can do today is to map out how we're going to proceed,' Mr Quick continues, making an effort to leave his tie alone. 'What we'll aim to produce is an outline of a curriculum for what we're calling social and cultural studies - an outline, you understand, not a detailed curriculum. It's a starting point for discussion, so we can assess our strengths and perhaps pinpoint a few weaknesses.' 
'Like the library,' Jeremy suggests. 'One of our weaknesses,' he explains as puzzled faces turn towards him. 
'Let's not go into detail at this stage.' 
'Thinking aloud,' Jeremy says. 'Sorry.' 
'Looking at the first item on the agenda, one of the most fundamental questions is whether we offer an integrated degree or specialist degrees in single subjects. Perhaps as a newcomer, Mrs Sibley could give an outsider's viewpoint.' 
Andrea crosses her legs. Although she might not mean to be provocative, Jeremy finds the length of her thighs entrancing. He tries to work out what gives women that power, but as always the answer eludes him. He is aware that she is saying, 'It might be difficult to offer specialist degrees with such a small teaching staff - that's my first impression,' and he nods vigorously. 
'Well that's straight from the shoulder,' Mr Quick admits, one hand straying to his tie again. 'That's the sort of thing I want to hear.' He recovers his composure and beams at Mrs Wilberforce as he draws his hand away. 'From the newcomer to one of our most senior staff members. I don't think it's any secret that Mrs Wilberforce has been here longer than me.' 
Mrs Wilberforce beams back. 'You make me sound very old,' she simpers. 
'I don't think anybody could call you that.' 
'I try to keep up to date.' 
'Nobody has a younger mind than you,' Mr Quick agrees. 
'I think people do want specialist degrees, not bits of this and that.' Mrs Wilberforce waves her hand, as though dispersing stray bits of this and that which have wafted her way. 
'And Jeremy - what's your opinion?' Mr Quick turns to the final member of his working group. No eulogies this time. 
'I think we have to be pragmatic and start with what we can manage.' Jeremy is pleased to see that Andrea is nodding vigorously. 
'We need to work with the resources we have,' Mr Quick concedes, 'but don't let's be so pragmatic that we lose sight of long term goals. Let's have vision.' 
The word vision is like a scalpel, exposing Jeremy's own concerns. The arts lab. is his vision. He notices that Andrea is frowning. 
'You're not happy with that?' Mr Quick queries, attuning to her mood with surprising speed. 
'As I said, it's a question of what we can do. I'm sure we'd all like to do a lot of things.' 
Jeremy studies her thighs as she shifts position. His dreams grow ever more lurid. 
Mr Quick is musing, 'If I sent a questionnaire around the staff so they could give their areas of expertise, we'd get a better picture of staff resources. We might find that we have a huge range of underused talent.' 
'An excellent idea,' Mrs Wilberforce agrees, making a note on her shorthand pad. 
Jeremy is tempted to say that most talents are likely to be underused in trying to teach cretins, but fortunately Andrea intervenes to ask, 'Have all the staff got degrees?' 
While Mr Quick looks uneasy, Jeremy settles back in pleasurable anticipation. Mrs Wilberforce's qualifications have long remained an enigma to him. He hopes that if nothing else comes of all the talking, at least this mystery might be solved. 
'If we have a degree programme, we need a graduate staff to teach it,' Andrea explains in tones she might use on her more backward students. 'It's all very well sending a questionnaire to staff, but what matters is what they're academically competent to teach, not what they're interested in.' 
Mr Quick looks intent on strangling himself with his tie, but he manages to say, 'I think we can sort out things like that when we get the questionnaires back.' 
'I should have thought it was fundamental.' 
'I wouldn't quite say that.' 
'I've made a note of the questionnaire,' Mrs Wilberforce announces. 
'That's splendid,' says Mr Quick, visibly thankful for the intervention. 'Absolutely splendid.' He gives his rescuer a strained smile. 
'There's another aspect of staff resources which worries me,' Andrea continues remorselessly. ‘If we’re going to offer degrees, what happens to the other courses?’ 
Jeremy wants to kiss her. He loves the way she gazes almost compassionately at Mr Quick before putting the boot in. 
'Some expansion of our resources may be needed,' Mr Quick says cautiously. 
'Where can we expand to? We're short of the rooms as it is.' 
The deputy principal looks happier now that he has reached safer ground. He gestures expansively, as one who has the world to give away. 'Another campus. We might have several campuses.' 
Andrea leans forward. Jeremy likes that. It means that she is moving in for the kill. 'We've already got financial cutbacks, so how are we going to get approval for new buildings, new furniture, more staff - ' 
Mr Quick holds up his hand to stem the flow.  'As I said, we have to expand.' 
'What's the use of talking about expanding if we don't know there's any more money available?' 
Jeremy feels sorry for Mr Quick as the safe ground turns out to be illusory. 
'There is a budget - ' 
'You're saying the degree programme has been budgeted for?' 
'Yes.' 
'Shouldn't we see the budget?' 
'It's confidential.' 
Andrea sinks back in exasperation. 
'Can we get back to the agenda?' Mr Quick pleads. 
'This seems fundamental to me.' 
Mrs Wilberforce waits with pencil poised for a victor to emerge. 
'Can we get back to the agenda?' the deputy principal insists, giving his tie a final tug. Mrs Wilberforce nods in agreement. She has stopped writing. 'Would you like to draft the questionnaire, Mrs Wilberforce?' he appeals. 
'Certainly, Mr Quick. I'm pleased that we've got something decided at last.' 
He relaxes at this show of support. 'Do feel free to take a sandwich, all of you. We can't have staff working through the day without any lunch.' 
Nobody moves. 
'Or wine? Mustn't forget the wine.' Like a conjuror who has been saving his best trick, Mr Quick produces a bottle from behind his chair. This comes as something of a surprise as the deputy principal has never shown himself interested in wine. 
The ladies' glasses are filled first. Jeremy, who has shifted from abstinence to cautious respect for alcohol since the terrible evening, accepts the small measure which Mr Quick dispenses. He suspects that the wine is left from a previous meeting; when he tastes it, he understands why Andrea put down her glass after a single sip. 
'So are we continuing with the present courses?' he asks, deciding that this is the sort of hard-hitting question which Andrea will appreciate. 
Mr Quick smiles as if it is something which he anticipated. 'It's back to resources for that one,' he assures his audience. 'If we get our budget approved, including all our plans for expansion, then we shall be in a position to retain all our existing courses.' 
Andrea turns her eyes to the heavens. 'Can I get this right? If we go ahead with expansion, then we keep all our existing courses?' 
'We hope to,' Mr Quick agrees, his confidence waning audibly. 
'In which case as we're already stretched, we'll have to take on a completely new teaching staff for the degree programme.' Before Mr Quick can reply, she sweeps on, 'If on the other hand we rely on existing staff, then all the courses we offer to the local community will be cut back so we can attract students from other areas.' She leans back, daring anybody to argue. 
Mr Quick purses his lips. 'I think you're looking at things in stark terms.' 
'That's what it’s going to come to.' 
'I wouldn't quite say that.' 
'I don't see any alternative.' 
'There might be a need to look at the more effective use of our existing human resources - ' 
Andrea looks exasperated. 'If we're fully committed already, how can we take on a degree programme?' 
Mr Quick puts up his hand. 'Don't let's get bogged down in minutiae.' 
With Mrs Wilberforce nodding in support, Mr Quick clears his throat in the manner of one about to go on at some length. 'I want to tell you my vision,' he begins. 'I think it's important to look ahead to the sort of college we expect to see in ten years.' 
Jeremy notices the throb of pride in Mr Quick's voice and tries not to smile. He wonders whether he should point out that the deputy principal's vision may not be universally shared. 
'What I see,' Mr Quick continues, a faraway look coming into his eyes, 'is a college affiliated to a university. It's going to be based on this campus, but with satellite sites for subsidiary subjects such as business practice and art and design.' 
At least social and cultural studies are not classed as subsidiary subjects, Jeremy notes. 
'I see us catering not for narrow local needs, but for a much wider community,’ Mr Quick sweeps on. ‘We need to think about enriching people's lives, not just giving them job skills. That's why I don't want to see this as an either/or situation. We're a powerhouse of ideas and expertise for the local community.' 
Jeremy tries to imagine the Chinese owner of the fish and chip shop tapping into that powerhouse of ideas and expertise, but his thoughts drift back to his arts lab. He thinks of it as a more promising focus for the community. He likes the phrase a focus for the community. It would look good on promotional literature. 
'We'll draw students from all parts of the country,' Mr Quick warms to his theme. 'We're going to be judged by the quality of our students. Quality is the watchword. We're going to become a centre of academic distinction in our chosen subject areas. You may feel that's ambitious, but can we aim for anything less?' 
The rhetoric deserves a round of applause, Jeremy decides, except that Andrea does not allow time for that. 
'Academic distinction depends on research,' she points out in vexed tones. 
Mr Quick spreads out his hands in the manner of an Old Testament patriarch. 'We shall have research.' 
'We haven't got the facilities, the time, or arguably the expertise.' 
'I wouldn't agree about the expertise, but as to facilities and time, those are the very things we're working towards with meetings like this.' 
'You can't just start up a course and expect to offer a degree that's comparable to those of established universities.' 
'Why not?' 
Andrea throws up her hands. 
'There's a lot to do,' Mr Quick continues, seizing the tactical advantage. 'We've got to decide what facilities we need, as you quite rightly say, the human resource implications, the curriculum, right down to what provision we make for student accommodation.' 
'Student accommodation is most important,' Mrs Wilberforce agrees. 'Most important.' 
'I think it's a little early to worry about that,' Mr Quick tells her gently. 'We haven't got any students yet.' 
'We haven't got any courses,' Andrea observes. 
'We need to think about accommodation as a priority,' Mrs Wilberforce insists. 
'Obviously we shan't have the same emphasis on research as a university,' Mr Quick intervenes, 'though I'd like to think that in time we shall develop a reputation in that field. I can even see the day when we award our own degrees, but our first tasks as you notice from the agenda are finding a university to validate us and then developing a submission. They want a lot of detail, you know. Have you seen a submission?' 
Jeremy remembers one from his polytechnic days, but he remains silent. 
'It's no flimsy leaflet,' Mr Quick assures them, his gestures resembling those of a fisherman describing the one that got away. 'We're talking about several volumes.'
'There's no point in talking about validating courses when we don't know what we're offering,' Andrea insists. 
'Obviously we're going to offer a full range of degrees.' 
Andrea clenches her hands. 'We can't do that until we know what expertise is available.' 
'There are some disciplines I think we'd all agree about. Can I call them the core disciplines?' 
'Such as?' 
'English literature, obviously.' 
Jeremy knows that Mr Quick has a degree in literature, though the current literary interests of the deputy principal appear to be satisfied by the Daily Telegraph. 
'Languages are extremely important,' Mrs Wilberforce agrees. 
'And we need history,' Jeremy puts in, self interest being the order of the day. 
'I don't think there's any doubt about that,' Mr Quick agrees. 
'With respect, I don't think we're going to get funding for arts subjects,' Andrea intervenes. 
Jeremy loves the phrase 'with respect'. It signifies not being able to state bluntly that your opponent is talking rubbish. He watches with interest to see how Mr Quick’s response to this new line of attack. 
'We must have core disciplines,' the deputy principal says, looking surprised. 
'But things like literature aren't relevant these days, are they?' 
There is an awful silence. Jeremy is not sure whether Andrea has understood the implications of what she has said. She compounds her sin by adding, 'If you want funding these days, it's better if you offer computer sciences or business studies.' 
'You can't do everything with computers,' Mrs Wilberforce informs them. 
'Very true,' Mr Quick agrees, nodding sagely. 'We still need core disciplines.' 
'Computer science is one of today's core subjects,' Andrea insists. 
'I was referring to disciplines, not subjects. This is a degree we're talking about.' Mr Quick looks happier on the high moral ground. 'We're educating students, not cramming their minds with facts.' 
Jeremy tries to gauge Andrea's reaction. Her face has reddened, though whether from anger or embarrassment is not clear. 
'What sort of disciplines?' she asks in a dull voice. 
'Literature, philosophy, history...' Mr Quick's examples tail off as he sees her shaking her head. 'I'm mindful of the current needs of the market, of course. None more so.' 
Jeremy smiles. Words like market and resources have studded the deputy principal's speech since he attended a one week management course. 
'What we’ve got to remember is that we're solely concerned with putting forward a curriculum for social and cultural studies,' Mr Quick finishes. 
'Social sciences and humanities as they used to be called,' Jeremy adds, but nobody pays attention. 
'But then you're creating the sort of rigid demarcations we should be trying to overcome,' Andrea says. 
'I'm sure that's correct in theory,' Mr Quick agrees, 'but we've got to accept the reality of the situation - the way the college is organised - ' 
'Surely we're trying to reorganise it?' 
'There have to be some departmental boundaries.' 
'Even if that gets in the way of effective course integration?' 
'There's no reason why it should.' 
Jeremy's gaze alights on the agenda. He has ticked the first of the thirteen items. He finds his attention drifting towards the arts lab. again and more particularly to what Andrea will think of it. He hopes she will realise its potential; in its present state, an empty workshop has little to offer. He sneaks another glance at her denim-clad thighs and wonders whether his sexual instincts will quieten by the time he gets to Mr Quick's age. If he rises to the elevated rank of deputy principal, perhaps he too will become more concerned with markets and resources than with legs. 
Mr Quick glances at his watch. 'I think we'll have to finish there.' He beams at his colleagues, all differences forgotten. 'What can I say? This has been a most productive meeting - lots of views aired, which is essential to the process. I hope we'll be able to carry on like this.' 
'So what have we decided?' Andrea asks. 
'I don't think we expected to decide anything at this stage - we're exploring perspectives.' 
'We all seem to have different ones.' 
'What I'd like is for us to map out the sort of degree programmes we envisage. That should give us a detailed basis for discussion.' 
'It's not going to get us anywhere,' Andrea murmurs. 
'When is the next meeting?' Mrs Wilberforce enquires. 
'The most important detail nearly missed, if it wasn't for Mrs Wilberforce.' Mr Quick consults his diary. 'How about the same time next week?' 
Nods of agreement. Andrea makes a note in her Filofax. Jeremy tries to see what else is written there, but without success. 
'What do you think?' he ventures when he and Andrea are in the corridor and Mrs Wilberforce has lumbered out of earshot. 
Andrea pulls a face. 'What can you say?' 
'Not much.' 
'Quite. I think I'll be joining you in this arts lab. project.' 
Jeremy wishes that she would. 
'You haven't forgotten this afternoon, have you?' she asks. 
'It's in the forefront of my mind,' he assures her with complete honesty, making a mental note to ring the estate agent. She gives him a funny look, but he does not care. 
* 
Jeremy's excitement increases through the afternoon. To avoid the distraction of lecturing he shows videos to his classes. The depressing thing is that they prefer them. The age of the lecturer has passed, he concludes regretfully. Long live the video. He further risks incurring Dr Hodgkinson's displeasure by dismissing the last group five minutes early to ensure that he arrives at the car park before Andrea. All the anxiety of waiting for his first date is rekindled. His reaction is out of all proportion to the occasion, he tells himself. He has a partner.  He is a father. But his attempts to rationalise his situation are of no avail. 
When Andrea does appear, relief surges through him. After the initial elation, his muscles feel weak, as though they might collapse if he tries to move. He grins, hoping that his nervousness will not show. 'Shall we go in my car?' 
'Then I'll have to come back to collect my car.' 
'Do you want a coffee or something first?' 
'I'd like to see the place before it gets dark. And we've got to wait for Alf, remember.' 
Jeremy remembers. He clings to the hope that if he cannot entice her for a coffee, at least they can continue talking. Alas even this ploy fails, for Andrea prefers to wait in the comparative warmth of her car. As it seems presumptuous to join her, Jeremy sits in his own car and broods on ways to jettison Alf. He has hardly grappled with the problem before Alf emerges from the college building. Jeremy starts the engine and sounds his horn; Alf makes a suitable gesture in return. 
Once again Alf leads the convoy. Jeremy pays more than usual attention to his mirror to reassure himself that Andrea is keeping up as they negotiate the roundabout and the one-way system. They park at the entrance to the mews. 
'Not the most promising surroundings,' Alf admits when the three of them are together. 'Still, beggars can't be choosers. It's central, it's cheap and the building itself is great.' 
Andrea makes no comment as she surveys the battered garage doors and the street lights with bulbs protected by metal cages. Jeremy watches, trying to attune to her mood. Dusk cloaks the less pleasing aspects of the mews, lending it an aura of romance. The image of the darkening stables with their textures of brick, wood and granite could belong in a photograph. He walks beside her, doing his best to ignore Alf's running commentary while imagining that he is alone with her.  The estate agent who is waiting for them shatters that illusion. Estate agents have no place in the world of dreams. 
The little company wait silently while the ritual struggle with the padlock takes place. As Andrea gazes up at the semicircular window, Jeremy knows that it has cast its magic over her. She is hooked. 
Andrea enters first. Jeremy cannot help bringing to mind a fairy princess entering her castle, in spite of the lobby's woeful lack of enchantment. She picks her way across the junk mail to the inner doors. With Jeremy at her side she gazes into the darkening hall. 
'What was it?' she queries. 
'Some sort of engineering works,' comes Alf's voice from behind them. 
'I think it must have been a chapel before that,' Jeremy adds. 
His words move her more than he expected. She is silent for a moment, attuning to the idea. When she speaks, her voice is soft, so the ghosts will not be disturbed. 'You can just imagine some Victorian preacher telling his congregation how to be saved.' 
'Sort of theatre with hymns.' 
That makes her smile. 'You're right. I've never thought of a chapel like that.' 
'The church is all theatre, isn't it?' 
She ventures into the hall without answering. Jeremy keeps by her side. 
'What's upstairs?' she asks, her whisper echoing beneath the high, wooden ceiling. 
'There's a mezzanine floor. I thought we could use it as an art gallery or a studio.' 
'Can I go up?' 
'Of course.' 
The estate agent shines his torch on the steps. Jeremy is reminded of minor royalty as Andrea clatters up the iron staircase, avoiding the dusty handrail. He follows before Alf can seize the initiative. At the top he pauses, entranced by her silhouette against the semicircular window. 
'It's great,' she breathes, staring around in wonderment. 'You can really imagine things happening here.' 
'It's got the light.' 
'If you use it as a studio, I'll be here all the time.' 
'I didn't know you were a painter.' 
She flashes a conspiratorial glance at him. 'There are lots of things you don't know about me.' 
Before he can savour the delicious frisson of her remark, Alf joins them, shattering the intimacy with his brash, 'We could really make something of this place.' 
'That's what I was saying,' Andrea agrees. 'It's got atmosphere.' She turns back to Jeremy. 'What you ought to do is to have a really good opening exhibition that's going to attract the national critics.' 
Jeremy stares, thrown off balance by this enthusiasm. 
'You want to get things off to a really good start,' she presses. 'That's the way to get grants.' 
'There's a lot to do before then.' 
'You've got to have a vision.' She mimics Mr Quick. 
'We'll have to make sure he keeps it,' Alf assures her as she goes to the window to peer through the dusty panes. 
'All help gratefully received,' Jeremy murmurs. 
'What sort of help do you want?' she asks, looking back at him. 
'Anything you can manage.' 
'I might not have all that much time - I'm still finding my feet at college.' 
'You don't want to get hung up about that,' Alf tells her in avuncular tones. 
'It's all right for you - all you have to do is repeat last year's lectures.' 
'You mean everybody knows?' Alf sounds genuinely surprised. 
'I'll do what I can,' she assures Jeremy. 
'That's what I like - a willing girl,' Alf says, making her scowl. 'Don't take any notice. Sexist pig, that's me.' 
'How about an exhibition of your paintings?' Jeremy intervenes before an argument can develop. He is touched that this time Andrea is the one to look flustered. 
'I don't think I'm exactly exhibition material. What you want is an up and coming artist.' 
'Know of any?' 
'Why not try the art and design department?' 
Alf laughs. 'Have you seen their stuff? You'd frighten off your audience before you start.' 
'Don't you think we should encourage local initiative?' Andrea is in combative mood again. Jeremy treasures those moments of whimsy which Alf has destroyed. 
'There are too many second-rate initiatives,' Alf announces scornfully. ‘What we ought to go for is a photography exhibition.' 
'You don't happen to be a budding photographer, by any chance?' Andrea asks. 
'I am as a matter of fact, but I wasn't thinking about showing my stuff,' says the photographer modestly. 
'It's an idea,' Andrea concedes. She turns back to Jeremy. Her tones brightens as she says, 'I'm impressed - it’s going to be great.' 
Jeremy feels a surge of renewed enthusiasm. 
'When are you hoping to open?' she wants to know. 
'I haven't got the lease yet.' 
'You must take it, Jeremy.' 
The first time that she has called him by his Christian name. 
'I think I shall - barring any legal hitches.' he assures her, casting aside his qualms. 
'We'll need a band,' says Alf. 
'Eh?' 
'For the opening - a rock band to get the kids in. Make the thing go with a bang.' 
'You organise it then.' 
'If you want me to.’ 
'I'd stage a really good art exhibition,' Andrea advises. 
‘Most important,’ Jeremy agrees, 'but it's too early to think about events.' 
'You've got to think ahead,' Alf insists. 'Your top bands organise their tours months ahead - years sometimes.' 
'They also split up.' 
'That's a risk.' 
'Anyway, if we want to encourage local talent, it ought to be a local band.' 
'If we had any decent local bands.' 
'At least they won't be going on tour and you can get them at short notice.' 
'They also break up at short notice. They graduate to being teachers or double glazing salesmen.' 
'Perhaps we ought to go for something more intellectual. At least string quartets stay together.' 
'If you want to kill the thing stone dead, you go ahead.' 
'Anyway, it's all a bit academic at the moment.' 
'It will be if you don't get your first season's events planned pretty sharpish.' 
'Are you putting money into this?' 
Alf looks embarrassed. 'The trouble is the mortgage.' 
'The mortgage.' 
'You know how it is.' 
But Jeremy is not listening. He watches Andrea who seems enraptured by some inner vision. 'Have you got an idea?' 
At first it appears that his words have not registered, but she jolts into awareness and smiles at him. 'I was just thinking what a chance you've got.' 
'Chance?' 
'To do what you really want.' 
Jeremy shrugs modestly. 
'I admire you,' she confesses. 
He mutters that there is no need. 
'I think there is - taking on something like this. Not many people would do it.' 
Seize any opportunity, he tells himself as he asks, 'I suppose you don't fancy a quick drink - so we can talk about this art exhibition?' 
Her face clouds. 'I'm really sorry. I'd like to, but we've got people coming tonight.'
'Another time then - so I can pick your brains.' 
'That'll be great.' 
'I wouldn't mind a quick one,' Alf says and Jeremy cannot suppress a groan. 
* 
Jeremy looks forward to a quiet evening. He hopes that Vickie will have gone, though he knows that is a vain hope. Sure enough, the sight of the buggy greets him as he opens the door. The television is on. He suspects that Vickie tries all the channels until she comes to one with a female newsreader. Sally is preparing food in the kitchen, which is encouraging. She glances at him without smiling, which is less encouraging. He toys with the idea of kissing her, but she turns away before he has made up his mind. He notices that she is making another salad. 
'Sorry I'm a bit late.' 
No response. 
'So what have we got for dinner?' 
'We had our main meal lunchtime. There's some curry in the freezer.' 
'What are you making now?' 
'A salad. What's it look like?' 
'You mean Vickie's going to get through that lot?'
'Hardly.' 
'Have you got people coming?' 
'It's not for meals on wheels.' 
'More feminists?' 
'Any objection?'
The pleasures of defrosted curry and an evening of bumping into dungaree-clad feminists on their way to the bathroom have to be weighed against the lure of fast food. Fast food wins. 'I'll have something out,' he announces. 
'Please yourself.' 
'Where am I sleeping tonight?' 
'The same place as last night - unless you apologise to Vickie.' 
'Christ.' 
'You shouldn't take Jesus's name in vain, daddy,' Sammy says, drawn by the voices. 
'Quite right,' Jeremy agrees, reflecting that if Vickie has made Sammy bored with the television, she has achieved something. 'As I'm going out, it won't happen again.' 
'Can I come?' 
'It's not the fish shop this time. I've got to find a bed for the night.' 
At least that makes Sally take notice. 
* 
'Well, well.' Alf opens the door further. 'Refugee from the forces of feminism.' 
'It was getting a bit heavy,' Jeremy agrees. 
'Say no more. Come on in.' 
Jeremy has not visited Alf's home before. It is in a district of semi-detached houses from the town's late Victorian heyday, split into flats popular with single people and young couples. The hall betrays the awkwardness of a hasty conversion. He is always intrigued how people's public images match their lifestyles. In Alf's case, the two are in accord. The living room is sparsely furnished, with back copies of the Guardian crammed under the television and the shelves   on either side of the chimney stacked with paperbacks. A framed pencil sketch hangs over the fireplace. 
'James Joyce,' Alf explains, following Jeremy's gaze. 'I look at him and he stops me being too much of a lazy slob.' 
'I thought I did that,' says a plump girl appearing in the kitchen doorway. She is Sally's age and more amiable than the feminists. She reminds Jeremy of those motherly teachers in his infants school. 
'You've met Claire before, haven't you?' 
Jeremy nods in greeting. 'Sorry to disturb your evening.' 
'Don't worry about it,' she assures him. 
'So what's up?' Alf asks. 'You weren't very coherent on the phone.' 
'Let him sit down first,' chides Claire. 
Jeremy tries his best smile on her. 'The big favour is could put me up for the night?' 
Claire glances at Alf. 'I think we can manage that, so long as you don't mind roughing it.' 
'Anything,' Jeremy says with the rashness of desperation. 
'Simon might crawl over you in the night. Simon's the cat,' she adds, seeing his alarm. 
'He likes to burrow under the sheets,' Alf explains. 'He's gone a bit funny since he was neutered. Can't blame the poor sod.' 
Jeremy wonders whether he should have made his peace with Sally. 
'Sit yourself down,' Claire urges again. 'Do you want a coffee or something?' 
'I've got an even better idea,' says Alf. 'I'll uncork the something, you get the glasses.' 
Jeremy remembers the last occasion when he drank with Alf. He thinks of protesting, but he does not want to upset his hosts. Anyway, he trusts to Claire's moderating influence. He suspects that Alf is more under his wife's thumb than he would care to admit. As Alf pours the wine, Jeremy settles in one of the easy chairs, enjoying the signs of domestic harmony around him. The room is peaceful as they sit companionably around the living flame gas fire. Alf is curled on the rug by Claire's feet. 
'Alf tells me you're starting an arts centre,' Claire says. 
'An arts lab.' 
'What is the difference?' 
He explains, again. 
'Run by the people, for the people,' Alf adds. 
'Sounds a good idea. We need something in this town.' 
'This is going to be its renaissance,' Alf tells her with the fervour of a second- hand car salesman. 
'Things are still at the idea stage,' Jeremy cautions. 
'Don't weaken.' Alf stares solemnly at him. 'Keep your vision.' 
Jeremy giggles. 
'Have you been down the pub already?' Alf asks. 
'Only had a couple of lagers with my meal. I indulged in a Chinese meal in solitary splendour, seeing as I'm not allowed to eat at home.' He sees his hosts looking uncomfortable. 'It's not strictly true. I'm allowed to eat there, but I get the leftovers - I’m a bit like the cat.' 
'Around here it's Simon who gets the best of everything,' Alf says, prompting Claire to poke him with her foot. 
'Simon gets bog standard cat food. You can have it as well if you want.' 
'Yesterday he was tucking into salmon.' 
'Only a bit of the salmon bake that was left over from the day before.' 
'Anyway, what happened at home?' Alf asks, turning back to Jeremy. 
'Vickie seems to have settled in permanently.' 
'Vickie's this rabid feminist friend of Sally,' Alf explains to Claire. 
'Complete with small person in tow,’ Jeremy adds. ‘I wouldn't mind so much if I'd been asked. And all her feminist friends are coming tonight.' 
'How were things before Vickie and small person landed on your doorstep?' Claire wants to know.
'Strained.' 
'So it wasn't just Vickie?' 
'She brought things to a head.' 
'Shouldn't you talk about it?'  
'He is talking about it,' Alf points out. 
'With Sally, I mean.' 
'Difficult,' Jeremy says. 
Alf looks up at his wife. 'There you are.' 
'In the end you have to talk,' she insists. 
'At the moment anything we say turns into an argument.' 
'You need a cooling-off period,' Alf diagnoses. 
'Like several months.' 
'One thing about women - a few days of a cold bed makes them more amenable.' Alf slops his drink as Claire prods him again with her foot. 'You realise our students look up to us as paragons and here we are unravelling our messy little lives like every out-of-work labourer?' 
'Snob,' Claire says. 
Alf licks wine off the back of his hand. 'Nothing snobbish about it - just fact.' 
'This man used to be the committed socialist,' she reveals. 'Every demo, every meeting, there he was. Now he doesn't even bother to go to Labour Party meetings.' 
'You grow out of the activist stage,' Alf defends himself. 
'I bet your students have got your number - has-been jack the lad and armchair socialist.' 
'Anyway, what about my old mate Jeremy here? Are we going to give him food and succour in his hour of need?' 
'It looks as if we're getting him pissed,' is Claire’s verdict. 
'There's a way to go yet. Let's fill them up again.' 
Jeremy tries to protest, but to no avail. He gazes helplessly at Claire. Women never allow you to drink too much. 
* 
'Time to call a halt,' Claire announces when the third bottle is empty. 
The drink has already done its job of anaesthetising Jeremy against his worries. He grins at her in wan gratitude, as he might try to thank a dentist who has dealt with a troublesome tooth. 
'It's early,' Alf protests. 
'What is the time?' Jeremy asks. 
'Ten-thirty,' Claire tells him. 
'Good Lord.' 
'Time flies when you've got plenty of booze. I'll get the bed ready.' Claire bustles out the room with a display of energy which makes Jeremy feel dizzy. 
Alf holds up the bottle. 'You don't want another one while she's...' 
'Better not.' 
'It doesn't keep well once the bottle's opened.' 
'I think we've had enough.' 
'You're probably right. Hard day's teaching tomorrow.' 
'Alas.' 
'And we're going to get this application for planning permission sorted out.' 
'Are we?' 
'The vision. Remember the vision.' 
Jeremy tries to remember. 
'I'm sorry.' says Alf.
'What for?' 
'If I cramped your style when we were with Andrea.' 
'No problem,‘ Jeremy lies.' 
'Well, anyway...' 
'Forget it.' 
Bed proves a misnomer for blankets on the settee. Jeremy regards it with mixed feelings. 
'Pleasant dreams,' Claire calls as the couple retreat. 
Stripped to his underclothes, Jeremy settles into his improvised bed. It proves surprisingly comfortable, like being laid to rest in cotton wool. He tries to review the day, but his mind is befuddled. Gurgles from the central heating disturb the stillness. Muffled voices come from the bedroom. He suspects that he is being talked about. A rustling sound comes from close by. Something heavy lands on his legs and kneads the bedclothes. Simon has arrived, but by this time, Jeremy is past caring.

Chapter 6

Jeremy makes a point of arriving punctually at Dr Hodgkinson's office. To be summoned by the great man reawakens feelings experienced on schoolboy visits to the headmaster. Dr Hodgkinson often drops in on his staff at their work, usually at inconvenient moments; being asked to visit him is ominous.
The office has been transformed since Mr Day whiled away his remaining years till retirement by showing off his collection of geraniums to anybody who cared to visit. In the brave new world of Dr Hodgkinson casual visiting is discouraged. Jeremy gazes around with interest as the principal continues signing letters, pretending to be unaware of his visitor. Every accoutrement of the modern office has been installed, though regrettably the geraniums have gone. A computer whirs in the corner where once trailing ivy flourished. Charts festooned with coloured stickers adorn the walls. One is a year planner showing examinations and meetings. The purpose of the others is less obvious. One is a graph - the line points upwards, albeit with a few hiccups; Jeremy leans close enough to read student numbers printed along the base. Beside it is a bar chart, the bars peaking and then becoming shorter. As Jeremy tries to work out which aspect of college life has undergone such a reversal, Dr Hodgkinson shakes his head over the last letter, replaces the top on his fountain pen and looks up. Feigned surprise is replaced by a smile. 
'Glad you could come, Jeremy.'
Jeremy wonders what would have happened if he refused. He shifts surreptitiously from one leg to the other, suspecting that he has varicose veins.
'Sit down. Don't stand on ceremony.' Dr Hodgkinson has assumed a tone which Jeremy characterises as exuding bonhomie, but implying that things need sorting out. Jeremy settles uneasily on the edge of one of the two chairs intended for guests. He moves it experimentally, half expecting it to be screwed to the floor to maintain the appropriate distance from the desk.
'Thought we ought to have a few words. I'd like to get along to the senior common room more often, but it doesn't happen.' A note of regret has entered principal's voice. 'Have to put it down to the pressures of administration, I'm afraid.' He gestures to a modest collection of folders in his out tray, which hardly lend credibility to his excuse. The other tray is empty.
'Curse of our times,' Jeremy agrees, judging that this is a moment to show sympathy.
'What I'd like is to get back to proper teaching, but it hasn't happened yet.'
'Perhaps when things settle down.'
'In this job you wonder whether things will ever settle down.'
Jeremy’s foreboding increases. The long exchange of pleasantries does not bode well. Dr Hodgkinson is skirting a difficult topic.
'Not really a college matter I wanted to see you about.' The principal leans back, hands clasped in front of his waistcoat, weighing his words as Jeremy raises his eyebrows expectantly. 'Though there are ramifications.' He seems uncharacteristically ill at ease, as though straying beyond business matters during college hours makes him uncomfortable. He reaches for his pen as a talisman.
'Ramifications,' Jeremy prompts, trying to read the label on the topmost file in case it provides some clue as to what he has done, or not done.
'It's about Marchant House.'
Jeremy looks blank. 
'Came to my notice that you've submitted an application for a change of use.'
Jeremy agrees, wondering how this esoteric piece of information has become common knowledge with such speed.
'Not becoming a property developer, I hope?' The principal smiles. Jeremy smiles as well, to show that he is always willing to share a joke.
'I was a little surprised,' Dr Hodgkinson confesses. 'Not thinking of leaving us, are you?'
'I certainly haven't got it in mind,' Jeremy assures him.
'I was sure you hadn't - not at this exciting stage.' 
Jeremy searches for an appropriate response without finding one. 
'Particularly as you're on the working party. Thank you for the splendid work you're doing there, by the way.' 
Jeremy nods in acknowledgement of this compliment without feeling much eased by it. 
'You've got something in mind for Marchant House, have you?' Dr Hodgkinson probes. 
'An arts lab.' 
The principal's eyebrows go up in a manner worthy of a villain in a silent film. 'An arts centre. That sounds very enterprising.' 
'An arts lab.' 
'That's different, is it?' 
'Slightly different. We haven't got anything like it in the town.' 
'That's true.' Dr Hodgkinson nods - and keeps nodding like a clockwork doll slowly running down. 'We certainly need to stimulate the arts.' 
'My feelings.' 
'An essential part of our lives. I yield to nobody in my belief in the higher values.' 
Jeremy waits for the sting in the tail. 
'I'm all for enterprise - these days I think we all realise the entrepreneurial spirit is vital - but are you remembering your contract? That's my worry.' 
'My contract?' 
'Not to engage in paid activities outside the college without the agreement of the principal.' 
'I'm not.' 
Dr Hodgkinson looks puzzled. 
'I'm not getting paid,' Jeremy explains. 
'I think we're getting a little legalistic here. What I'm referring to is the spirit of the clause.' 
It is Jeremy's turn to look puzzled. 'The spirit?' 
'I like to give staff every encouragement, where appropriate, but I do need to be aware of what they're doing.' 
'I'm not doing anything at the moment, except putting in a planning application.' 
'I appreciate that. I just wanted to have this little chat before problems arise.' 
'Problems?' 
'I want you to be clear that I wouldn't object to any proposal - providing it doesn't interfere with your college activities, of course, and providing that I'm kept fully informed. Certainly I'd give my support to any cultural initiative...' He hesitates. This tail has another sting. '...The problem is Marchant House.' 
'I didn't know that's what it was called.' 
'Quite a fascinating history. Do you think you've chosen the right place, Jeremy?' 
'Don't you?' 
'Frankly no.' 
Jeremy raises his eyebrows. 'I don't understand you.' 
'I'm speaking here not as your employer, but as a member of the Princes Park Conservation Society.' A trace of coyness enters Dr Hodgkinson's voice. 'I'm sure you've heard of us. In our own way we're also working to improve the town.' 
'And you're interested in Marchant Mews?' 
'It's on the edge of the conservation area.' 
'I thought it was outside it.' 
'Just outside it,' Dr Hodgkinson concedes. 'But of course anything which happens in the neighbourhood is within our sphere of interest. We're on excellent terms with the planning department. They're most helpful - keeping us informed about all planning applications.' 
Jeremy begins to understand. 
'Imagine my surprise when I saw an application in your name. I repeat that I wholly applaud your efforts to start an arts centre, but is Marchant House the right place? Will it attract the right people? Think of the effect of all those young people coming away from pop concerts late at night.' A note of distaste has entered the principal's voice. 
'They're likely to be our students,' Jeremy points out. 
'A few. Obviously while they're living with their parents, we have limited opportunities to exercise pastoral care and guide their tastes, more's the pity. What concerns me is the disturbance.' 
'Nobody lives in the mews.' 
'Obviously, but what about the houses in Marchant Road? You're forgetting them.' 
Jeremy permits himself a smile. 'Hardly - I live there.' 
Dr Hodgkinson looks disconcerted. 'I must admit I didn't realise that.' 
'I only moved in a few days ago. I did tell your secretary.' 
'Then you’ll be well aware of the problems.' 
'The other residents aren't going to mind,' Jeremy says with certainty. He is tempted to go into graphic detail - of lying awake till the cacophony which seems necessary to the lives of his fellow tenants is stilled in the small hours - except that Dr Hodgkinson is unlikely to be interested. 
'They might welcome the facilities. I'm not so sure about the noise.' 
'It's only a small hall - it won't hold more than a couple of hundred people.' 
Dr Hodgkinson purses his lips. 'Think of a couple of hundred people in that narrow street, shouting and banging car doors. That's without all the parking problems.' 
'It wouldn't all be pop concerts. We'd have other sorts of events.' 
'There'd still be the congestion, whatever events you held.' Dr Hodgkinson examines his pen as though surprised to find it in his hand. 'And we've got the buildings themselves to consider.' 
'It's only an old row of lockups.' 
The self-appointed spokesman for the conservation society looks pained. 'It's one of our few remaining blocks of stables. I thought as a historian you'd appreciate that.' 
'They're falling down!' 
'They have deteriorated, but I wouldn't say they're beyond restoration.' 
'What do you want to restore them to?' 
'We can't turn them into stables again, or course - we have to be realistic - but we would like people to realise their significance in the days of carriages. I don't think our students fully appreciate what life was like before the coming of the motor car.' 
Jeremy finds it difficult to imagine his students seeing any life before the motorcar.  The days before Ford Escorts might as well be the Dark Ages. 
'There has been talk of opening a heritage centre there,' Dr Hodgkinson reveals. 
'With carriage rides around the park?' 
'It's something to think about,' the principal admits. 'A real working stable. Children could experience the sounds and the smells of the horses.' 
'I wasn't being serious.' 
'It's a splendid idea - something to put to the committee. We were thinking of a photographic display of life in the area over the last hundred years, but horses could really bring the past to life.' 
'Who's going to look after them?' 
'Don't let's get bogged down in details until we've established the principle.' 
'I'd say it was more than a detail.' 
'We'd still have a display, of course. One thing I'm particularly keen to bring out is the changeover to the motorcar - something which in my view has been neglected and which the mews exemplifies. You know we've an early example of a petrol pump there?' 
'Have we?' 
'Surely you've noticed it?' 
'A petrol pump.' 
'Early ones are quite rare - part of our twentieth century heritage which we've let slip away.' 
'It's not outside Marchant House.' 
'I'm well aware of that. I was using it as an example of what can be overlooked.' Dr Hodgkinson looks ruffled that a member of his staff should fail to grasp key concepts. 'It's the ambience of the mews which the society wants to preserve.' 
Jeremy is tempted to say that the mews has little ambience, apart from images of urban decay like puddles streaked with petrol and rain dripping from broken downpipes; till he remembers his feelings as he first walked there with Andrea. The atmosphere was tangible, though in a rather different way from Dr Hodgkinson's dreams of a Victorian idyll. 
'Then there's Marchant House itself,' the principal continues. 'As I say - a fascinating place. Did you know it used to be a chapel?' 
'I guessed it was.' 
'Apparently its position was against it, which is something you might think about with this proposal of yours. The congregation moved away and in the twenties the chapel was rebuilt as the first car showroom in the area. One of our members researching another matter came across a newspaper advertisement. The large window on the first floor was to display the latest model.' 
In spite of himself, Jeremy is impressed by this display of arcane knowledge. He imagines a crowd of sweating mechanics and salesmen pushing a car up a ramp to the mezzanine. Being an academic has its compensations. 
'That didn't last long, either,' his informant continues. 'Wrong position again, you see. Apparently it was turned into a workshop after a couple of years. Still, it's a fine example of the genre.' 
'What genre?' 
'Car showrooms. Have you been down Great Portland Street?' 
'Great Portland Street?' 
'In London.' 
'No.' 
'That was the centre of the trade in the twenties. If you walk along there, you can still see the sliding doors of what used to be the showrooms. All taken over by the rag trade since then, of course. Surely you've read Dorothy Sayers?' 
'Not lately.' 
'A character in one of the books worked there selling cars. Which one was it?’  There is a pause while Dr Hodgkinson searches his memory. 
'Marchant House isn't exactly a listed building,' Jeremy points out, not to be deflected by this literary tangent. 
'We've considered applying for listing.' 
'I don’t really think you can call it important.' 
'I'm sure you'll agree it's got sociological significance - that all-important transition to the motor car I was talking about.' 
'It's almost derelict.' 
'That's an exaggeration, Jeremy. You'd hardly be interested if it were derelict.' 
Jeremy concedes the point. 
'The shame is that the owners allowed it to get in that state.' Dr Hodgkinson shakes his head sadly. 'I know we can't draw on the rich heritage of cities like York or Norwich, but as a comparative newcomer to the town it grieves me the way our past is being neglected. You'll appreciate that as an historian.' He abandons his pen and leans back in his chair, evidently in a more expansive mood now he has reached a favourite topic. 'I want my staff to see the college not just as a place of education, but as a resource centre for the local community. I like to think that we can help people to look at what's around them and to care about their environment. That's why I think a heritage centre is so important.' 
Jeremy tries to imagine his students caring about the fate of Marchant Mews, even with the added inducement of a heritage centre. The picture is not convincing. He can guess their opinion of the mews - a row of clapped-out garages. 
'Perhaps you should join,' Dr Hodgkinson is saying.
'Join?' Jeremy queries, abandoning his reverie. 
'Our society.' 
Jeremy's thoughts turn to Masonic initiation rites, until he realises that the principal is still talking about the Princes Park Conservation Society. 'I'll certainly think about it, he temporises. 
'I'm surprised you haven't joined already. You're obviously a man of ideas. Just what we need.' 
'I have only just moved into the area,' Jeremy defends himself. 
'You don't have to live there to be a member.' The principal chuckles at such naivety. 'No, we're just people who share a concern about our town with Princes Park as the jewel in the crown.' 
This time it is Jeremy who wants to chuckle. He bites his lip to stop himself from committing a solecism as Dr Hodgkinson sweeps on, 'A fine example of Victorian aspirations - a beautiful park surrounded by villas and terraces.' 
Jeremy has his own impressions of the area gleaned from his short tenure there since leaving Alf's flat. He occupies a bed-sit in one of those much-divided houses glimpsed on his first visit to the mews.  Any of half a dozen local authority departments could find grounds for condemning it. The rubbish-filled garden is the haunt of wildlife which Dr Hodgkinson would probably prefer to see on television rather than encounter in the flesh. In the leafy glades of the park itself, where nannies once took their charges to play, the town's derelicts and junkies gather at the end of each day. A stroll there at dusk would soon shatter the principal’s illusions. 
'I'll let you have a form. In fact I've got one here somewhere. It gives you an idea what we do.' Dr Hodgkinson searches in his desk and produces a leaflet. 'Glad we've had this chance to clear the air.' 
'It's been useful,' Jeremy lies. 
'Better let you get back to work. I expect you've plenty to do.' 
Jeremy agrees that he has plenty to do. As he makes his way back to his room, he muses on the coded messages which the principal was trying to convey. His conclusion is that his job is on the line if he upsets the Princes Park Conservation Society. Is the risk worthwhile? This is the question which he puts to Alf in the lunch hour as they forsake the canteen for the catering department, to sample students’ efforts at cordon bleu cookery. 
'You're not going to back out now, are you?' Alf asks. 
'I'm not backing out. I'm just saying it needs thinking about.' 
'You thought about it before you set the wheels of bureaucracy in motion. We had enough agonising.' Alf pokes his salmon poached in lemon sauce. 'I think they cooked this in lemon washing-up liquid. How's yours?' 
Jeremy tries his veal in wine. 'Not bad.' 
'So long as you don't have moral qualms about veal.' 
'We could have gone for meat pie in the canteen.' 
'You’ve got to live dangerously sometimes.' 
'You realise I haven't signed the lease yet? I could still back out.' 
'If you give up now, you'll be kicking yourself every time you think about it.' 
Jeremy tries to blot out the possibility. 'At the moment I'm thinking more about the cost.' 
'Don't let us all down.' 
'Why does it have to be me that's doing all the work and putting up all the money?' 
'It's your vision, isn't it? You've impressed Andrea.' 
'Have I?' The news comes as a surprise. It makes Jeremy think back to their recent casual encounters in corridors and in the staff room in the hope of adducing evidence for this interest. He has to admit that if Andrea is impressed, then she keeps it well hidden. 
'You saw how she was when she went there.' 
Jeremy remembers. He also remembers how Alf got in the way. 
'It'll put the town on the map,' Alf assures him. 
'Was that what she said?' 
'No - I just said it. But it's what she's thinking.' 
'There's plenty of time for things to go wrong.' 
'No defeatist talk - she won't go for that. She told me this morning she was looking forward to the opening night.' Alf pushes away his plate. 'I should have gone for the veal.' 
'Did she really say that?' Jeremy asks, trying not to betray his pleasure. 
'Hasn't she mentioned it?' 
'No.' 
'You ought to involve her more.' 
Jeremy considers the idea and likes it. 
'You're in with a chance there,' Alf confides. 'You're veal's getting cold.' 
'I wouldn't exactly say I'm chasing her.' 
'You just fancy her, I know.' When he gets no response, Alf adds, 'Why shouldn't you play the field? It's not as though Sally's being fair to you.' 
'True.' 
'Are you still paying the bills?' 
Jeremy has not thought about bills. 
'There we are,' says a triumphant Alf, reading his companion's expression. 
'Andrea's got a partner,' Jeremy points out, trying to blot out the evening of the scene with Sally. 
'That doesn't mean much these days. It not as though she's happy.' 
'Isn't she?' Jeremy's hopes rise, in spite of his best efforts to quell them. 
'That's the impression that comes over. Has she ever talked to you about her man?' 
'No.' 
'Does he come to meet her after work?' 
'He probably finishes later.' 
'Do you ever see her ringing him?' 
Jeremy confesses that he does not. 
'There you are.' 
'You don't ring Claire.' 
'After all this time I don’t need to.‘ 
'It's hardly evidence they don't get on.' 
'Spoken like a true historian.' 
'She's barely spoken to me lately.' 
'She's not going to throw herself at you, is she? Very proud lass is Andrea.' 
'I think you're reading too much into a few incidents.' 
'If you want to see it that way, that's up to you. What she's waiting for is a knight in shining armour to come along and whisk her away from her executive type who's turned out to be a pain in the arse.' 
'That’s a bit fanciful.' 
'It's true.' 
'I'll believe it when I see the evidence.' 
'Too late then. She's waiting for you to make a move and if you don't, she'll decide you're not interested. She'll be making eyes at somebody else - like Mr Wheeler.' 
'She's not making eyes at me.' 
Alf shrugs. 'If you don't want to see it...' 
'I can't even get her to come to the pub. She always makes excuses.' 
'Her body language says it all.' 
'It doesn’t say much to me.' 
'If you won't take your chances...' Alf watches as Jeremy pushes away his plate. 'I thought you like the veal.' 
'Not when it's cold.' 
'They'll put it in the microwave if you ask them. Offends their principles, but the customer is always right.' 
'I'm not hungry now.' 
'You know the students get a bollocking when there's a lot of leftovers?' 
'Eat yours, then.' 
'They deserve a bollocking for this.' 
'The other thing that worries me is the commandant.' 
'Our vice chancellor in waiting? He's not after Andrea, is he? Randy old goat.' 
'What he said about the arts lab.' 
'None of his business what you do in your spare time.' 
'It is if it affects my job.' 
'I thought the idea was to get out of this place?' 
'Eventually.' 
'There you are then.' 
'Where?' 
'You hedge your bets for a term or two and carry on working here. If you make enough to live on out the arts centre, you tell Dr Hodgkinson to stuff his job. If the worst comes to the worst and it went down the tubes, you’ll be here for next year's hopefuls.' 
'Except I wouldn't have a job - just a hefty mortgage.' 
'If you don't earn anything out of the place, then it's effectively a hobby. You can't be thrown out of a job for having a hobby.' 
'So you admit it could go wrong?' 
Alf shrugs. 'There's always a risk. Not a big risk, admittedly.' 
'I haven't got the place yet and it's causing me problems.' 
'You're halfway there.' 
'All I've done is apply for planning permission.' 
'Once you get the legal side sorted out, you're home and dry.' 
Jeremy is not so sure. 
* 
Sally glowers. Her brows knit, making sense of what Jeremy has always considered to be an inappropriate piece of imagery. 'I had a surveyor here today.' 
He raises his own eyebrows to show mild surprise. 
'Obviously you knew about it.' 
He concedes the fact. 
'But you didn't thinking of mentioning it?' 
'I didn't know he was coming yet.' 
'You mean you were going to leave it till the last minute to tell me?' 
'I was choosing my moment.' 
'And you just thought we ought to have a surveyor look over the place because we hadn't had one for a while?' 
Jeremy swallows. 'It was for the mortgage.' 
'The mortgage is nearly paid up, so why do we need another survey? Supporting the surveyors’ benevolent society?' 
'Because I'm taking out another mortgage.' 
'What for? Don't turn away when I'm talking to you, Jeremy. What are you getting another mortgage for?' 
'I've got to sort out some clothes,' he calls, heading for the stairs. 
'It's that art's centre, isn't it?' Sally calls after him. 'You're pawning our house to build an arts centre.' 
Jeremy does not reply. 
'You're obsessed with the stupid idea,' she shouts. 
'We'll talk when you're feeling more rational,' he calls from the landing. 
'I don't think there's much left to talk about.' 
'Where's thing?' 
'I don't know what you mean.' 
'Vickie.' 
'Then call her by her name.' 
'So where is she?' 
'Gone to the shops.' 
'Run out of alfalfa sprouts,' he murmurs, too softly for Sally to hear. 
'And she's coming back.' 
'I'm sure she is,' he says more loudly. As he leans over the banisters, he sees Sally looking up at him and the old affection wells up. Suddenly he wants everything to be all right between them. 
'Don't think I'm going to get out of here,' she calls, shattering his reverie. 
'I'm not asking you to.' 
'I'll contest it.' 
'What?' 
'You're so childish sometimes, Jeremy.' 
'I don't know what you're talking about. What are you going to contest?' 
No answer. 
He peers over the banisters. No sign of Sally. 'You're getting it out of proportion,' he calls into the void. 'I've no intention of selling this house. I like it. It's mine. When Vickie goes, I'm going to move back.' 
Sally appears again by the foot of the stairs. She shouts, 'She's my friend. She'll be staying here as long as she likes.' 
'You mean she knows a cushy number when she sees it.' 
'I don't know what's got into you.' 
'What was there all the time,' he announces, not sure whether he sounds pompous or enigmatic. And he feels mean, though it is too late to back down. He goes into their bedroom, as he still likes to think of it. Now it seems an alien place. He lifts a case from the top of the wardrobe and sets it on the bed after blowing a film of dust from the surface. It has not been opened since their last holiday. One of the tourist leaflets is still inside. Memories of happy times in Greece swamp thoughts of the task in hand. Sammy's excitement comes vividly to him. Love for his son makes Jeremy catch his breath. Abandoning his packing, he hurries downstairs to where Sammy is playing in the sitting room. The boy's pleasure turns to surprise as he is lifted off his feet. Jeremy holds the tiny body close, marvelling anew at feeling the beating heart. He senses rather than hears somebody behind him. When he turns, Sally is watching. He tries to smile. 
'It's silly this,' he tells her. 
'You said it.' 
He brings his son's face close, rubbing the tiny nose against his own. Sammy gurgles with laughter. Self-consciously Jeremy puts him down, still watched by Sally. 'I'd better get on with the packing.' 
'Are you still staying with Alf?' 
'I had to give that up. The cat didn't like it.' 
'So where are you living now?' 
'Got myself a room.' 
'A room.' She is staring at him. 
'It's all I need. I'll let you have the address.' 
'A bed-sit, you mean?' 
'Yes.' He is surprised by how disconcerted she looks. 'I thought it would be easier - staying there till Vickie's gone.' 
'I've already said - she can stay as long as she likes. She knows that.' 
'You've told her?' 
'Yes.' 
'That was silly.' 
'That's your opinion.' 
The shutter of hostility has come down again. 'I'll pack a few things,' he says, knowing that further conversation will only bring recriminations. 
'If you want.' 
He climbs the stairs again, more hesitantly this time, willing Sally to say that everything is all right. When he hears her voice, for a moment he thinks that his wishes have been granted; but his hope is not sustained. 
'Somebody called to see you,' she announces. 
He stops halfway up the stairs, thoughts of Andrea flooding his mind. 'Who was it?' 
'I don't know.' 
'Was it a woman?' 
'Were you expecting one?' 
His spirits sag, only to rise when Sally vouchsafes, 'It was as a matter of fact,' and to sag again when she adds, 'She was about sixty.' 
'What did she want?' 
'She didn't say. She's coming back this evening.' 
Jeremy continues on his way to the bedroom. 
'What shall I tell her?' Sally calls. 
'Give her my telephone number.' 
As he sorts out his shirts, he dwells on the thought of his mysterious visitor. He knows that he will get no peace until she contacts him. 
* 
'So this is the new residence.' Alf gazes around, if not in awe at least with interest. 'Did you choose Marchant Road on purpose?' 
'It just happened that way.' 
'You'll be able to look out on your baby - if the skylight opens.' 
'It doesn't.' 
'How were things with Sally?' 
'We shouted at each other.' 
'At least she let you in. It's when you get your clothes thrown out the window, you start worrying.' 
'A woman's been there looking for me.' 
Alf raises his eyebrows. 'Andrea?' 
'Somebody in her sixties.' 
'Who?' 
'I don't know myself. Anyway, she's calling back tonight and Sally's giving her this address.' 
'One look at this place and she should get scared off.' 
'I suppose it is a bit on the sleazy side.' 
'That's one way of putting it. If she's really prim and proper, she'll take one look and make a quick departure before the white slave traders get her.' 
'I've never had elderly ladies after me before.' 
'Perhaps you have to get a certain age before it happens. Obviously you stir those seething matronly passions.' 
'I'm not sure I want to. I think I prefer to stir a few younger passions.' 
'Wouldn't we all?' Alf sits on the bed and pulls a face. 'How do you manage to sleep on this?' 
'You get used to it.' 
'Have you looked at the mattress?' 
'I try not to.' 
'Wise.' Alf surveys his surroundings once more. 'This is like being a student again.' 
'I told you it wasn't very grand.' 
'I'm not criticising. There's something about attic rooms that makes you feel Bohemian. Gives you the urge to change the world.' 
'And gives you a permanent stoop because the ceiling slopes.' 
'Don't carp.' 
'If you like this sort of life so much, you could always go back to it.' 
Alf shakes his head. 'Not now. Too many commitments - the flat and everything.' 
'I had to do it.' 
'You were pushed.' 
'Take the plunge. That's what you were advising me to do about the arts lab.' 
'That's different.' 
'I don't see why.' 
'You were dithering about your pet project. I'm talking about lifestyle. It's the communal side of communal life I miss - being able to pop into each other's rooms.' 
'Finding somebody sleeping it off in the bathroom - that sort of thing.' 
'If she's young and attractive.' 
'Now you're romanticising.' 
'Is there a beautiful blonde downstairs you can exchange existential ideas with?' 
'There's a junkie and an old boy who comes back roaring drunk every night. He's the one I found in the bath.' 
'It's like a beehive, this place - buzzing with life.' 
Jeremy listens, attuning to the mingled sounds of somebody talking on the phone in the hall, voices raised in argument, a radio tuned to rock music and another to what sounds like The Archers. 
'See what I mean? Buzzing with humanity.' 
'At two in the morning, you wish it didn't buzz so much.' Jeremy closes the case on the bed, suddenly self-conscious at letting Alf see the paucity of his wardrobe. 
'Do I detect a certain disillusion setting in?' 
'I never said it was perfect.' 
'You can always come back to our place if you really can't stand it here.' 
'I can't camp on your settee for ever.' 
'It's no problem for us.' 
'Thanks anyway.' 
'In fact I quite like an excuse to go down the pub.' 
The admission throws a new slant on those oft-repeated invitations to the local while Jeremy was staying at the flat. He became adept at turning them down - the prospect of propping up the bar on a regular basis was too much like tempting fate. His most well-used excuse was that he had to prepare lectures - a chore which never seemed to preoccupy Alf. 
'Don't you ever do college work at home?' he asks, intrigued by this diversion. 
Alf looks puzzled. 'Not unless I'm desperate.' 
'What about marking?' 
'Self-assessment. If anybody queries it, I say it's to make students aware of their own limitations. Why the sudden interest?' 
'I was curious.' 
'If I'd known we were going to have a discussion on pedagogy, I'd have looked up a few good quotes.' 
'Do you fancy a coffee or something?' 
Alf regards the grease-encrusted baby Belling without much enthusiasm. On top is a kettle left by a previous tenant. 
'Bit of a mess, isn't it?' Jeremy has to concede. 
'I wouldn't invite Andrea here - put it that way.' 
'I suppose I ought to get some saucepans and an electric kettle.' 
'Don't get too settled.' 
'I don't think there's much danger of that.' 
'There's something final about getting a place of your own. Makes the rift seem permanent.' 
'I know.' 
'Presumably Vickie's eventually going back to her boyfriend, or squat, or whatever it is?'
'It could be a long while at the present rate.' 
'You've let yourself be pushed into a corner.' 
'It's not up to me.' 
'It's like a chess game, all this relationship business.' 
'And I'm losing.' 
A knock at the door interrupts their musings. The two men glance at each other. 
'Your mysterious admirer?' Alf queries. 
For a moment Jeremy cherishes the hope that Andrea has decided to visit, but the dream is shattered as he opens the door. Whatever happens to Andrea, she will never look like this. The woman glaring at him wears tweeds. Gaunt is the polite way of describing her figure. A brown felt hat skewered with a hatpin and reminiscent of a cowpat holds wispy grey hair in order. 
'Jeremy Dennison?' she opens in accusing tones. 
Jeremy raises his eyebrows fractionally, not wishing to commit himself until he is on firmer ground. 
'I'm Miss Hollingshead.' 
He smiles tentatively - a move which is not reciprocated. 
'I'd better leave you to it,' Alf murmurs, getting up. 
'Stay by all means,' Jeremy pleads. 
'I can see you're busy - ' 
'This so-called arts centre,' the woman interrupts, fixing Jeremy with her steely gaze. 'It's you, isn't it?' 
'Arts lab.' 
'See you tomorrow,' Alf mutters, sidling towards the door. 
'This involves you,' Jeremy insists. His tone must be more commanding than he expected, for it makes Alf stop. This minor success spurs Jeremy to face his accuser and ask, 'What's the trouble?' He uses the concerned yet masterful tone which he evolved for dealing with tearful girl students with boyfriend problems, should they ever seek his advice. They never did.
'We're going to oppose you - I wanted to tell you to your face.' 
He raises his eyebrows further. 
'So everything's above board, see?' she explains. 'None of this hole in the corner stuff you go in for.' 
'Who's we?' 
'Everybody who stands for decency.' Her lips quiver, signifying some violent emotion barely kept in check. 'We know your sort.' 
'I'm a lecturer!' 
'It's a pity you don't behave like one.' 
'I don't know how they're supposed to behave,' Jeremy confesses, doing his best to ignore what sounds like stifled laughter from Alf. 
His accuser gazes around the room as though noticing the squalid surroundings for the first time. 'I didn't think lecturers lived like this.' 
'We've got to live somewhere.' 
'Spending all your salary on kept women, I shouldn't wonder.' 
'I haven't got any kept women!' 
'I thought people in your profession were respectable.' 
'I still don't know what you've come about.' 
'What you're planning to do.' 
'I'm only going to open an arts lab.' 
His words stir some inner rage. Jeremy watches helplessly, marvelling that such violent emotions can survive into old age. 
'We know the sort of place you want,' she manages to say when she regains sufficient control. What intrigues Jeremy is that she manages to make it sound like a curse. 
'What sort of place is that?' 
'Obscenity, drug-takers peddling their filth...' Words fail her. She glares at Alf who tries to give the impression of an innocent bystander caught up in an argument. 
'It's nothing like that, 'Jeremy insists. He goes for a man-to-man tone this time, hoping it will be equally suitable for man to woman. 
'I've got the evidence of my own eyes.' 
Jeremy vows that in future he will never invite guests to his room. 
'And there's the noise,' she continues, carried along by the head of moral indignation. 
'What noise?' 
'The noise these pop groups make.' 
'You do know where it is?' 
'We know about it all right - we've seen the planning application.' 
'Who's we?' 
'There's too many of us to threaten.' 
'I'm not threatening anybody.' 
'We know your sort.' 
'Are you one of Dr Hodgkinson's people?' 
'We're not having rowies terrorising the area,' she insists, provoking another outburst of laughter from Alf which he tries to disguise as a cough. 
'It's a mews! Nobody lives there!' Jeremy insists. 
'There'll be noise - rowies getting drunk.' 
'We're not selling alcohol - not to start with, anyway.' 
'We want to give you fair warning. We'll oppose you every step of the way.' 
'There'll be art exhibitions - ' 
'Obscene paintings.' 
'Films - ' 
'Dirty films,' she echoes with venom. 
'Music - ' 
'Noise!' 
'All sorts of music - even the sort you like.' 
'You can't get round us that way.' 
Jeremy shakes his head sadly. There is a lull in the exchange during which the woman struggles to control her temper. 
'We don't want your sort here,' she repeats like a mantra. 
'I'm here already.' 
'We're not letting you go ahead.' She leans close enough for him to see the stains on her dentures. 'We'll be praying for you.' 
'I don't need praying for.' 
Words seem to desert her. She clutches her handbag tighter, so that Jeremy fears that she is going to hit him; instead she backs away as though she is afraid he might be about to rob her. 'We've seen through your little game,' she informs him. 'We're going to root out your evil.' 
He is going to object, except that she stalks from the room without looking back before he can think of anything to say. Instead he glares at Alf who falls on the bed, curled in laughter. 'Thanks for your support.' 
'That was marvellous. The moral majority is alive and well and worrying about Marchant Mews.' 
'Who is she?' 
'I don't know.' 
'I hope I don't meet any more like her.' 
'I thought she was going to attack you.' 
'I thought so once or twice. I wonder how many of her pals there are.' 
'Her rowies? You're not going to take any notice of those nutters, are you?' 
'I wanted to find out whether she was one of Dr Hodgkinson's society.' 
'What's it matter? If a loony comes barging into your home and ranting, you're entitled to send her off with a flea in her ear.' 
'I don't want to get hauled up before the commandant again.' 
'You're not going to bow to censorship, are you?' 
'It's all right for you.' 
'If he turns nasty, take it up with the union. Or take it to the press - you'll get some good publicity out of it.' 
'I'm beginning to think I should abandon the whole idea.' 
'Give in to nutters?' 
'All I'm getting out of this is hassle.' 
'It'll be worth it.' 
'You think?' 
'Course it will.' 
Jeremy watches Alf's face, suspecting a joke. 
'Keep your vision,' Alf urges. 
'And lose everything else.' 
'Depends what you want out of your life.' 
'Once I thought the only thing I wanted was to be a lecturer.' 
'You've grown out of that stage.' 
'Alas.' 
'Think of us as lizards, sloughing off our skin of dead ideas.' 
The image is impressive, though difficult to apply. Jeremy tries to think of Dr Hodgkinson emerging renewed from his old guise. It is an improbable picture. More intriguing is the thought of Andrea rising phoenix-like from her cast-off skin, but any thought of Andrea is intriguing.

Chapter 7

Keep your vision, Jeremy tells himself as he shuffles on the cold concrete floor to keep warm. The official seems to have no such problems, though he has had the foresight to put on an overcoat.
'Not a place I'd use for public entertainment, frankly,' is his verdict.
'You don't think so?'
The official takes the question seriously, pursing his lips as he looks around again. 'Not as it stands.'
Jeremy looks around as well, trying to see his brainchild through bureaucratic eyes. The building is run down, certainly, but he has developed an affection for the theatricality of the semicircular window and the metal stairway.
'Take this staircase,' the official is saying. 
'It's metal.' 
'It's metal - I can see that. So it buckles in a fire, see?' 
'And the floors are all concrete. I should have thought that was perfect.' 
'Better than wood,' the man concedes. 
'Then I don't see what the problem is.' 
'You don't know the half of it.' 
Jeremy waits to be told, but the official is disinclined to enlighten him. At last Jeremy breaks the silence by asking, 'So what do you think I ought to do?' 
His persecutor looks around judicially. 'This is one of those borderline cases.' 
Suddenly the building grows colder. 
'What's that mean?' 
'You'd be all right if you had a club.' 
'A club?' 
'Members only - there's not so much of a problem then. It's when you let the public in you've got to be much more careful.' 
'Ah.' 
'You hadn't thought about a club?' 
'Not really.' 
'You'd make life easier for yourself. I mean presumably you'll have a regular clientele?' 
'Will I?' 
'That's what usually happens with strip clubs.' 
'It's not a strip club!' 
'Sorry.' 
'It's an arts lab.' 
'Not that what you put on affects the safety aspect.' 
'So I'll have to turn it into a club?' 
'You could think about it.‘ The official studies the roof. 'You've got the exposed metalwork . See those tie bars?' 
'Does that make a difference?' 
'It's not ideal.' The official scans the roof again, evidently reaching a conclusion. 'I'm going to pass it for public performance, so long as you accept a restriction on numbers. You've got two emergency exits - that's your big plus.' 
'It's good to have one plus.' 
Duty done, the official relaxes. 'So what sort of things are you planning for this arts centre?' 
'Arts lab.' 
'Theatre shows and that?' 
'That sort of thing.' 
'You've got your work cut out.' 
'Don't tell me.' 
'If I wanted to put on a show, I'd hire a church hall.’  
'You think?' 
'Be a lot easier than converting this place.' 
'You're probably right.' 
* 
The canteen is noisy with the clatter of cutlery and the buzz of conversation. With his tray held before him like a talisman, Jeremy threads his way between the crowded tables, ignoring the chattering students. His case hangs precariously from two fingers. He heads for Andrea. His heart sings because she is alone. 
'Do you mind...' 
She glances up. Her face lights up. 'Carry on,' she invites. 
He spreads his possessions across the table to prevent anybody else from joining them. 
'Feeling hungry?' she enquires, eyeing the double helping of chips. 
'Just in case I don't have much tonight.' 
'You know they're not good for you?' 
'I take what I can get at the moment.' 
Andrea resumes eating without taking up this conversational cue, much to Jeremy's disappointment. He settles across the table from her and probes tentatively at the pie which proves to be no better than the canteen's usual offerings. 
'Not very good, is it?' she sympathises. 
'Have you tried the catering department lunches? The food's better.' 
'Is that where you usually go?' 
'Quite often. Well, fairly often.' 
'So what are you doing amongst the hoi polloi?' 
'The service can be slow,' he lies, not wanting to confess that he would have gone there had he not glimpsed Andrea sitting alone. 'You ought to give it a try.' 
'You mentioned it before.' 
'Did I?' 
'I'm usually talking to students and we drift in here.' 
Hardly the moment to confess that he likes going to the catering department because few students eat there - they cannot afford the meals. To keep Andrea talking he shows polite interest. 
'That's what I don't like about the timetable,' she complains. 'There's no time specifically set aside for tutorials, so if we want to discuss anything, we have to do it in the coffee break or the lunch break.’
'You think we need tutorial periods?' 
'That and more project-based work.' 
'Good idea.' 
'I thought about preparing a paper for the working group. How do you think Mr Quick would take it?' 
'It's not really to do with the degree programme.' 
'I suppose not.' 
'I'd have a word with him first.' 
'Are there any ideas you want to add?' 
His mind goes blank. He smiles sheepishly. 'You've put me on the spot there.' 
'Think about it and let me know.' 
'Okay.' She looks at his plate again. 'Hadn’t you better eat your chips before they get cold?' 
Obediently he spears chips with his fork. 
'They look a bit greasy,‘ she cautions.  
'They always are.' 
'Are you still staying with Alf?' 
'Not these days. I got myself a bed-sit in Marchant Road.' 
That arouses her interest. 'What about your partner?' she asks.
'Sally.’  
'Does this mean you're splitting up permanently?' 
'I don't know about that.' He hesitates, trying to decide how best to present the situation. 'I can't see things changing in the near future.' 
'I'm sorry.' 
He is tempted to recount the whole story, except that the feminist Andrea might take Sally's side. Instead he explains, 'We’re giving each other space.‘ When Andrea frowns, he stumbles on, 'Who knows what's going to happen?' 
'I hope it’s not final.‘ 
As he searches the contents of the pie for scraps of meat, he tries to work out why he is not putting his point across effectively. Lecturers, even those in colleges of technology, are supposed to be articulate. 'So how's Andrea?' he asks, deciding that the safest course is to change the subject. 
'Fine.' 
'Settling in?' 
'Hope so.' 
'Not getting overwhelmed?' 
'Keeping my head above water.' 
'Good, good.' He attacks the pie crust with gusto. 'Carving out your own little empire.' 
'More a case of trying not to. If I did that, I wouldn't be responding to the students - they'd be responding to me, which is wrong.' 
Jeremy nods - and wishes that he had chosen his words with more care. 
'Another thing I'd like to try is combining classes,' she tells him, enthusiasm entering her voice. 
'Why?' 
'So we can make courses more interdisciplinary.' 
'Have you mentioned it to Speedy?' 
She frowns. 'Speedy?' 
'Mr Quick.' 
'I thought of sounding out some opinions first.' 
'It's an interesting idea,' Jeremy says cautiously. 
'We could examine a topic from different angles.' 
'What sort of topic were you thinking of?' 
'Something like the Cold War.' 
Jeremy guesses that few of his students know what the cold war was and none of them care, but he does not like to dampen enthusiasm - particularly Andrea's enthusiasm. 
'Or the welfare state,' she suggests. 
'That might be nearer to their experience.' He suspects that they know more about the intricacies of signing on and the workings of the black economy than she does. Andrea is a novice in her job, he reminds himself. 
'What do you think?' she prompts. 
'You could put it forward.' 
'You think it's feasible?' 
'Could be,' he agrees, summoning all his diplomacy. 'Might be difficult timetabling it, that's the only thing.' 
'I'm sure we could get around that.' 
'Don’t bank on it. Speedy gets attached to his timetables.' 
'It’s a challenge.' 
Farce seems a better description, but for the sake of a quiet life, Jeremy agrees, 'We might be able to work something out.' 
'If we took a topic and each introduced it from our own perspective.' 
'So long as there's no duplication.' 
'We'd have to plan it. Is that going to be difficult while you're tied up with the arts centre?' 
'I'm sure I can manage,' he agrees valiantly. 
'How's it going?' 
'Planning application's in. At the moment I'm fighting through the red tape.' To his surprise, his words do not induce boredom in Andrea. As she pushes her plate away and wipes her mouth, her eyes do not leave him. 
'So what happens next?' she wants to know. 
This is not the moment to admit that he does not know. He smiles modestly, as one who is on his way to achieving his ambition, and explains, 'Now I've got to think about the fitting out.' 
'I'll help if you like.' 
Vistas of unimaginable pleasure open before him -  hours in the company of Andrea, discovering everything which is important to her. 
'I'm a dab hand with a paint brush. Sorry about the pun.' 
'One of your jobs at home?' he probes, glorying at this serendipitous glimpse of her domestic life. 
'We're working through the whole house, but there's no hurry.' 
'Doing it all yourself, eh?‘  
She pulls a face. 'Case of having to.‘  
'Big place, is it?' 
'Three bedrooms.' It seems larger when you’re stripping the walls. 
'I don't even know where you live.' 
'Just beyond the station - on the Park Estate.' 
What he should have expected. The Park Estate is a leafy enclave of spacious Victorian houses popular with accountants, solicitors and lecturers. Doubtless it has its own conservation society. No junkies dare to congregate there. 
'Sounds as if you're up to your eyes in it,' he demurs, wondering why he is putting her off. 
'Not really. Ken can manage.' 
Jeremy tries to divine her feelings from her tone, but without success. He asks, 'What's Ken's job?' 
'An accountant.' 
Jeremy bites his tongue to avoid smiling. 
'He's not very keen on decorating,' she confesses. 
Jeremy thinks back to his own wallpapering disasters and feels a pang of sympathy for the unknown Ken. 
'We're trying to restore it to its original state,' she explains. 
Complete with original microwave and freezer, he is tempted to add. 
'Fortunately the deeds have survived, so we're going to follow them up when we get the chance. Do you know anything about local history?' 
'A fair amount,' says the historian modestly. His inspiration taking flight, he explains, 'I'd like to get local history into the curriculum. Something like an integrated course on local issues.' 
Andrea perks up visibly. 'That's an great idea.' 
'It's something I've always wanted to try,' he reveals, pleased by her enthusiasm and surprised at how easily the lies come. 
'I can understand that.' She beams at him.  
'It's a way of getting students in touch with the past,' he explains, basking in her approval. He suspects that  he sounds like Dr Hodgkinson. 'You can bring together buildings, oral history and traditional sources.' 
Andrea is nodding. 
'Of course, the arts lab. is my priority at the moment,' he adds before she wants to work out a syllabus. 
'You were telling me about it.' 
'Ah yes.' He tries to think of something more significant to say about the arts lab., but his mind goes blank. 
'I was talking to Ken about it. His advice is to form a trust, otherwise you're taking on all the liability yourself.' 
Jeremy knows what this would do to his vision - turn it into an endless succession of board meetings, with the rest of his time spent producing business plans and cash flow forecasts. He wants to explain that arts labs. were never like that, except that he dare not risk dampening Andrea's enthusiasm. Instead he excuses himself by saying, 'There's been so much to do to the building, I haven't got around to that side of things.' 
'Would you like to have a chat with Ken about it?' 
'When I can get things organised,' he demurs. The prospect is more intriguing than appealing. At least he might discover why a lovely girl should marry an accountant, but he is in no hurry. 
'He's keen to help.' 
'All help gratefully received.' 
'One thing that occurred to me - have you done anything about contacting the press?' 
'Isn't it a bit early to worry about that?' 
'You want to build up people's expectations.' 
'If I don't get all the practical things sorted out, there won't be anything to publicise.' 
'I was going to suggest I have a word with a friend who's a journalist on the local paper.' 
'I don't know whether it's worthwhile at this stage.' 
'The thing about editorial coverage is it gives you publicity and it's free.' 
'Which is what I want, considering I'm nearly broke.' 
'The other thing I was thinking about is seats.' 
'Seats?' 
'What sort of seats are you going to have - interlocking chairs, or proper tip-up seats?' 
'I hadn't thought about it.' 
'I'd go for tip-ups - they look more professional and you can get second hand cinema seats for a song.' 
'How do you know so much about them?' 
'I had to buy some when I was helping out at the student union.' 
'We ought to have a talk about this.' 
'We are,' she points out, smiling. 
'I meant a proper talk - when we've got more time.' 
Her smile broadens as though she is laughing at so transparent a ploy. 'We'll have to see.' 
'And if you do fancy wielding a paintbrush, all offers gratefully received.' 
'You give the word.' 
He has the nagging feeling that there are opportunities which have slipped through his fingers.  
* 
They stand in the hall. Unusually the television is silent. Jeremy smiles, pretending not to notice Sally's wariness. He explains, 'I thought I'd see how you were getting on.' 
'Sure it isn't because you want some washing done?' 
'No.' 
'I just wondered.' 
'Mind you, it is difficult to wash clothes where I'm staying.' 
'You chose it.' 
'True.' 
'Sammy's gone to a birthday party, if you‘re wondering.' 
'Riotous social life already.' 
'Hardly riotous.' 
'I take it Vickie's still here?' 
'With Saskia. Sammy called her his sister the other day.' 
'Did you stop him?' 
'I told him she wasn't his real sister. It's difficult to explain when they're that age.' 
Jeremy nods, wary of provoking an argument by pointing out that he could foresee this happening. Instead he says, 'Have to content myself with seeing you, won't I?' He looks into her face, experiencing anew the feelings which first attracted him. 
'If it's not too much of a disappointment.' She hesitates. 'We don't have to stand in the hall.' 
As he follows her into the living room, he experiences the self-consciousness of a visitor. The response irritates him. He tries not to let it show when he asks, 'So how are things?' 
'Fine.' 
'Good.' 
'You seem to be creating quite a stir.' 
'How do you mean?' 
'The arts centre.' 
'Arts lab.' 
'Whatever. Several people have mentioned it.' 
'Do they like the idea?' 
'They think it's interesting.' 
'Just interesting?' 
'They don't know what you'll be doing there.' 
'Neither do I at the moment.' 
'Vickie's quite keen to get involved.' 
'It's not going to be a centre for feminists.' 
'She knows that. She isn't only interested in feminism.' 
Jeremy tries not to let his scepticism show. 
'She's interested in anything to do with the arts.' 
'Good for Vickie.' 
'I think she'd be quite keen to run a food bar.' 
'Salads with everything.' 
'She doesn't force her ideas down other people's throats.' 
To change the subject, he says, 'I suppose I ought to have some sort of cafe there to encourage people to drop in.' 
'Weren't you going to?' 
'I hadn't got that far.' 
'You must have a plan in your mind of what you want the place to be like when it‘s finished.' 
'I'm still playing with ideas. The trouble is there’s not that much space.' 
'I should have thought a cafe or a food bar of some kind was essential.' 
'It’s certainly something to think about.' 
'Nice to know I'm still useful to you.' 
'You're more than that.' He searches for healing words - and fails. 'I suppose I'd better get back.' 
'Back to the bed-sit.' 
'That's it.' 
'Take care.' 
'And you.' 
He wonders whether to kiss as they part, but Sally pre-empts him by closing the door.  
* 
Has he done the right thing, Jeremy asks himself as he surveys his empire. As empires go, it is not auspicious. In the cold light of a November Saturday morning, his enthusiasm ebbs. The mews is difficult to find and parking is difficult. And does he really want a rock band adding to the nightly cacophony in Marchant Road? He groans more audibly than he intended. The sound which resonates around the hall encourages him to try again. Some of his enthusiasm revives. He stands where the stage will be and lifts his eyes to the mezzanine to intone, 'To be, or not to be, that is the question.' The words have a splendid ring. He smiles appreciatively at his invisible audience and considers how to continue the entertainment. A song? He tries a few bars of La Boheme. The rich baritone surprises him. He tries ‘Can't get no satisfaction.' His impression of Mick Jagger was once a high point of his repertoire. 
At first he ignores the banging on the door. As it becomes more insistent, he stops abruptly, overcome by self-consciousness at the thought that his singing has disturbed people working in the surrounding garages. He opens the door with foreboding which is dispelled as he sees Andrea. 
'Are you going to let me in?' 
He overcomes his surprise sufficiently to smile in welcome and to open the door wider. She is wearing paint-spattered jeans, more baggy than usual. 
'Did I hear you singing?' she asks as they go into the hall. 
'Just trying out the acoustics,' he agrees, feeling his face reddening. 
'Don't let me stop you.' 
'I was having a break really.' 
'So what's the task for today?' 
He looks around for something Andrea can do - preferably something which will keep her there as long as possible. He explains, 'I'm not allowed to alter anything till the lease is signed, but the owners have agreed I can clear up.' 
'Who are the owners, as a matter of interest?' 
'A property company.' 
'As always. We do all the work and they take the profits.' 
'The logic of capitalism.' 
'Shall we make a start?' 
Suddenly he feels overwhelmed by the immensity of the task. He gazes around helplessly. 
'Don't look so despondent,' she urges. 'Once you've sorted out the legal tangles, you're at the exciting stage.' 
'At the moment it seems more like one hurdle after the other.' 
She touches his arm. For a moment he has a fantasy of them stripping in a frenzy of passion and finding ecstasy amongst the rubbish on the floor, but the dream fades when she takes her hand away and asks, 'Have you got back with Sally?' 
'No.' 
'That's a pity.' 
'I agree, but there we are.' He shrugs. 
'Have you tried counselling?' 
He mumbles that he thought about it. He avoids looking at the girl beside him. 
'You should.' 
'It's not that sort of problem.' He decides not to go into details lest Andrea's feminist ideals are stirred. 
'Will you think about it?' she urges. 
As he agrees, he wonders how Andrea knows so much about counselling after a few months of marriage. Perhaps Alf was right in thinking that life with Ken the accountant is less than idyllic. 
'I'm serious, Jeremy.' 
It Is not the voice of somebody who wants to start an affair, though Jeremy lives in hopes. With more vehemence than he intended, he says, 'I promise to think about counselling. Is that all right?' 
'Tell me if you think I'm interfering.' 
'I didn't mean to sound bad tempered.' 
'It's not worth breaking up a marriage over a little thing.' 
'True.' 
'You've got a child.' 
'How did you know?' 
'Alf told me.'  She hesitates. 'If you haven't got back with Sally by the time the Christmas party comes round, why don't you invite her? Use it as an excuse to get together.' 
'It's a thought,' he agrees. Then on the principle that by letting Andrea pick over his private life, he deserves something in return, he asks, 'Did you meet Ken at university?' 
'Why do you think that?' 
'I just wondered.' 
'Actually you're wrong. Ken lived near me when I was at studying at Bristol, but he wasn't at university. That was one of the reasons I liked him.' 
Jeremy looks baffled. 
'He wasn't full of bullshit like a lot of people in the academic world,' she explains.
'And you gelled,' Jeremy sums up, forbearing to mention that in his opinion sociologists live by bullshit. 
'I suppose we did. You'll meet him if you want to discuss setting up a trust. Have you thought about it?‘
'Not yet.' 
'Pick his brains - he's keen to help and you'll pay a fortune for accountancy advice otherwise.' 
'I've had so much on my plate with this place.' Jeremy gestures around helplessly. 
'It can't do any harm, can it - just looking at the possibility?' 
'No.' 
'It's up to you, of course.' 
'I will get around to it.' 
'Now I've done my agony aunt bit, I suppose we ought to get to work. Have you got the cleaning things?' She watches his face. 'You haven't, have you?' 
'That's something else I haven't got round to.' 
'If you live in the next road, couldn't you pop back and get what we need?' 
'You must be joking.' 
'Why?' 
‘We Bohemians don't go in much for cleaning.' He grins, scenting her interest. 'It's this rambling old house that's come down in the world and been divided into bed-sits. There’s not much call for cleaning materials.’  
'Sounds being a student again.' 
'It is. You'll have to bring the cheap wine round.' 
Andrea looks puzzled. 
'So we can talk politics into the small hours like students do,' he explains, trying to make it sound like a joke. 
'I think we're getting a bit old for that.' 
'Never.' 
Andrea looks unconvinced. 'What I'll do is go to the supermarket and get\some things. If you could make a start by getting all the rubbish together.' 
'Right.' 
'Don't you think you ought to sort through all this post on the floor in case there's anything important?' 
'Good idea.' 
'I'll only be ten minutes, so long as there‘s not a queue.' 
As she walks along the mews to her car, he watches her retreating form and he lusts after her. When she has driven away, his spirits sink. He roams into the office, spreads one of the free newspapers on the dust-covered seat of the typist's chair and sits down. To his surprise, it still swivels, albeit protestingly. He spins around, taking in the featureless room and trying to envisage it as his office - the powerhouse from which creative ideas flow. The image is not convincing. The day is coming when he should give up his job, if Dr Hodgkinson does not take the decision out of his hands. If that happens, the mortgage will have to be paid from takings at the arts lab. A shiver passes through him at the thought of the sum involved. The chair squeaks in sympathy. Within a year he might be bankrupt. 
Another scenario steals into his thoughts - searching for a doorway where he will spend the night. The irony is that it could be the doorway of his own arts lab., empty and abandoned. 
'It was a good idea,' people would say. 
'Pity it didn't come off. Trouble was he didn't have the money or the expertise behind him. Called himself a visionary and you know what that means.' Dr Hodgkinson would not relish reemploying him - no good for the college's new image to have a tramp on the staff. Jeremy groans. In the face of such dire possibilities, the idea of a forming a trust to absolve himself from financial responsibility has more appeal. Or he could hand his baby to the council, where it would be at the mercy of hard-headed councillors on the entertainments committee and the cheese-paring members of the finance committee. No problems then. No creativity, but no problems. 
Keep your vision. The words make him leave his seat and wander trace-like into what will be the auditorium. The change of surroundings hardly overcomes his doubts as he stares at the leak in the roof. He ascends the stairs, unwilling to believe that his vision is lost, yet anxious to have the catharsis behind him before Andrea returns. Light streams through the dusty panes of the semicircular window, giving the mezzanine a radiance barely conceivable late in the afternoon, illuminating every corner. He stares in delight, his optimism returning. His gaze travels to the bare concrete floor. A dream of making love to Andrea insinuates his thoughts and lingers there. Sculpture and paintings will occupy the mezzanine, he vows. Andrea will be at the preview; their champagne glasses will touch as a symbol of their rapport. It will be like something in an advert. 
Andrea is soon back. Jeremy goes down to the lobby when he hears her. 
'I think I've got all we need.' 
He regards the offerings ranged at her feet - a bucket, a mop, detergent, sponges and a roll of plastic sacks. She watches with a quizzical look which makes him feel uncomfortable. Reluctantly he drops love-making from the agenda. 
'So what have you done?' she wants to know. 
'Nothing much,' he has to confess. 'I thought you were going to start clearing up?' 
'I was daydreaming.' 
'Jeremy - you've got to do more than daydream if this is going to get off the ground.' 
'You're right, of course.' 
'I suppose the water is turned on?' 
'I don't know.' 
She looks heavenwards in exasperation. 'There wasn't much point in getting this stuff if it isn't.' 
Jeremy can imagine her using the tone on recalcitrant students; being on the receiving end is a heady and unsettling experience. 
'I suppose you haven't contacted the press?' she asks.
'Not yet.' 
'You won't get any support if people don't know about it.' 
'Nothing’s happening at the moment, that‘s the thing. There’s nothing to advertise.' 
'Don't be so defeatist, Jeremy.' 
'I wouldn't call it defeatism exactly.' 
'You want to make your case before the opposition start making difficulties.' 
'I suppose so.' 
'So get in touch with the paper. It's a good story - lone crusader for the arts against the reactionaries and Philistines.' 
'And cross swords with Dr Hodgkinson.' 
Andrea looks contemptuous. 'What you do in your free time is nothing to do with him.' 
'Unless it counts as gainful employment. Never mind,' he adds, seeing her blank look. 
'You're not afraid of him, are you?' 
'Not afraid exactly - just mindful of my job.' 
'Isn't this more important to you?' She gestures around the rubbish-strewn lobby. 
'Yes - ' 
'There you are.' 
'I suppose so.' 
'Let's get to work. You collect up the rubbish, I'll get the toilets cleaned out.'
Obediently Jeremy sets about collecting the free newspapers, misrouted post and circulars advertising long-forgotten car boot sales. He wishes that he could share Andrea's optimism. 
* 
The second summons to Dr Hodgkinson's office is not unexpected. This time Jeremy is not asked to sit. He shuffles uneasily before the desk on which lies his personnel file. The principal wears his serious expression, which does not bode well. Playthings like the fountain pen are put aside. This time, he makes no pretence at having more important things to do. 
'I expect you know why I want to see you, Jeremy.' 
Jeremy knows. 
'I must say I was saddened to hear that planning permission has been granted for your enterprise.' 
In spite of objections from the Princes Park Conservation Society, Jeremy wants to add. Instead he follows the prudent course and remains silent. 
'You remember our chat?' 
Jeremy remembers. 
'I thought we'd sorted things out. I must say I wasn't expecting anything like this.' 
'Things were in hand, you see - ' 
'In hand?' 
'The planning permission.' 
'You could have withdrawn your application at any time.' 
'It got overlooked somehow,' Jeremy confesses. 
'I can't say I'm pleased by what's happened. I view it as an error of judgement on your part - a surprising error for someone of your intelligence and interests.' 
Jeremy tries to look contrite. 
'It's not only of the effect on your career I'm thinking about, but what such a scheme will do to the town, if you do decide to go ahead.' 
Jeremy thinks about the effect on his career. 
'I don't think you realise the potential effect on our young people.' Dr Hodgkinson shakes his head sadly. 'The opportunities for rowdyism,' he explains seeing Jeremy's puzzlement. 'I dread to think what might happen, to say nothing of the implications for our heritage.' 
'Our heritage?' Jeremy is jolted from his reverie. 
'I believe I mentioned it last time.' 
'You mentioned the petrol pump.' 
'I didn't expect to be raising the matter again - not to someone of your intelligence and training.’ 
'You're prejudging things.' 
'Possibly, possibly,' the principal concedes, sounding unconvinced. 'What particularly concerns me at the moment is your contract.' 
At last the file is opened. Jeremy tries to read it upside down, but with no great success. It occurs to him that he should have looked at the copy of his contract which has lain undisturbed in his bureau since he was appointed. Dr Hodgkinson's air of confidence makes him uneasy. 
'You're in danger of breaching your contract if you haven't done so already - you realise that?' 
'How?' 
'Gainful employment.' Dr Hodgkinson taps the file. 'We talked about this last time. All gainful employment outside the college requires prior approval. I was under the impression you understood that.' 
'It's not gainful,' Jeremy mutters, recalling their last skirmish. 
'You're not proposing to let everybody in free?' Dr Hodgkinson makes a valiant attempt at laughter in the face of such absurdity. 
'Lots of free events,' Jeremy assures him, deciding that there is nothing to be lost by recklessness. 'Art by the people, for the people.' 
'You must have a rich backer!' 
Jeremy tries to look inscrutable. The annoying thing is that with so much effort devoted to practical and legal issues, looking for a backer never occurred to him. What he wants is a rich, ageing hippie anxious to recapture the enthusiasm of youth, but there is no time to grapple with the implications of this idea as Dr Hodgkinson presses home his advantage. 
'If you're intent on devoting your energies to this enterprise, I must assume that you'll be leaving us. That would be most regrettable.' 
'Leaving?' Jeremy echoes, conscious of the tightness in his chest and of the size of his new mortgage. 
'To resolve a difficult situation.' The tips of Dr Hodgkinson's fingers come together over the file. 'Otherwise I should have no option but to bring your case before the governors.' 
Jeremy has seen little of the governors. He remembers their appearance at a Christmas party. One, a prominent local haulage contractor, drank too much and had to be escorted to a taxi by two of the more sturdy members of staff. 
'I should have thought the academic developments I've set in train would have encouraged you to stay,' Dr Hodgkinson continues reproachfully, 'particularly as you'll have the opportunity to make a substantial input to the history degree programme.' 
'Will I?' 
'Of course. Nineteenth century social history is your speciality, if I remember correctly.' 
Jeremy wonders what else appears in his personnel file. 
'A core subject, if I may say so. We don't pay enough attention to history.' Dr Hodgkinson hesitates as though debating whether to produce his trump card. 'There's going to be ample opportunity for project work which you'll be in a position to supervise.' 
'We haven't got that far in the working group.' 
'You haven't discussed the syllabuses in detail, I understand, but take my word for it, there will be project work.' 
To the best of Jeremy's knowledge, nothing of substance has been discussed by the working group. All he has gained from the meetings is the opportunity to look at Andrea's legs for half an hour at a time, which is a not inconsiderable benefit. And he is still not sure whether the plural of syllabus should be syllabi. 
'Still, as your interests have obviously moved elsewhere...' 
'I wouldn't say that.' 
'No?' 
'No.' 
'That's how it seems to me.' 
Jeremy looks down, not replying. 
'I think you'd better think about this, don't you?' Dr Hodgkinson suggests. 
'Perhaps I'd better.' 
The principal relaxes. 'I'm the last person to stifle individual initiative, but it does need to be controlled. In the other direction lies anarchy. Remember that. Anarchy!' 
Jeremy suspects that anarchy in the principal's eyes is wearing a denim jacket, but who is he to argue? 
* 
Jeremy and his co-conspirators select a table to themselves at the far end of the canteen. 
'So what happened?' Alf wants to know. 
Jeremy tells them. 
'That's incredible,' Andrea declares. 
'It happened.' 
'That's abusing his position.' 
'That's what power's about,' Alf reminds her. 
'You mean you agree with what he did?' Her nostrils flare delightfully. 
'Of course I don't agree. I'm just saying - if you've got power, you use it.' 
'It puts him on rocky ground, morally and legally.' She turns back to Jeremy. 'If he dismisses you, I don't see how it would stand up at a tribunal.' 
'I don't want it to go that far.' 
'That’s what he’s banking on. It's a pretty empty threat.' 
'It didn't sound empty when he said it.' 
'He'd have the union round his neck if he tried anything like that on,' Alf says. 'So long as you're up to date with your union dues, of course.' 
'That’s a great comfort.' 
'We ought to organise a petition amongst the staff,' Andrea urges. 'Let’s show there's staff solidarity against this sort of victimisation.' 
'Except that half of them might not sign, which implies they support him.' 
'Who's going to refuse?' 
'Mr Quick for one. That means Mrs Wilberforce won't sign, because she thinks he's the next best thing to God.' 
'They're the only ones.' 
'Anyway, I'm not sure a petition's a good idea.' 
'So what do you want us to do?' Alf asks. 
'I don't know.' 
'Something should be done,' Andrea declares. 'It ought to be made public.' 
'Don't say anything for the moment,' Jeremy pleads.
'If you’re sure.' She sounds disappointed. 'I don't want to make things worse.' 
'Can they be?' Alf asks. 
'Yes - he can turf me out,' Jeremy points out.
'It's all bluff.' 
'Let's hope so.' 
Jeremy stares at the table. Somebody has scratched 'HMC' into the Formica as a gesture to immortality. 
'I've been in touch with my friend,' Andrea tells him. 
'What friend?' 
'The reporter. You remember? We talked about getting publicity for the arts lab. She's going to contact you.' 
'Something to look forward to. You realise Dr Hodgkinson's going to go spare if he sees an article about the lab. in the paper?' 
'We'll back you up.' 
'A collection for my leaving present isn‘t going to help much.' 
Andrea frowns. 'You will see her, won't you?' 
'I suppose so.' 
'You need all the publicity you can get.' 
'I'll be charm itself.' 
* 
'It's still in its early stages,' Jeremy explains. 
The girl nods with the impatience of one who has already assumed such things. They have come to the mezzanine so that she can look into the body of the hall. Light streaming through the semicircular window gives her an ethereal quality. If Jeremy had seen her around the college, he would have taken her for one of his students. Like policemen, reporters are getting younger. 
'I can see already that it's going to be an immense asset to the town,' she assures him. 
'I hope so.' 
'What gave you the idea?' 
He thinks back, but without finding a convincing answer. The reporter smiles encouragingly. She has lovely teeth. He notices that she is shivering, which is hardly surprising when she wears nothing over her sweat shirt. The thought passes through his mind that reporters who are supposed to be taking the pulse of society should know the value of thick anoraks. 
'Just a vision,' he says modestly. 
'A vision,' she prompts, watching him intently. 
He tries to draw his attention from those penetrating grey eyes. 'From the sixties. Arts labs. - that sort of thing.' 
Her blank look shows that she has not heard of arts labs. 
'Arts centres are run by councils and committees,' he explains. 'They're hidebound. They're not in touch. Arts labs. are much freer. They're ferments for ideas. It's the ideas which matter, not the structures you try to impose on them.' 
She nods again, though he guesses that she is none the wiser. 
'And what do you see happening here?' she asks. 
'How do you mean?' 
'What sort of events?' 
'Everything - poetry, art, drama, music. Every sort of music from rock bands to string quartets,' he adds for good measure. 'Like a kaleidoscope.' 
The prospect excites her, judging by the frenzy of her writing. 'How are you financing it?' she wants to know. 
'I want to emphasise the point that ideas come first.' 
'Understood - but you've still got to finance it.' 
'I'm looking for sponsors,' he says hopefully, thinking that he ought to appeal to the entrepreneurial spirit. 
'But you haven't got them yet?' 
'Not as yet.' 
'So how have you financed it so far?' 
'There hasn't been much to finance.' 
'But there are going to be bills before it's up and running - quite large bills, I should have thought. Presumably you're getting a grant?' 
'No.' 
'So how are you paying for everything?' The first stages of exasperation are evident in her voice. 
'From my own pocket.' 
She stares at him. 'You haven't got any backing at all?' 
'No.' 
'That's amazing.' 
He looks suitably modest. 
'Presumably you've got private means?' 
'None at all,' he announces cheerfully. 
She shakes her head, whether in amazement or in wonderment at such folly, he is not sure. He toys with the idea of asking her out. She is attractive and personable. Then he remembers - she knows Andrea. He reflects inconsequentially that he has never asked any of his students out. Barring Mr Wheeler he must be the only male lecturer who can make such a claim. 
'I hope it goes well,' she says. 
'So do I.' She hesitates before adding, 'I'll give you all the coverage I can.' 
'Thanks.' 
'Have you got any events booked?' 
'Not as yet.' He indicates the bare concrete floor where in his dreams he made love to Andrea. 'We're hardly at the booking stage.' 
'Pity. It would give people a better idea of what to expect if we could tell them about the opening events.' 
'So you think I might be better off arranging the opening events now?' 
'I would.' 
'What sort of things would you put on?' 
She shrugs. 'It's up to you. I'd go for a top-notch name to launch it - somebody with a wide appeal like Ralph McTell.' She gazes around the hall. 'You've got plenty of space for experimental theatre. You could try introducing that.' 
'Start a theatre group, you mean?' 
'I was thinking of booking a touring group like Hull Truck.' 
'It's worth thinking about.' 
She gazes around the hall again. 'You've taken on a massive job.' 
'Some people don't like the idea.' 
'Put your head over the parapet and there's always somebody ready to shoot at you.' 
'They haven't been in touch with you?' 
'Anybody in particular?' 
'The Princes Park Conservation Society.' 
'I've heard of them.' 
'Dr Hodgkinson is a prominent member.' 
'Dr Hodgkinson?' 
'The principal of the college.' 
She shakes her head. 'Andrea could probably tell you more about him - she works there.' 
'I work there!' 
The dark hint of a Machiavellian plot against him does not create the frenzy of excitement which he anticipated. He tries to decide whether he was too subtle in putting across the moral ambiguities, or whether the girl has concluded that he is paranoid. 
'I suppose it is difficult for you,' she agrees. 
'That's one way of putting it.' 
'Perhaps your union could help.' 
Hopes fade for an exposé of Dr Hodgkinson in the next issue of the local paper. Jeremy reluctantly concludes that whatever the reporter’s qualities, she does not recognise a scoop when she is given one. 
'We're going to need a photograph,' she announces in tones which suggest that the interview is at an end. 'I'll arrange for a photographer to come over.' She notices the semicircular window for the first time. She does not look bowled over, like Andrea. 'It would be nice if we could get a picture of you silhouetted against the light.' 
'Will you be there?' 
She looks puzzled. 
'I thought perhaps we could go out to lunch or something - talk things over.' 
Her smile is strained. 'I don't think there's any need.' 
'It was just an idea.' 
'Perhaps another time.' 
'Another time,' he agrees, knowing that the time will never come. 

Chapter 8

'Did you see it?' Alf asks at the mid-morning break from battle. They are in what everybody except Dr Hodgkinson still calls the staff room.
'See what?' Jeremy asks. 
‘The article.'
Jeremy looks at Alf's paper and confronts a photograph of himself. It was taken in the mews - the photographer was insistent that the semicircular window would show up better from the outside. Unfortunately the image does not capture him as the thrusting visionary. At a cursory glance the face staring back at him might belong to secondhand car salesman caught altering a speedometer.
'She did you proud on the write-up.'
'I asked her out.'
'Good for you - perhaps that‘s why she gave you a good splash.'
'I thought why shouldn't I now I'm a free agent?' 
'What did she say?' 
'No.' 
'Ring up the paper and tell her you want to thank her for the article by taking her out.' 
'And give her the embarrassment of looking for excuses?' 
'She's obviously on your side.' 
'You think?' 
'You’ve only got to read it.' 
Jeremy reads. His eyebrows go up. 
'Told you, didn't I?' 
'It's certainly enthusiastic.' 
'Should get the punters queuing up.' 
'Should get me thrown out of here when the commandant sees it.' 
'Timidity, thy name is Jeremy.' 
'I'm thinking of my salary - the money that pays the mortgage I've saddled myself with for the next twenty-five years.' 
'With all the money you'll rake in from the punters, you'll be laughing.' 
'Want to bet on it?' 
'So long as you pitch your seat prices right.' 
'You make it sound like a business.' 
'If it takes money and makes money, it's a business.' 
'You were the one who was encouraging me to keep my vision.' 
'Vision plus realism - that's what it's about these days.' 
'Sounds like time to call in Ken.' 
'I'm not with you.' 
'Don't take any notice.' Jeremy scans the article again. 'At least there's nothing about the commandant in it.' 
'Why should there be?' 
'Considering some of the things I told her.' 
'A little indiscreet, were we? Tell Uncle Alf all the revelations.' 
'About our last contretemps.' 
'That.' 
'Yes, that.' 
'He was bluffing.' 
'He might not be bluffing when he sees this.' 
'You can't go ahead without him finding out, can you?' 
'True.' 
'So go for it!' 
'It's all right for you - your job's not on the line.' 
'You've netted Andrea. That's what you wanted.' 
'I wouldn't say I've netted her exactly.' 
'You've got her wielding her scrubbing brush on Saturday mornings. If that's not netting her, I don't know what is.' 
'She's not doing it because of my charisma - she happens to believe in the lab.' 
'Whatever the reason, I'd say everything's going pretty well for you.' 
'You think?' 
'Sure of it. You don't want to start getting cold feet now you've got the bureaucracy sorted out.' 
'You never get bureaucracy sorted out - you uncover the next layer.' 
'You've arranged the mortgage.' 
'Apart from finding the repayments.' 
'Now all you've got to worry about is the opening night.' 
'I don't have to. You're organising that.' 
'Am I?' This time Alf raises his eyebrows. 
'So you said. Something that's going to make it go with a bang, you said.' 
'That's what you need.' 
'So are you arranging it?' 
Alf looks evasive. 'I don't really know what you want.' 
'It doesn't matter what I want. You're the one with the big ideas.' 
'Do you really want me to organise it?' 
'Yes.' 
'I don't know how much money you've got available.' 
'Assume there’s nothing.' 
'Great.' 
'Just to tax your ingenuity.' 
'That's one way of putting it.' 
'It'll go off at half cock if you don't come up with something.' 
'How long have I got?' 
'Let's say a month.' 
'A month? Christ.' 
'I'm going for it, like you keep urging me.' 
'You must have got a move on with the renovating. The place was knee deep in rubbish when I last saw it.' 
'I'm not having thick carpets and plush seats.' 
'So long as you're having heating.' 
'I'm getting somebody in to do that.' 
'You haven't got Andrea wielding the wrench and blowtorch yet?' 
When Jeremy does not reply, Alf watches his companion more closely. 'Got something on your mind?' 
'I'm thinking of stalking the lion in his lair.' 
'Which lion?' 
'Hodgkinson type lion.' 
'Rather you than me.' 
'He's going to haul me in when he reads the paper. I was wondering whether to preempt him.' 
'We're all behind you.' 
'You and Andrea might be. I don't know about the others.' 
'You haven't told them yet.' 
'They'll have read it.' Alf glances across the room. 'Which might be why Mrs Wilberforce is talking about you.' 
'Are you sure?' 
'Judging by the way she's looking at you.' 
'Who's she talking to?' 
'Mr Wheeler.' 
'She would.' Jeremy watches Alf trying to attract her attention. 'What are you doing?' 
'Showing her we'd noticed.' 
'Do you have to?' 
'She's coming over.' 
'Great.' 
Coming over takes a long time for Mrs Wilberforce. When she arrives, she pauses to get her breath before announcing, 'I read the article in the newspaper - about the arts centre.' 
'Arts lab.' says Jeremy automatically. 
'It sounds most adventurous.' 
'Anything's adventurous for this town.' 
'I shall look forward to a good range of entertainments.' 
He hazards that Mrs Wilberforce's favoured entertainment is endless reruns of The Sound of Music, but he says dutifully, 'You're invited to the opening, of course.' 
Mrs Wilberforce smiles, showing gleaming false teeth. 'That's most kind of you. I shall look forward to it.' 
'Alf's organising it.' 
Mrs Wilberforce turns her smile on Alf. 'What entertainment are you providing for us, may I ask?' 
Alf regards Mrs Wilberforce with all the seriousness he can muster. 'It's not finalised yet, but rest assured it’s going to go with a bang.' 
'I shall look forward to it.' 
'What do you think of the idea?' Jeremy asks, intrigued. 
'Of an arts centre? An excellent idea. Most courageous of you.' 
It is Jeremy's turn to break into a smile. 'Thank you, Mrs Wheeler. Thank you for saying so.' 
'If I can help you in some small capacity, I shall be delighted.' 
'That's kind of you.' 
'I think the arts have not been sufficiently fostered in this town.' 
'My own feelings.' 
'Remember you have my wholehearted support.' 
'I will. Thanks.' 
The two men watch Mrs Wilberforce lumbering back to Mr Wheeler. 
'If you fall out with Andrea, you've got one fan,' Alf observes. 
'Amazing.' 
'Perhaps you could put her on the cash desk.' 
'Don't jest.' 
* 
Stalking the lion in its lair seemed an apt metaphor. Now the moment has come, the idea is less appealing. Jeremy looks around for a copy of the local paper without seeing one. He steals a glance at the lion. No social niceties are forthcoming; the omens are not promising. 
'You wanted to see me?' the principal prompts, hands clasped together as though in prayer. 
'Regarding what we talked about.' 
'Ah.' 
'Yes.' Jeremy shifts uncomfortably and wishes that Dr Hodgkinson would invite him to sit down. 'I think there was a breakdown of communication last time.' 
'Carry on,' says Dr Hodgkinson, not committing himself. 
'You might have read the local paper.' 
A slight inclination of the head signifies affirmation. 
'I don't know how you feel about it,' Jeremy continues before he realises that he knows perfectly well. The illogicality also strikes the principal, whose expression looks suspiciously like scorn. 'So I thought we should have another chat,' Jeremy stumbles on. 'I hope from the article, you might have got a better impression of what I was trying to do.' 
'Frankly no.' 
Jeremy assumes a look of surprise. 
'A cheap piece of publicity if I might say so,' Dr Hodgkinson adds. 
'I'm sorry you feel like that,' Jeremy wonders whether the moment has come to play his trump card. Ideally he wanted the principal to be in an amenable mood. 
'I'd have liked to see the article before it went out,' he excuses himself. 'I might have changed a few things.' 
Dr Hodgkinson looks unconvinced. 
'Matters of emphasis,' Jeremy continues, 'like how the place is to be administered. I suppose she thought that wouldn't interest readers.' 
No response. 
'I'm forming a trust. I don't know whether I mentioned it.' 
An imperceptible shake of the head.
'So the whole thing doesn't become an ego trip,’ Jeremy explains. ‘I want to make it responsive to the community.' He pauses to judge the effect of his words, but the principal is sphinx-like. 'So as somebody well known in the town, I wondered whether you'd be willing to serve as a trustee,' he finishes, watching in trepidation for the response. To his delight, Dr Hodgkinson smiles. It is like watching the sun appearing from behind a cloud. 
'This isn't what I was expecting, certainly,' the principal concedes, looking for once uncertain how to continue. 'With a venture like this, we certainly need to make sure things are steered in the right direction.'
'I see what you mean.' 
The principal nods sagely. 'It's been my primary reservation about whole enterprise.' 
Jeremy tries to hide his surprise. 
'I've never been against the idea of an arts centre,' Dr Hodgkinson assures him. 'What concerns me is that it should be an asset to the town.' 
'What about the Princes Park Conservation Society?' 
'Ah yes.' 
'They're against it, aren't they?' 
Dr Hodgkinson clears his throat. 'They certainly have reservations, which I tried to convey to you in as constructive a manner as possible.' 
'Which I appreciate.' 
'Any views which I expressed the last time we met were those of the Society, you understand.' 
'I realise that.' 
'Entirely the views of the Society.' 
'So you would be interested in serving as a trustee?' 
'Certainly I shall assist in any way I can.' The principal smiles. 'Sit yourself down, Jeremy. No need to stand on ceremony.' 
Jeremy sits, apprehensive about the genie he has released. Dr Hodgkinson leans back as though preparing for a long speech. 
'I've long held the view that there's scope for somewhere where literary readings can be held. Was that something you had in mind?' 
'Not specifically.' 
'I'm concerned that students pass through our hands without being exposed to the classics of our literature.' 
'It's a problem,' Jeremy agrees. 
'With the timetable as crowded as it is, I don't know how to remedy this. And now with the degree programme coming along...' Dr Hodgkinson gestures helplessly. 'Needless to say I'm fully committed to the expansion plans, but are we turning out fully rounded citizens? That's something I ask myself when I'm at home and looking at my own modest library.' 
Jeremy imagines a shelf of Reader's Digest editions, lovingly dusted every day by Mrs Hodgkinson. 'Couldn't we introduce classics of our literature into the degree?' he ventures. 
'Not into science degrees.' 
'Perhaps not.' 
'But if we could attract students to the centre...' 
'The lab. Arts lab.' 
'Centre might be a better word. People understand it.' 
'You think?' 
'We need to attract as broad a spectrum as possible.' 
'I'd agree with you there.' 
'Don't want to put people off by implying we're going to run some sort of science laboratory, do we?' 
'I'm not sure they'll think that.' 
'You'd be surprised. A clear, unambiguous name - that's what we need.' 
'You might be right.' 
'Perhaps we can integrate events with courses - that's something to think about.' 
Jeremy thinks about it, without liking it much. The prospect of the lab. becoming an annexe to the college is alarming. 
'We'll have to make sure events are varied,' Dr Hodgkinson muses, 'but I think it's something worth exploring.' 
'By all means let's explore it.' 
'Perhaps we should set up a committee - interested parties from the college and the centre.' 
Jeremy wants to say that the only parties interested in the lab. already work in the college, but the principal's expansive mood is unlikely to be dented by such details. 
'Perhaps that's something you could organise,' Dr Hodgkinson suggests. 
'Give us an opportunity to thresh out a strategy.' 
'We've got the working group as well, don't forget.' 
'I don't see...' 
'All those meetings.' 
'That's life today, I'm afraid. Can't get away from meetings, whatever field you're in. Wish we could.' Dr Hodgkinson sighs. 'I think it best if we hold the arts centre committee meetings out of college hours as it's not strictly college business.' 
'Of course.' 
'I'm sure we've all got enough to do here without breaking into the working day.' 
'More than enough.' 
'As this is a collaborative effort, I don't think there's any problem about holding the meetings on college premises.' 
'That solves one problem,' says Jeremy, who never thought there was a problem.  
'I'll see what other ideas for the centre I can come up with. You may have thought of them already, of course. Still, no harm done, eh?' 
'Certainly not,' Jeremy agrees, stifling a groan. 
'I might circulate a discussion paper.' 
'I'll be interested to see it,' Jeremy lies. 'At least we've cleared the air.' 
'We've certainly done that,' Jeremy has to agree, marvelling that he has stumbled upon the key to the principal's affability. 
'What about the Society?' 
'What about them?' 
'What are you going to say to them?' 
'I shall explain the circumstances fully.' 
'Do you think they'll carry on objecting?' 
'They haven't really been in a position to object since you got planning permission.' 
'I suppose not.' 
'Ruffled a few feathers, mind you.' 
'Any protests?' 
'A few mutterings.' 
'I was thinking of public protests.' 
'Nothing like that.' Dr Hodgkinson shakes his head vehemently. 'We're not that sort of society.' 
'I think there might be some.' 
'You're bound to get hotheads.' 
'Like Miss Hollingshead.' 
'Eh?' 
'Doesn't matter.' 
'You'll arrange a time with your colleagues then?' 
'Time?' 
'For the meeting. You can liase with my secretary about when I'm available.' 
'Right.' 
'I think that's all for now, unless there's anything...' 
'Not that I can think of.' 
'Good. I’m glad we've had this chat.' 
'It's been useful. Thanks.' A bemused Jeremy rises from his chair and wanders from the office. He is not sure what he expected from the meeting. He is less sure whether what he has got is all that good. 
*
An encounter like that has to be talked about. As Alf is not to be found, Jeremy lights upon Andrea in a corner of the staff room, which is even better. He recounts the conversation. 
'I think it was brilliant,' she declares. 
'You do?' 
'Getting Dr Hodgkinson on your side.' 
'Or round my neck, depending on how you look at it.' 
'He could be useful to you.' 
'Or he could be the kiss of death.' 
'You've got to look on the positive side now you're an entrepreneur.' 
'Anything but that.' 
'You're running a business - even if it is an arts centre.' 
'Arts lab. Anyway, the trust's supposed to be running it.' 
'So you're committed to a trust now?' 
'With Dr Hodgkinson as a member.' 
'You must have a word with Ken.' 
'It might be an idea.' 
'How about coming over tonight?' 
'I could do,' he agrees with a lack of enthusiasm. He is not sure whether he wants visit Andrea on home territory. Any glimpse of her is welcome, but seeing her with Ken may release the old green-eyed monster. 
'I did have one idea.' She waits for him to show interest before she continues, 'You remember we were talking about art exhibitions?' 
He remembers vividly. 
'I’m not thinking about my paintings - they’re not good enough - but what we could have is an open exhibition. It creates interest and if we put an entry fee on paintings and took a percentage of any sales, it should make a good return.' 
Jeremy recalls an open exhibition at the local library - and his wonderment at what some people dared to put on public display. He tries to think of a tactful way of explaining this to Andrea - and fails. 
'That's something for later,' she adds. 'I don't think we should have it as an opening exhibition. You want a big name for that.' 
'Do you know any?' 
'He's not a big name - well not that big - but he's well respected in the art world and his work's quite controversial.' 
'Controversial?' 
'Geoff Rayner. There was an article about him the Guardian a few months back. I don't know whether you remember it?' 
Jeremy shakes his head. 
'He incorporates everyday objects into his canvases - his aim is to make people reexamine their surroundings.' 
Foreboding stirs in Jeremy. 'What sort of objects?' 
'The one all the publicity about was nappies.' 
'Clean ones, I hope.' 
'No. That was the point Geoff was making.' 
'Don't they smell?' 
'He treats them so they don't.' 
'That's something.' Jeremy hesitates, torn between a distaste for dirty nappies and not wanting to disagree with Andrea. 'I'm not sure it's going to be something people come flocking to look at.' 
'It gets us publicity and we make a commission on anything that's sold.' 
'Do we want to be that controversial?' 
'There's such a thing as playing it too safe.' 
'We don't want to put people off.' 
'You're always going to alienate some people.' 
'Quite a lot of people, by the sound of it.' 
'I don't see how you can challenge people without taking a risk.' 
'Can you see Dr Hodgkinson getting excited about dirty nappies?' 
The prospect makes her hesitate. 
'Something we've got to consider now he's a trustee,' Jeremy reminds her. 
‘Don't let him dictate to you.' 
'I'm not.' 
'That's the way it looks.' 
'You said you thought I'd done the right thing.' 
'By neutralising him, not by deferring to him. You see my point?' 
Jeremy nods, unhappy that they are on different sides for the first time. 
'Anyway, about the exhibition. Geoff's the partner of a girl I knew at university, so what I'll do is get in touch with her. We'll have to paint the balcony white and install some spotlights, which we've got to do anyway. His work should look really good up there - especially the mobiles.' 
'Mobiles?' 
'Otherwise we wouldn't use the floor space fully unless we hung paintings on screens.' 
'Screens can be difficult,' Jeremy agrees, wondering what she is talking about. 
'I'll ask him about the floor - whether he wants a carpet. He might prefer it as it is.' 
'I don't suppose he'll want bare concrete.' 
'He might like the texture.' 
Jeremy tries to imagine an artist who goes into ecstasies over the texture of bare concrete. The idea lacks conviction, though any excuse to avoid the cost of carpeting is welcome. 
'If we make it presentable up there - give the walls and the window frames a coat of white paint,' Andrea suggests, 'then Geoff can come and have a look. I know he'll be keen.' 
'Does he want paying, or does he pay us for the exhibition space? I don't know what the procedure is for these things.' 
She frowns. 'I'll have to find out. I think he'll be glad of the chance to stage the opening exhibition in a new gallery.' 
The arts lab. has become an art gallery before it has opened, Jeremy notes sadly. 
'Cheer up,' Andrea tells him. 'We're getting there.' 
'We're getting somewhere.' 
* 
As the college empties, Jeremy comes upon Alf. 
'I was looking for you at lunchtime.' 
'You should have come down the pub.' 
'There wasn't much time left after a session with the commandant.' 
Alf looks interested, which Jeremy takes as a cue to explain what happened. 
'I like it,' says Alf. 
'I'm not sure I do.' 
'He's on our side.' 
'For better or worse. Probably worse if he keeps interfering.' 
'It was your decision.' 
'Meaning you'd have kept quiet?' 
'Too right I would.' 
'I thought I'd better do something before he threw me out.' 
'So you nobbled him. It's cunning - I'll say that.' 
'He started making suggestions.' 
'Obscene ones?' 
'Like having readings from the classics of our literature.' 
'You're joking.' 
'That's what he wants.' 
'With him doing the reading?' 
'I think that was the idea.' 
'Sounds a surefire recipe for keeping the punters away.' 
'How am I going to talk him out of it?' 
'With you usual consummate tact.' 
'I was hoping for some bright ideas.' 
'You could string him along. Say he can have his reading next month. Whenever he asks, it's always going to be next month.' 
'You think it'll work?' 
'Depends how convincing you are. At least it gets him off your back for a while.' 
'True.' 
'Otherwise you could give him a lunchtime slot to keep him quiet. When he reads Jane Austen to an audience of two old ladies, he should get the message.' 
'That sounds better.' 
'Elegantly simple, as they say in the best Sundays.' 
'I suppose you can't think of a way of getting him to turn down the idea of being a trustee?' 
'I'll have to work on that one.' 
'Do you know if trustees have to be voted in?' 
'Who's going to do the voting?' 
'Good point.' 
'I should have thought it's more a question who wants to be a trustee. Who else have you got at the moment?' 
'I'm hoping for Andrea and Ken.' 
'Ken?' 
'Andrea's partner. Knows all about trusts.' 
'So long as you don't let the businessmen take over.' 
'Fancy helping to keep them out?'
‘How?’ 
'Be a trustee?’
‘You must be joking.' 
'You've been involved from the start.' 
'Humble meddler, that's me.' 
'We all are.' 
'I don't like committees - especially ones with the commandant on.' 
'There'd be enough of us to outvote him.' 
A smile spreads across Alf's face. 'I might be interested in that case.' 
* 
'Daddy!' 
'Sammy!' Jeremy lifts his son into the air. 'How's Sammy getting on?' 
'Vickie gave me a colouring book.' 
When he was Sammy's age, all friends of his mother adopted the honorary title of auntie. Feminism has put paid to that. 
'You're a lucky boy. Are you going to show it to me?' 
'It's upstairs.' 
'Well you go and get it.' He puts his son down. While Sammy clambers upstairs, Jeremy goes in the kitchen. Sally is alone. They eye each other warily. 
'Good of you to fit us in your busy schedule,' she greets him. 
'I wanted to see how things were going,' he responds meekly. 'See how you both are.' 
'We're all right, as you can see. Uncertain, of course.' 
'How do you mean?' 
'That we might be thrown out the house if you can't meet the repayments.' 
'There's no question of that.' 
'I'm glad you're so certain. You realise you got the mortgage under false pretences?' 
'Why?' 
'Because you aren't living here.' 
'I was when all this began. You're the one who asked me to go, remember?' 
'What are you talking about? You walked out.' 
'That's not the way I remember it.' 
She turns away. 'Obviously we look at things in different ways.' 
'Who wouldn't let me in the bedroom?' 
'If this went to court, they'd accept that you walked out.' 
'How do you know?' 
'Vickie asked one of her friends at the women's aid centre.' 
'She would.' 
'Don't start that again.' 
'She's a menace.' 
'I like having her here.' 
'Don't you like having me here?' 
'I did when you were reasonable.' 
'I thought I still was.' 
'Till you started getting obsessed about this arts centre.' 
'Arts lab. The only way it need affect us is that it's taking a lot of my time to get it off the ground.' 
'And we come a poor second.' 
'That's not true.' 
She shakes her head wonderingly. 'I didn't think you'd go ahead with it.' 
'Neither did I, to tell the truth.' 
'You're willing to put us at risk for the sake of this crazy scheme - that's what bugs me.' 
'It's a vision.' 
'And that's supposed to explain everything?' 
'If I don't do it now, I'm always going to be a lecturer in a tin-pot college.' 
'You're not totally free like you were at eighteen. You've got a child. Doesn't that mean anything to you?' 
'Of course it does.' 
'It doesn't look like it when you're willing to mortgage your home to pay a fantasy.’  
'A home I can't live in, apparently.' When Sally does not rise to the bait, he adds, 'You're both the important to me, but that doesn't mean everything else has to be put aside.' 
A silence grows between them as they gauge how far the argument might go.
'I wondered what’s happening about Christmas,' he ventures, aware that he has not chosen the ideal moment. 
'I haven't thought about it.' 
'Not long now.' 
'I realise that.' 
'Perhaps we ought to have a truce for Sammy's sake.' 
She hesitates before saying, 'I think it's best if we leave things as they are.' 
'If that's what you want.' 
'It could upset him more if things keep changing.' 
'That's fair enough.' This time Jeremy is the one to hesitate. 'I' would like to see him over Christmas.' 
'You could come over on Boxing Day.' 
'Give him his present. I can't really have him where I'm staying.' 
'I'd rather he didn't go there, anyway.' 
'That's what I'm saying.' 
'You could have lunch here.' 
'I'd like that. I won’t get a Christmas lunch otherwise.' 
'I thought that might be the case.' 
'Another thing I wanted to mention - I suppose you don't fancy the college Christmas party?' 
'Not really.' 
'Don't blame you. It was just an idea.' 
No reply. 
'If you did change your mind...' 
'Isn't there anybody else you want to take?' 
'No.' He looks surprised. 'Should there be?' 
'I just wondered.' 
'There isn't anybody else.' 
A stamping on the stairs heralds Sammy's return. 
'I've got it!' he announces, running to his father. 'I've got it!' 
'Let's have a look.' Jeremy kneels beside his son. Surprisingly, given the identity of the donor, the subject matter of colouring book is unexceptionable. Sammy has already been at work. Orange clouds in wax crayon hang over meadows where red, sausage-shaped cows graze. 'This should keep you busy for a while.' 
'It's the bestest drawing book I've ever had.' 
Jeremy flicks through the pages. 'There's a good one of an airport here. Look at all the aeroplanes.' 
'I haven't done that one yet.' 
'I can see that. Have you shown Vickie when you've done?' 
'She isn't here.' 
For a moment his heart leaps, till Sally says, 'She's taken Saskia to her mother's.' 
'I thought Vickie was her mother.' 
'Vickie's mother. You know what I mean.' 
Jeremy gives the book back. 'I suppose I'd better be going.' 
'Off to your arts lab.?' 
'There's a lot to do. We're opening in next month.' 
'That soon?' 
'It doesn't bring in any money while it's sitting empty.' 
'You sound like a businessman.' 
'Good forbid.' He recalls Andrea saying much the same thing. It takes a few moments for him to notice Sally's hesitation. 'Is there something else you want to tell me?' 
'I'd like you to leave your keys,' she says at last. 
'What for?' 
'And can you phone before you come?' 
'I suppose Vickie put you up to this?' 
'I do have ideas of my own.' 
'This one sounds like Vickie's.' 
No reply. 
'I think I'll keep my keys, if you don't mind.' He tries to smile at Sammy, who is absorbed in thumbing through the pleasures to come in the colouring book and does not notice. 'I'll be popping in sometimes as it's my house. I'll let you know first, of course.' 
Still no response. When he stalks out, nobody says good-bye. It occurs to him that she could change the locks, but he has made his gesture. 
* 
Surveying his Marchant Mews empire, Jeremy has to admit that the chances of everything being finished in time are minimal. The rubbish has gone. The lobby and its adjoining rooms are newly painted, thanks largely to Andrea's efforts. Intriguingly her concern for clean lavatories impelled her to begin decorating there. He speculates on whether an anal fixation lurks deep in her adorable psyche. But in spite of all her endeavours, the hall still resembles a disused workshop more than an arts lab. The trouble is that he has only a hazy notion of how a well-appointed arts lab. should look. Visiting one might have helped, but he absorbed their ethos at one remove. His abiding memory is of reading a Guardian article about the Drury Lane arts lab., but that is a scant basis for a vision. His own experiences of the sixties are hazy and have more to do with watching The Avengers on television and ploughing uncomplainingly through sufficient homework to safeguard his morals by keeping him off the streets, even if did little to further his intellectual prowess. One option is to pick the brains of other survivors from those heady days, but if leading lights of the alternative culture have published their memoirs, he has not seen them. Perhaps such bourgeois concepts have been rejected by rugged idealists who live in communes in remote Welsh valleys. He tries to dismiss the more likely possibility that those fighters against conformity have become public relations executives in oil companies. A few might have descended to the ranks of hobos - or even become college lecturers. He tries to imagine Mr Wheeler as a leading light of the counter culture, but the notion lacks credibility. Mr Wheeler never belonged to the world of flared jeans and kipper ties. Once the vision was in Jeremy's head and was inviolate; now it is in the public domain, some of his enthusiasm has dissipated. Too many people muscling in on his ideas, he tells himself. Life was a lot easier in the sixties. 
* 
Park Road is next to Park Street and linked to it by Park Crescent. People visiting the area for the first time search for the park, but the name commemorates the park which occupied the site before a Victorian developer saw its potential. Park Road has the grandest houses. Most were converted into flats in the nineteen-seventies, only to be converted back to single houses as young professionals colonised the area in the eighties. Andrea's house is double-fronted, its woodwork painted the regulation white. The curtains are not drawn - Jeremy glimpses a high-ceilinged room, the cornice tastefully highlighted in a pastel shade of pink. Plants are everywhere - shrouding the mantelpiece, hanging precariously from twisting bamboo stands and peeping around window frames. This passion of Andrea's is something new to him. The front garden is small, but heavy with Victorian shrubbery. He pauses, imagining gas-lit winter evenings when suitors came to pay their respects to the daughters of the house. In the mews at the back, other young men were doubtless paying their respects to the servants. Then the First World War swept that ordered world away, along with the young men… 
He shakes himself free of his reverie and rings the bell. It is electric and disappointingly modern. The man who opens the door is presumably Ken. Jeremy guesses that frequent sessions in the squash court keep him looking fit, though thinning hair is a reassuring reminder that age always exacts its toll. With his gold-ribbed glasses, well-worn corduroys and brushed cotton shirt, he looks every inch the trendy young professional off duty. He smiles in the openhearted manner of accountants who are doing well for themselves. 
'You must be Jeremy. Pleased to meet you. Come on in.' 
The preliminary of shaking hands completed, they go into the room glimpsed from outside. The presence of so many plants creates a smell reminiscent of woodland. It is easy to imagine Andrea attending to her karma amongst the greenery. Strings of Christmas cards hanging from picture rails and tasteful decorations in silver and burnished colours brighten the room, reminding Jeremy uncomfortably of the squalor which is his own bed-sit. 
'Andrea's been telling me a lot about the arts centre,' Ken begins.  
'Arts lab.' 
'It's quite a venture.' 
'Quite a venture,' Jeremy agrees. 
'I think you're right to form a trust.' 
Jeremy feels control of his brainchild slipping further from his grasp. 'Is Andrea around?' he asks, praying that she has not left him to the mercies of Ken for the evening. 
'She'll be down in a moment.' 
Jeremy relaxes. He imagines her seated at her dressing table, getting ready for her guest in the way which always takes women hours. He ventures a sidelong look at Ken and tries to suppress a pang of jealousy. 'Got a few points to sort out with her,' he explains. 
'What do you want to drink?' 
'Better not as I'm driving. The police are keen on breathalysing people now it's coming up to Christmas.' He wills Andrea to appear. 
'I wouldn't want to take on a task like starting an arts centre from scratch.' 
'I'm not sure I would if I'd known what it involved.' 
Andrea appears before he has to elaborate. Instead of the elegant gown of his fantasies, she is wearing jeans and a sweater, the same as at college. Her face light up as she sees her guest. 'Hi, Jeremy - glad you could come.' 
'I thought it was time to get things moving. We're opening next month.' 
She pulls a face. 'That's pushing it.' 
'I've got to. At the moment money's going out at a rate of knots and nothing's coming in.' 
'Let's all sit down,' Ken suggests. 
Andrea curls on the settee while Jeremy settles in an armchair affording a good view of her. 
'We've still got the hall to redecorate,' she reminds him. 
'We've got all the Christmas holidays.' 
'I'd think about setting up the trust as soon as possible,' Ken advises. He perches on the edge of his chair as though expecting his pager to summon him away at any moment. 
'I suppose so,' Jeremy agrees, unwilling to let his attention be distracted from practical issues. He turns back to Andrea. 'Do you think we can manage decorating the hall ourselves?' 
'We can have a go. The problem is getting up to the roof.' 
'We could leave it.' 
She looks unsure. 'It's in a bit of a state. We could do it with a tower scaffolding, so long as you don't mind climbing up. I can't stand heights.' 
A chink in that armour of confidence - and Jeremy loves her for it. He feels a shiver of masochistic anticipation running down his spine as he imagines trying to entice her on the scaffolding. 
'Or you could do it,' she says, glancing at Ken. 
The thought of Ken perched on a ladder in his overalls is incongruous enough to make Jeremy forget his immediate problems. He takes another look at the Ken to make sure he is not being unfair. Andrea is talking about seats again. Without too much reluctance he turns his attention back to her. 
'You can't expect the audience to sit on the floor,' she points out. 
'Alf thinks they won't mind.' 
'Alf ought to try sitting on bare concrete for two hours.' 
'Hire seats,' Ken suggests. 
'Great idea.' 
Ken's face lights up, as though praise from Andrea is a rare and beautiful thing. Jeremy expects him to whip out a pocket dictating machine as an aide-memoire, but instead he sits back looking pleased with himself. 
'What about heating?' Andrea asks. 'It's freezing in that place - I don't know what it's going to like if we have a really cold spell.' 
'I've got somebody coming.' 
This display of decisiveness silences her. Jeremy watches entranced as she settles back in her Habitat settee to think of other potential problems. 
'Do you know who you want as trustees?' Ken asks, as though the conversation has never changed direction. 
'I know one I'm stuck with,' Jeremy confesses. 
'You're going to need more than one.' 
'One of the other lecturers has offered. And there's you two, if you're interested.' 
'I'm game.' Ken looks at Andrea for confirmation. 
'Count me in. And I'll get in touch with Linda about the exhibition,' she promises. 'She's Geoff Rayner's partner.' 
'She came to stay once,' Ken recalls. 
'If we can get the exhibition for the balcony, hopefully we'll draw in people who'll want to go to other events.' Jeremy can see paintings and sculptures exhibited in that pristine whiteness which is the prerequisite of all modern galleries. He can also envisage outraged patrons threatening to write to the council after their encounter with soiled nappies. Just for a moment he envies Ken his nice, safe job. 
'I'll make some coffee while you talk about the trust,' Andrea announces, uncurling. Jeremy's eyes follow her as she goes out the door. His envy for Ken grows. He consoles himself with the thought that she will be there all the evening. And he has the decorating to look forward to.

Chapter 9

Dr Hodgkinson smiles benignly around the assembled company. The sandwiches on the table before them look suspiciously like those left by the working group. Jeremy has a fantasy of the same sandwiches being brought out at every meeting, the edges curling further with each appearance and the surfaces becoming enveloped in mould. If the same bottle of wine makes its appearance, his sense of déjà vu will be complete.
'I must say this is a meeting I should hardly have expected a few weeks ago.' As other conversations ebb, the principal beams at his fellow committee members. 'No need to explain why we're here. Having become a trustee of the arts centre, I intend to take an active role in its management.’
'We were afraid of that,' Andrea murmurs.
'I see my role as making sure we use the centre to the advantage of the town and the college.'
Jeremy is tempted to declare that the principal's attitude is typical - saying nothing about who thought of the idea, or contributed money or labour - but the warmth of the boardroom makes his eyelids heavy. It has been a long day and the chair is comfortable. Being allowed to use the boardroom is a rare privilege - a perk of gaining the principal's goodwill. Tinsel festoons the light fittings and pairs of balloons hang over the wall lights in readiness for the staff party that evening. Doubtless the British sherry is already in one of the cupboards. Jeremy glances at Andrea and wonders what she thinks about upholstered chairs, thick carpets and wood-panelled walls in the midst of the austerity of the college. He hopes she will keep her views to herself. He suspects that for all her radical ideas, Andrea knows when not to rock the establishment boat. Alf is surprisingly perky, as though after-hours meetings are his lifeblood. Mr Quick looks as immaculate as only he can at the end of the day - Jeremy is convinced that he keeps a supply of spare shirts in his office for such occasions. His face is cherubic, as though he has stumbled upon the source of divine bliss and is going to keep it to himself. The question in Jeremy's mind is why the head of department should be there at all.
'I must first apologise for not producing a discussion paper as promised,' says Dr Hodgkinson. 'Pressure of work, I'm afraid. Busy time of year for me, but then what time isn't?'
Murmurs of sympathy come from Mr Quick. Jeremy feels tempted to propose a vote of thanks, but that might be carrying obsequiousness too far. 
'I did prepare this.' Dr Hodgkinson hands around copies of an agenda long enough to make Alf lose his perkiness. 'We need somebody to keep the minutes. Perhaps Mrs Sibley could help us there.'
'Ms Sibley.' 
'Of course - Ms Sibley. You must forgive us oldies.' 
'A job for the token woman,' she murmurs. Before the principal can make a ritual denial, she adds, 'Do we really need minutes?' 
Dr Hodgkinson looks shocked. 'All meetings must have minutes. We need to know what's been decided.' 
'Okay, okay,' she agrees with surprising meekness. 
'If we're going to be formal, shouldn't we elect the chairman?' Alf asks. 
Dr Hodgkinson's face registers astonishment. He clears his throat again. 'I was assuming you wanted me to take the chair.' 
'We ought to vote on it.' 
'If that's the feeling of the meeting...' He glances at the others, hoping for objections. 
'I hardly think it's necessary to vote,' says a loyal Mr Quick. 
Alf is the picture of innocence. Andrea's face is rigid, as though she is trying to conceal her feelings, but Jeremy thinks that he detects a gleam of satisfaction in her eyes. 
'Does anybody else want to be chairman?' Dr Hodgkinson asks. 
Silence. 
'That seems to resolve the matter - unless you still want us to vote on it?' He glares at Alf. 
'I'm happy enough now we've done it properly,' Alf agrees. 
'Good. So we'll go to the first item on the agenda - the location of the arts centre. I'm sure by this time you all know Marchant House in the mews. That's the address which has been proposed.' 
Mr Quick nods vigorously to show that he is fully in the picture. 
'Perhaps not the ideal position - parking is rather difficult - but there we are.' The note of regret in Dr Hodgkinson's voice suggests that if he had his say earlier, the outcome might be different. Jeremy does not bother to point out that the decision has been made. In his mind is the vision of what he wanted for his arts lab. It was not committee meetings - especially not committee meetings presided over by Dr Hodgkinson. 
'Have we looked at other sites?' Mr Quick asks. 'Perhaps there's a chance of finding something more suitable while we're still at an early stage.' 
'Too late,' Alf declares. 
'Already?' 
'Signed and sealed. It should never have been on the agenda.' 
'I didn't realise that.' 
'All sorted out before you lot got on the bandwagon.' 
Jeremy suspects that Alf took his lunch in the pub. 
'I hardly think that's the right tone to adopt,' Dr Hodgkinson reproaches him. 
'Just a figure of speech.' 
'As lecturers I think we need to be careful about such turns of phrase, but we'll leave it there.' The self-appointed chairman peers at his agenda. 'The second item is the choice of events. I think there's a related question - how the college can become more involved. I'm sure you all agree we must seize the opportunity to introduce students to the artistic heritage which their generation so often overlooks.' 
A nod of assent from Mr Quick. Jeremy waits for the inevitable mention of readings from the classics of our literature. 
'It's perfect for the visual arts,' Andrea says before the principal can continue. 'The semicircular window on the balcony gives so much light.' 
'I suppose we might think about an art exhibition,' Dr Hodgkinson agrees without much enthusiasm. 
'The first one's already arranged.' 
Jeremy is pleased to see the principal looking disconcerted - and pleased that on this occasion somebody else is in the firing line.  
'I really think you should have waited until it was discussed by the committee.' 
'There wasn't a committee when I arranged it.' 
'We can't have people putting on whatever they like.' 
Jeremy watches Alf, who is absorbed in doodling on his agenda and disappointingly shows no sign of wishing to intervene. 
'We needed an opening exhibition by a well-known artist to get us good press coverage,' Andrea argues. 'We were lucky to get Geoff Rayner at short notice.' 
'Who's Geoff Rayner?' Mr Quick asks. 
'I know him through friends.' 
'Very modern,' Alf adds. 
Dr Hodgkinson looks uneasy. 
'Not too modern, I hope,' says Mr Quick with a joviality which sounds strained. 
'Definitely way out,' Alf assures him. 
'He's held several exhibitions at major provincial galleries,' Andrea explains. 
'There was an article about him in the Guardian,' Jeremy adds. 'Incorporates everyday things in his canvases - like nappies.' 
Dr Hodgkinson whips off his glasses. 'Is this really what we want for an opening exhibition when all the press are going to be there?' 
'It's too late to cancel,' Andrea announces. 'Anyway, this is supposed to be a centre for living arts, not a museum.' 
'We need standards.' 
'He's a prestigious artist - we're lucky to get him.' 
'I haven't heard of him,' says Mr Quick. 
Andrea scowls magnificently. For Jeremy, that makes the meeting worthwhile. 
'And we've got the opening concert sorted out,' says a truculent Alf. 'Fiendish Hedgehogs - they're a rock band.' 
Jeremy tries to decide who is the true subversive, Alf or Andrea. He watches his superiors. Mr Quick looks as though he would rather be somewhere else. Dr Hodgkinson studies his glasses. He has gone red, as though something unpleasant is happening to his blood pressure. Jeremy tries in vain to remember the correct procedure for dealing with a stroke. He hopes that somebody else knows - things medical fill him with distaste. He suspects that he would disgrace himself by fainting if the principal fell to the floor. Andrea would be the one to cope. Women always do. 
'Has anything else been arranged without the committee being involved?' Dr Hodgkinson wants to know, glaring at the subversives. 
'There's another gig I'm organising for the following week,' Alf reveals. 'We need to keep up a rolling programme.' 
'Geoff's hoping to use his contacts to get us another exhibition,' says Andrea. 
The principal's gaze falls on the third conspirator. 'I haven't arranged anything,' Jeremy confesses, feeling that as originator of the lab., he should have done something to confound the powers of conformity. 
'People are going to get the wrong impression,' Dr Hodgkinson declares, putting on his glasses and allowing Jeremy to relax as the threat of apoplexy recedes. 
'They're going to get the impression of a venue that's dynamic,' Andrea insists. 
'We don't want to frighten them off.' 
'Do we have to find something which appeals to the lowest common denominator?' she asks rhetorically. As Jeremy tries to work out whether she really means the highest common factor, she sweeps on, 'If we take that route, we'll be showing The Sound of Music every week. Is that what we want?' 
Alf's doodles become more elaborate. Mr Quick still looks as though he would rather be somewhere else. Dr Hodgkinson settles his glasses more firmly on his nose and shuffles his remaining copies of the agenda. 
'We do have to represent all views,' he cautions. 
'Perhaps we do want The Sound of Music,’ says Andrea, not disguising her annoyance. 'We want to provide something people can't get on television.' 
'Nothing wrong with The Sound of Music,' says Mr Quick. 'I took part in a production once. Amateur, of course.' 
Jeremy has a vision of Mr Quick as a singing nun. The picture is incongruous enough for him to pinch himself to avoid giggling. 
'A film festival,' says Alf. 'We must have a film festival.' 
'Film festival?' Dr Hodgkinson echoes. 
Andrea is nodding vigorously in agreement. 
'I don't know whether people are going to come,' Mr Quick cautions. 'It's all video these days.' 
Alf argues, 'You don't get the shared experience when you're sitting at home watching a video.' 
'What did you have in mind?' asks a wary Dr Hodgkinson. 
'We could build a programme around a theme - Westerns, horror, the spy movie, musicals...' 
Jeremy detects that his colleague sounds less keen when it comes to musicals. 
'We could go further than that,' Andrea says, leaning forward with the intense look which she always has when she is enthusiastic and which Jeremy loves. 'Why not third world films, films by women film-makers, films banned by the censors - ' 
'I think we have to be very careful here,' Mr Quick interrupts. 'We don't want anything too obscure.' 
'I thought education was about exposing people to new experiences.' 
Jeremy knows that now the cycle has begun, he will have to endure regular meetings and swathes of papers. Dr Hodgkinson is always going to be chairman and his acolyte Mr Quick is always going to be present to remind the committee of traditional middle-class values like moderation and sobriety. 
'I feel a lot of decisions have been made hastily,' Dr Hodgkinson suggests. 
'Nothing hasty about them,' Alf responds.  
'My impression is that they haven't been thought through.' 
'I'd say they'd all been thought about very carefully. The only difference is that we didn't have a committee to worry about.' 
'We'll have to differ on that. The fact remains - as a committee, we've inherited a lot of decisions we'll have to live with. Now we've got the proper machinery in place for decision-making, I hope all future ideas are going to go subjected to a more rigorous appraisal.' 
Alf looks bored; Andrea looks mutinous. 
'No other ventures we should know about?' Dr Hodgkinson asks, glaring at his fellow committee members as though daring them to argue. 
'I don't think we've planned anything as such,' Alf declares, glancing at Andrea and Jeremy for confirmation. Andrea looks as if she would like to say something, but is restraining herself. 
'Nothing as such,' Dr Hodgkinson probes. 
'No contracts signed.' 
'That's something.' 
'Just floating ideas.' 
'Floating ideas?' 
'Perhaps a photographic exhibition.' 
Dr Hodgkinson nods without betraying much enthusiasm. 
'Images of the body.' 
Dr Hodgkinson stops nodding. 'I don't know about that.' 
'Could attract the wrong sort of people,' Mr Quick agrees. 
'Punters who pay,' Alf declares. 
'I think we could find more acceptable paying enterprises,' the principal decides.
'You mean you wouldn't support it?' Andrea asks. Jeremy likes the way her body has gone taut. 
'As a trustee, I think I have some responsibility - ' 
'You'd refuse to support an exhibition which included photographs of nudes?' 
Dr Hodgkinson looks uncomfortable. 'Not in all circumstances.' 
'But in some?' 
'Yes.' Andrea slumps back in her chair. 
Jeremy has experienced the frustration of powerlessness and he sympathises, but there is one question he cannot resist. 'What sort of events would you like?' he asks, knowing what the answer will be. 
'I'm one of a team,' says Dr Hodgkinson modestly. Jeremy thinks he hears a groan from Andrea, but before he can turn to see her reaction, the chairman continues, 'I feel there's scope for a much wider range of events than the sort we've discussed. Let's not forget the centre's educational role, as Ms Sibley so rightly reminded us.' 
'Hear, hear,' says Mr Quick. 
Jeremy distinctly hears Andrea murmur, 'I don't believe this.' 
'It's no secret to Jeremy that the Princes Park Conservation Society was considering using the building we’ve earmarked as a heritage centre.' Dr Hodgkinson gestures to Jeremy as though expecting him to take up the story, but Jeremy remains silent. 
'We're not talking about a heritage centre,' Andrea explains patiently. 
'We could have a permanent display to remind people of the world we have lost.' 
'We could - but it's got nothing to do with an arts centre.' 
'Another idea I had was for readings.' 
'From the classics of our literature,' Jeremy adds. 
'Precisely.' 
'And who's going to give them?' Andrea asks, the foreboding evident in her voice. 
'I'm quite willing to start things off.' 
'I'd be happy to contribute,' offers Mr Quick. 
A stifled noise from Alf might be laughter, or a sneeze. 
'Something which should attract people at lunchtime or early in the evening,' Dr Hodgkinson continues, a visionary look coming to his eyes. 'I'm anxious that our students should be encouraged to attend. In these days of specialisation, we sometimes forget that education should have breadth as well as depth.' 
'We can't force them to come,' Andrea objects. 
'Nobody's being forced. Encouraged - that's the word. Encouraged.' 
She looks unconvinced. 
'Nobody's said anything about drama,' Mr Quick points out. 
'Essential,' Dr Hodgkinson agrees. 
'A group like Hull Truck,' Andrea suggests. 'They'd draw good audiences.' 
'I happen to know of several local companies crying out for suitable venues,' Mr Quick informs them. 'There's no need to go to the expense of calling in outsiders.' 
'Local initiative - that's what we should foster,' Dr Hodgkinson agrees. 'Give our fellow citizens the opportunity to treat the boards.' 
'No amateur dramatics,' Andrea declares. 
'That's much too sweeping a judgement,' the principal objects. 
'The purpose of the centre isn't to offer a diet of Agatha Christie thrillers.' 
'Who said anything about Agatha Christie? I've seen local dramatic companies put on some enterprising programmes - foreign plays, even. I should have thought they deserve all the encouragement we can give them.' 
'They do - but not here. We're aiming for professional standards.' She glances at Alf for support. He nods. 
'The productions I've seen have all been excellent,' says Mr Quick. 
Andrea puts her hands on the table. 'If it comes to offering ourselves as a venue for local amateur companies on a regular basis, then I'm resigning.' 
'So am I,' says Alf, signing off from his doodling with an emphatic full stop. 
'And me,' Jeremy adds for good measure. Defying the principal is not so alarming as he might have expected. It brings a heady sense of pleasure - like sex, in the days when he had it. 
The remaining two members of the committee exchange glances. 
'I think this is a little precipitate,' Dr Hodgkinson says in more conciliatory tones. 
Jeremy glances at Andrea. She is stony faced. He looks back to Dr Hodgkinson to suggest, 'Perhaps we ought to defer the other items on the agenda.' 
'I second that,' Andrea agrees. ’If we’re doing things properly.’ 
'I did come particularly to talk about sponsorship,' says an aggrieved Mr Quick. 
'We can get experts for that,' Alf says confidently. 'I shouldn't worry.' 
'We hardly need to look outside when we have the talent we need in house,' Dr Hodgkinson points out. 
'Why not go to the professionals?' 
'I've every confidence in Mr Quick.' 
'He's not an expert though, is he?' 
'I do have some experience - ' Mr Quick defends himself. 
'I didn't realise you were one of the trustees.' 
'I'm not.' 
'The committee isn't necessarily composed solely of trustees,' Dr Hodgkinson explains. 'Members can be co-opted.' 
'Isn't that for the committee to decide?' 
'It hasn't met before.' 
Alf inspects the sheet before him. 'If we're going to co-opt members, why isn't it on the agenda?' 
'I didn't think this was going to be contentious.' 
'To my way of thinking, if you hold a meeting, you have to do things properly.' 
'You did say you wanted everything to go through the committee,' Jeremy adds for good measure. 
'I'm quite willing to withdraw if that's the wish of the committee,' Mr Quick says stiffly. 
'Nonsense, nonsense,' says Dr Hodgkinson. 
'We were going to defer the other items,' Andrea reminds him. 
'Do we want to arrange the date of the next meeting?' the principal perseveres. 
'Item seventeen on the agenda,' Alf adds. 
'Not for the moment,' Andrea decides. As she puts her notebook away, Dr Hodgkinson watches with all the hesitation of a suitor who knows that his attentions are unwelcome. 
'I hope we're going work harmoniously as trustees,' he ventures. 
'I very much doubt it,' she responds, getting up. 
Outside, Alf, Andrea and Jeremy watch their superiors heading for the stairs. '
Well, well,' says an admiring Alf. 'You told him all right.' 
'I didn't mean to go that far,' Andrea confesses. 
'So long as you're not looking for promotion.' 
'Not here.' 
'Does that mean you've applied somewhere else?' Jeremy asks, alarmed. 
'It means I shan't be staying here for ever, but I'm not looking around yet.' 
Jeremy relaxes. 
'What bugs me is the way he's trying to hijack what we're doing,' she complains. 
'And why was Speedy there,' Alf asks, 'considering he's not even a trustee.' 
'His vast knowledge of sponsorship,' Jeremy reminds them. 
'What's Speedy know about sponsorship?' '
You should have asked him.' 
'All we'd have got is another spiel about his marketing expertise, which is all balls. I reckon we're being softened up for him becoming a trustee.' 
'What was all that about Fiendish Hedgehogs?' 
'What I said - I've arranged the opening gig.' 
'I'd have liked to have known before we went in there.' 
'You asked me to do it, so I went ahead. I didn't say anything before because I haven't finalised it yet, but I wasn't telling them that.' 
'So when is it?' 
'Four weeks on Saturday.' 
'That's the day after the exhibition opens!' Andrea protests. 
'That's the idea - keep up the momentum.' 
'Geoff's letting us keep expensive exhibits there and you're letting kids run riot through the place?' 
'Art for the people,' Jeremy wants to say; but he judges that this might not be the best moment. 
'They won't have to go on the balcony,' Alf defends himself. 
'How are you going to stop them?' 
'We can rope it off. Don't get so worked up.' 
'Why couldn't you have left it till the exhibition finished?' 
'Wait bloody weeks? Jeremy wants some money coming in.' 
'Who exactly are the Fiendish Hedgehogs?' Jeremy probes, trying not to let his misgivings show.  
'They did a gig here a couple of years back. They've made quite a name for themselves since then.' 
'Not with me.' 
'Showing your age, my old mate. Anyway, the kids like them. That's what it's all about.'
Jeremy stares along the corridor which earlier in the day was thronged with the kids. He wishes that he felt as confident as Alf. 
'I've booked a local group for support,' the arch-organiser reveals. 'It should be a good evening.' 
'So long as the commandant stays away.' 
'I shouldn't think he'll come within miles.' 
'He's bound to come for the opening.' 
'We can always invite him for a celebratory drink and keep him tanked up.' 
'I suppose we all have to be on hand to make sure the kids don't wreck the place.' 
'And to keep them off the balcony,' Andrea insists. 
'We'll have bouncers for that,' Alf assures her. 'You're getting the full benefit of my powers of organisation here.' 
'Then we've got nothing to worry about, have we?' 
'I'll have to slip them twenty each out of the takings.' 
'When we take something,' Jeremy reminds him. 
'That's something we need to sort out. I've done some quick figures and if we get two hundred punters, we'll need a ticket price of eight pounds to cover expenses and leave something over for the centre. How does that sound?' 
To Jeremy it sounds a lot. 
'In a night they can spend more on drink than that,' Alf points out. 
'I suppose so.' 
'By the way, have you got a licence?' 
'I collect licences like other people collect parking tickets - licenses for everything from fire precautions to the state of the drains.' 
'I mean a drinks licence.' 
'No.' 
'We must have a bar!' 
'Can you imagine what the exhibition would be like with two hundred rock fans throwing cans around?' Andrea asks. 
'We'll coin it in.' 
'There isn't room for a bar,' Jeremy insists. 
'We should have had one on the balcony. We'd make more money than we will using it for art exhibitions.' 
'Perhaps you'd like us to open the place as a pub?' Andrea says. 'Forget about the arts centre altogether.' 
'I'm just throwing out suggestions.' 
'We're not having a bar till we see how it goes,' Jeremy says firmly. 
'You've got to put it to the committee now, remember?' 
'Where you'll be outvoted,' Andrea adds. 'So what do we do? Make the tickets eight pounds, or put it to the committee?’
‘By which time we’ll only have about two weeks to get tickets printed and sell them. Sounds like a recipe for a balls-up, to me.' 
'I suppose we go ahead,' Jeremy has to agree. 
'The art and design lot can design the poster - that should please the commandant. Then it's flyposting time, folks.' 
'Is that a good idea?' 
'You sound like Speedy. It's cheap and it works - so long as we get plenty of hands.' 
'I notice you didn't mention it at the meeting.' 
'I can't see those two creeping about at night with their paste buckets.' 
'Supposing you wanted to cancel the Fiendish Hedgehogs?' Andrea asks. 
'I don't.' 
Jeremy stifles a groan. 
'If the place gets the reputation for being cliquey and intellectual, then the kids aren't going to come,' Alf argues. 'By opening with different events, we show we've got something for everybody.' 
'It's a point of view,' Jeremy concedes. 
'Anyway, I've got to get ready for the party, so I'll leave you folks to it. See you at the rave-up.' 
The two remaining members of the committee watch Alf heading for the stairs - the only figure in an empty corridor. 
'It's going to be chaos if we have the gig the day after the exhibition opens,' Andrea complains. 
'It looks as if we're stuck with it - unless you can change the opening date of the exhibition.'
'Not now. The brochure’s with the printers.' 
'I wish he'd said something earlier.' 
'I agree.' 
'At least he's done something. I suppose we should be grateful for any help we can get.'
'Even the commandant's?' 
'I thought Ken would be at the meeting.' 
'He's had to go to London for his firm.' 
'Sounds like good timing.' 
'He hopes to be back for the party.' 
'Will you be coming if he doesn't?' 
'I can see myself hanging on for him till it's not worth coming.' 
'It does go on till about eleven o’clock,' Jeremy points out, his heart sinking. 
'I might pop in later. I assume it's in the boardroom?' 
'We have to promise not to drop beer on the floor.' 
'Is Sally coming?' 
He shakes his head. 
'Things are no better?' 
'I might give it a miss myself. I don't feel in party mood.' 
'You ought to go. You might enjoy it.' 
'Perhaps.' He wants to say that if she will be there, he will certainly come. Instead he ventures, 'I suppose you don't fancy a drink first?' 
'I ought to be getting back.' 
'Ah. Right.' 
'Hopefully we'll see each other tonight.' 
How can he miss a chance of seeing Andrea in a dress? 
* 
Jeremy arrives late at the party in the hope that by then it will be in full swing. The parties of his memory promised more than they gave and the portends for this one are not good - all those suits remind him of the pensions seminar held in the boardroom before the summer holiday. Last year's decorations and a tape of carols blaring from a portable hi-fi have so far failed to generate a festive spirit. Worse, there is no sign of Andrea. On the principle that alcohol always makes unpleasant things more bearable, Jeremy heads for the improvised bar. He deduces that the angular woman in the Oxfam dress who fusses over the bottles is Mrs Hodgkinson. She looks ill at ease in her role. He scans the offerings ranged on the table before her as though on a stall at a jumble sale and resists the malicious urge to order a cocktail. Remembering Alf's words he looks for British sherry. Mercifully it is not there. 
Armed with a glass of undrinkable white wine Jeremy gazes helplessly at his fellow partygoers. One game he reserves for such moments is to match familiar faces to their spouses, but his thoughts keep returning to Andrea. The room offers no place of concealment and he cannot imagine Ken seducing her in one of the adjoining classrooms when that can be done more comfortably at home. He consults Alf. 
'Haven't seen her, my old mate.' 
'Bugger.' 
'Perhaps she's got the sulks after this afternoon.' 
'You did spring it on us.' 
'Sorry about that. Still, we can't hold fire on everything else because of her exhibition.' 
'She is pretty committed to it.' 
'I'm not against it - I'd go for anything that puts the commandant's nose out of joint - but it is a bit of a minority taste. Admit it.' 
'She said she hoped to come.' 
'You know better than me.' 
'I wish I did.' 
'Sure she's not waiting for you in one of the other rooms, working up her passion?' 
'They're all dark.' 
'She'd hardly put the light on.' 
'Anyway, she'll be with Ken - if he got home in time.' 
'Perhaps she’ll make a token appearance - quick word with the great and the good, handful of crisps and back home for the Channel Four film.' 
'If I had a tele, I'd do the same.' 
'You need all this. Group masochism once a year makes a man of you. Look at Speedy over there.' 
Jeremy looks. Mr Quick, glass in hand, in engrossed in conversation with Mrs Wilberforce. 
'Nothing they couldn't talk about in the staff room,’ Alf observes, ’but they dress up and pretend they're enjoying it.' 
'Why did you come?' 
'Claire wanted to show off her new frock.' 
‘Where is she?’
‘Last seen heading for the ladies’ room. She’ll be hours.’
'Surprised to see you in a suit.' 
'Crawler, that's me. Hey up, I'm off to the bar.' 
As Dr Hodgkinson bears down on them, Alf makes his escape, leaving Jeremy to await his fate alone. 
'Glad you could make it.' Dr Hodgkinson beams. 'Is your good lady here?' 
'Not this time, I'm afraid. Babysitter problems.' 
'Pity. Still, it's a good turnout. I think everybody's enjoying it.' They survey the merry revellers. Mrs Hodgkinson catches her husband's eye and gives a tight-lipped smile. 'Wanted to have a quiet word with you,' the principal confides to Jeremy. 'I thought Mrs Sibley was a little overwrought this afternoon, didn't you?' 
'A little,' Jeremy agrees. 
'Nothing wrong there, as far as you know?' 
'No.' 
'A pity it happened when we had so much to get through.' 
Jeremy sips his drink and looks around in vain for escape.  
'When exactly is this opening concert Alf talked about?' Dr Hodgkinson probes. 
'Four weeks on Saturday.' 
'As soon as that?' 
'So it seems.' 
'And the exhibition?' 
'Opening the day before - Andrea's having a private view in the afternoon.' 
'As the events are going ahead, I shall of course offer my support.' 
Jeremy seizes the opportunity to ask, 'Would it be all right to take the day off on he Friday?' 
‘I hope we’re not losing you to the arts centre.‘    
'It’s just for the opening. There’ll be lots of last-minute things to do.’ 
'You know I regard the centre as an extension of the college?' 
Jeremy knows. 
'That's why I'd like you to think about a permanent heritage exhibition.' 
'There's not much room.' 
'Nothing elaborate, you understand.' 
'We can certainly think about it,' Jeremy agrees, imagining Andrea's response when it appears on the agenda. 
'A pity to waste the opportunity.' 
'That's true.' 
'I have made soundings. The conservation society wasn't happy with the idea of an arts centre in the mews, as you know, but now it's there they might be persuaded to purchase that petrol pump I mentioned and install it outside.' 
In Jeremy's view Dr Hodgkinson has an unhealthy obsession with the rusting petrol pump. He tries to imagine what pivotal role it could have played in the principal's youth. 
'You will think about the heritage exhibition,' Dr Hodgkinson urges. He looks around restlessly, evidently deciding that he has neglected his other guests for long enough. 'I'm glad we had this chance for a chat. I'd better leave you to enjoy yourself.' 
With the principal gone, Jeremy sighs with relief and looks around for some way of enjoying himself in the absence of Andrea. He deliberately avoids the pleading glances of Alf, who is the latest victim Dr Hodgkinson's social round. The dancing has not yet begun. It will take a few more drinks before the more active members of staff shake off their inhibitions - if Mrs Hodgkinson's meagre measures of alcohol allow things to progress that far. Mrs Wilberforce and the other more lethargic partygoers have already commandeered the seats around the periphery of the boardroom. Mr Quick is deep in conversation with the head of the department of art and design. Glass in hand, Jeremy wanders to the door. Nobody pays any attention as he slips into the empty corridor. He leaves the glass on the window ledge and heads for the stairs, expecting at any moment to hear Dr Hodgkinson calling him back. Nothing happens. Thankfully he hurries down the empty staircase to freedom. Only at the bottom does it occur to him that he should have looked in the darkened classrooms to be sure that Andrea is not waiting.

Chapter 10

Some of the excitement which Jeremy expected to feel on walking into his arts lab. on its opening day is missing, denied to him, he suspects, by the involvement of other people. In spite of this he has to admit to a feeling of pride as he pauses by the newly painted portals. Posters announce the coming events to passers-by. The one for Geoff Rayner's exhibition is appropriately designer conscious. The lower case lettering in pale blue and unreadable lemon is prominent in the windows of local shops whose owners were bribed by complimentary tickets to the opening reception. Copies have infiltrated the college, but judging by the way they appear and disappear, a guerrilla campaign is being waged between Andrea and the principal. The opening concert by the Fiendish Hedgehogs has a surreal poster in black on mauve, courtesy of the department of art and design. It appears all over town, thanks to the efforts of a flyposting team recruited by Alf from among his students. Jeremy awaits the comeback from irate property owners. More discreetly advertised is Dr Hodgkinson's inaugural lunchtime reading from the classics of our literature. Jeremy can imagine the principal, or more likely his secretary, labouring with pen and ink to produce the poster. Compared with its rivals, the result is distinctly amateurish. Copies appear throughout the college, including the staff room. Dr Hodgkinson has intimated that he expects all staff to attend, with an extended lunch break as an inducement.
Jeremy looks around the lobby of his arts lab. White paintwork glistens. In spite of his best efforts, the smell of paint is pervasive. His office is locked. Somehow, in spite of the hijacking of his ambitions, he still thinks of it as his office, probably because the mundane administrative work falls to him. Others have assumed the more glamorous tasks of concert promotion and advertising - not that he risks losing control of what is left by complaining.
He pushes open the inner doors. The transformation of the hall into an auditorium is complete. The stage is in place. Pristine white walls and the high white roof give a feeling of spaciousness, like being inside a balloon. The art and design students were enthusiastic. They used a tower scaffolding to reach the arched matchboard panelling of the roof and the wooden trusses with their metal tie bars. In spite of denying himself the experience of holding Andrea’s hand when she was incapacitated by vertigo, Jeremy is glad that he did not have to scramble up the perilous structure himself. One bonus - true to the spirit of the sixties it has been a communal project. There is no other way in which it could have been completed on time, yet in spite of its success, he cannot help thinking that arts labs. were never so smart.
The mezzanine is Andrea's baby. Spotlights make the white paint positively glow.
'Surveying your empire?' comes Andrea's voice from above him. He looks up to see her leaning over the balustrade on the mezzanine. He marvels anew at her body. It is more wonderful than anything Geoff Rayner can conjure.
'The amazing thing is we're ready on time,' he answers.
'It is pretty remarkable, considering the state when we first came here.'
He surveys his surroundings again. 'It's certainly come a long way.'
'Do you want a sneak preview of the exhibition?'
How can he refuse?
'Geoff's coming for the private view this afternoon,' she explains as Jeremy ascends the iron staircase. 'I'm hoping we'll get critics from the national press here.'
'Great,' says Jeremy, forcing himself to concentrate on her words rather than her body.
'Geoff suggested we hold it in the afternoon - we're more likely to attract the London critics than if they have to stay overnight.'
'Makes sense.'
'All we've got to do is get this reading over.' The enthusiasm ebbs from her voice. 'Dr Hodgkinson must have known we were having the private view today when he arranged it.'
Jeremy forbears to mention that he was the one who told the told the principal.
'I mean it's so childish - wanting to have the first event.'
Jeremy murmurs his agreement.
'You'll be here for this afternoon, won't you?' she asks.
'If you want me to,' he responds. He has halted on the steps - an adoring disciple looking up at his goddess. Desire makes him catch his breath. 
She smiles, sphinx-like. 'Two-thirty, don't forget. Dinner jacket if you've got one.'
'That sort of affair?' He feels the first stirrings of alarm.
'If you're aiming at the art market.'
'All very ambitious.' He tries to imagine Alf in a dinner jacket - and gives up.
'Geoff is quite well known.'
'So you've said.'
'I've got in a case of wine and some eats. I don't know if the centre can run to it, otherwise I'll pay for them.’
'I expect we'll manage.'
'You don't sound all that sure.'
'It wasn't quite what I envisaged,' he confesses, looking around.
'How do you mean?'
He wants to tell her that it is not community-based art, but when she is close and intent on his face, he cannot explain what she has done.
'It doesn't matter,' he demurs. 
The white mezzanine, luminous with light from the semicircular window and warm from the spotlights, does look like a real art gallery. This is his dream, he tells himself. He peers at the exhibits with what he hopes resembles knowledgeable interest. Amongst them is the infamous nappy in a state which would normally lead to its being removed from sight at the earliest opportunity. It glistens with varnish. Under the pretext of examining its texture, Jeremy goes closer and sniffs, but without detecting anything untoward. Aside from paintings of nudes, other works comprise items scavenged from beaches and building sites, cemented onto canvas and given homogeneity by the glossy varnish.
  'Geoff was impressed with the exhibition space,' Andrea's voice comes from behind him.
  'Without the window, I shouldn't have taken it.' Jeremy glances involuntarily at the semicircular window, the panes now cleaned to give a panorama over the stable roofs to the larger houses of Marchant Road. He can see the skylight of his room.
'What do you think of Geoff's work?'
'It's unusual.' The heady feelings threaten to consume Jeremy as she stands beside him. He is aware that she watches his face.
'You mean you don't like it?'
'I don't know much about art.'
She grins. 'You know what you like.'
'That sounds terrible - really narrow minded.'
'At least we'll stir up some controversy.'
'Has Dr Hodgkinson seen it?'
'Not yet.'
'I'd love to see his face when he does.'
'You don't think he'll approve?'
'That's where your controversy's going to come from.'
'It was all arranged before he was involved.'
'That won't stop him.'
'He can't do much now.'
'He thinks he's got a divine right to do what he likes as trustee of this place and principal of the college.'
'He's one of a board of trustees.'
'In his eyes, the leading one.'
'And it's nothing to do with the college, so being the principal doesn‘t matter.'
'It does if you're one of his staff.'
'He wouldn't be so petty.'
A perverse part of Jeremy hopes that he will.
*
The first reading from the classics of English literature takes place two hours before the private viewing of the exhibition. Mindful of the significance of the occasion the principal wears a dinner jacket. Unfashionably wide lapels and an odour of mothballs betray that it has spent most of its long life languishing in the wardrobe. Jeremy avoids studying it too closely lest he discover that the mothballs have not worked.
'As this is the inaugural event, I've tried to choose appropriate readings,' Dr Hodgkinson explains, fingering his bow tie nervously. 'I think they'll be appreciated.'
  'I'm sure they will,' Jeremy assures him. By helping to carry the books from the car, he knows that he can look forward to selected passages from George Eliot (The Mill on the Floss), Dickens (David Copperfield and Great Expectations), Lewis Carroll (Alice in Wonderland), Sterne (what to Jeremy's mind is a surprisingly risqué excerpt from Humphrey Clinker), Mrs Gaskell (Cranford) and Dorothy Sayers (The Nine Tailors). How Dorothy Sayers came to be included in such illustrious company is something Jeremy has yet to understand. He suspects the principal of having a secret passion for detective stories.
'And this exhibition - it's all ready, is it?' Dr Hodgkinson looks up at the mezzanine as though divining its contents.
Jeremy acknowledges that it is. He experiences a thrill of anticipation at the thought of the principal going to see for himself.
Dr Hodgkinson leans closer. The smell of mothballs grows more pronounced. 'I've got my doubts about it, I can tell you.'
'Everything's arranged.'
'I only let it go ahead because of the hard work Mrs Sibley put into it. She’s upstairs, is she?'
'She's getting the rest of the food.'
'She'll be back for my reading, I hope.'
'I'm sure she will.'
Dr Hodgkinson nods, mollified.
'That's why she went early,' Jeremy lies. 'To be sure of getting back on time.'
'I'll take a look while we're waiting.'
Jeremy watches the principal climbing the stairs. It passes through his mind to creep out while the opportunity presents itself, but the scenario holds too much fascination. Dr Hodgkinson reaches the mezzanine. Jeremy does not dare to look up. The silence is broken by a faint banging from one of the adjoining workshops. A heavy sigh emanates from upstairs, followed by a tut-tutting. Dr Hodgkinson has found the nappy. Jeremy considers whether to go up, but thinks better of it.
Several minutes elapse before the principal comes downstairs. At least his nervousness is forgotten. He looks stunned. 
'You've seen that so-called art?'
Jeremy admits that he has.
The doctor shakes his head. 'I don't know what Mrs Sibley was thinking about. I thought she was a sensible sort of girl, but this makes me wonder.'
'She knows the artist,' Jeremy explains.
Dr Hodgkinson snorts. 'If you call it art. To my mind the man needs treatment.'
Jeremy wishes that Andrea were there to argue Geoff Rayner's case.
'When you said there were nappies in his work, I thought it was a joke in not very good taste. As for used nappies...' Words desert the principal. Jeremy feels some sympathy. 
'Not what you'd expect,' he has to agree.
'If the proposal had been put to the trustees in the correct manner, I should have vetoed it. As it is, we're going to be a laughing stock - not to mention the risk of incurring prosecution.'
'I don't think things are going to go that far.'
The principal looks askance at such ignorance. 'Public displays of pornography are a criminal matter.'
'I wouldn't say it's pornography.'
'I don't think other people are going to be so complacent.' Dr Hodgkinson glances at his watch. 'You don't know how long Mrs Sibley is going to be?'
Jeremy shakes his head.
'I can't wait any longer. We'll have to remove the worst of those so-called works of art before the students start arriving.'
'You think that's necessary?' Jeremy asks, unable to see why any students will be depraved or corrupted by the sight of a dirty nappy.
'What I suggest is you put them in the office.'
'Me?'
'Obviously I can't do it before my reading.'
'Shouldn't we wait for Andrea to come back?'
'Hundreds of students are going to be here any minute!'
'She did organise the exhibition.'
'It's the centre's exhibition. As trustee, I can't allow some of those works to remain on display.'
'I really think we ought to wait.'
'Much as I appreciate your loyalty to a colleague, I'm afraid it's misplaced in this case. As one of our senior lecturers you'll appreciate that your duty to our students comes first.'
It is a novel experience to be called a senior lecturer. Jeremy feels flattered, even if he is being addressed as employee rather than as a fellow trustee. He watches Dr Hodgkinson glancing anxiously towards the doors, through which at any moment the first of a flood of students might enter. 
'Which ones do we move?' he asks as one resigned to his fate.
The framed nappy has to be carried carefully down to the office, together with Nude Woman Washing and The Lovers, before the principal is satisfied with the propriety of the exhibition.
'You'll lock the office door, won't you?' says a worried Dr Hodgkinson.
'You think that's necessary?'
'In case it gets left open inadvertently and somebody sees them. I'll have a word with Mrs Sibley after the reading to explain what we've done.'
Jeremy hopes that he will be there when it happens. He watches the principal ostentatiously consulting his watch. 
'She should be back by now.'
'Perhaps there was a queue.'
'She knows I'm going to start at twelve-thirty. I wanted you both here to steward the audience. I didn't think there'd be any problem as I gave you both permission to leave college an hour early.'  He surveys the hall. The table on the stage is already piled with his books. 'I think we're going to need more chairs.'
'We haven't got any more.'
Dr Hodgkinson looks about in exasperation. 'Really! That's why we have a committee - so this sort of thing can be sorted out.'
'We didn't think it was a committee matter.'
'If I'd known earlier, I could have had chairs brought over from the college.'
'The students can always sit on the floor.'
'It looks as if they'll have to now.'
'We'll get more people in that way.'
'There's that to it,' the principal agrees grudgingly. 'I'm expecting a full house as it's the opening event.'
'And as it's free.'
Dr Hodgkinson looks reproachful. 'I hope that won't be a consideration.'
'Not the main reason,' Jeremy assures him, 'but it might encourage more students to come.'
The principal nods, mollified. He consults his watch again. 'They should be here any minute now. I think I'd better be out of sight till it's time for me to go on.'
Jeremy is not sure why, but anything which gets his fellow trustee out the way seems a good idea. While Dr Hodgkinson lurks in the office with the banned exhibits until the moment of his grand entrance, peace returns to the hall.  As twelve-thirty approaches, that state of affairs barely changes. Two old ladies appear. Jeremy harbours suspicions that one might be Dr Hodgkinson's mother. A tramp has forsaken his regular seat in the library, doubtless in the expectation that food will be laid on for the inaugural event. Three schoolgirls scurry into the toilets; from his post in the lobby Jeremy hears them whispering and giggling. 
Twelve twenty-nine. In the office, the star of the show clears his throat noisily. Jeremy feels a growing sense of detachment. He has the premonition of disaster and he no longer cares. A minute later the office door opens. Nervousness gives Dr Hodgkinson's eyes a staring quality, as though he has already experienced a shock. 
'Many people come in?' he enquires.
'One or two.'
'I wish they'd arrive on time.' The doctor tugs at his cuffs in annoyance. 'I'd better start the proceedings.'
'Good luck.'
The principal's entrance through the double doors is impressive. Jeremy can imagine him wearing a cloak which he could shrug off with a flourish like some grandee of the Victorian theatre, but it is too late to make the suggestion.
If Dr Hodgkinson's first glimpse of the meagre audience disconcerts him, his steps do not falter. Jeremy opens one door enough to watch the principal walk to the stage. Only as the speaker surveys the rows of empty seats does Jeremy see the enthusiasm dying in his eyes. For once Jeremy feels sorry for him.  One consolation is that the three schoolgirls emerge from the ladies' toilet to swell the audience rather than going back outside. Dr Hodgkinson glares as they clatter to their seats. Not a wise move to antagonise half the audience, Jeremy suspects. 
The principal grasps either side of his reading stand and clears his throat again.   'I'm going to launch my series of readings with an extract from Dickens - the famous opening from Great Expectations...'
Jeremy lets the door swing closed and tiptoes across the lobby to peer into the mews. Apart from two mechanics having a smoke, nobody is in sight. An awful premonition comes to him that every event will suffer a similar fate, till he reassures himself with the thought that Dr Hodgkinson is only responsible for the readings. Listening at the inner doors again reveals that the principal's talents as a public speaker do not match his administrative abilities. Great Expectations is well under way. Lewis Carroll is more to Jeremy's liking, but Alice in Wonderland is further down the pile. A quick calculation reveals that the reading could go on until well into the afternoon, which will not please Andrea, considering that she has to prepare the hall for the private view at two-thirty. He feels the temptation to creep out while the opportunity presents itself and not to return, except that he will have to face Andrea at college on Monday - not to mention Dr Hodgkinson. Not for the first time he wonders whether Sally was right and his vision should have stayed in the realm of dreams.
A silence denotes that the excerpt from Great Expectations has been delivered to its audience. Instead of applause, a scuffling comes from the hall. Jeremy steps back. The three schoolgirls creep out, stifling their laughter until the inner doors swing closed. Jeremy breathes deeply of their perfumes and wonders what makes schoolgirls adorable - until they become his students. The three girls pay no attention to him.
'Wasn't it terrible?' one is saying.
'I thought he was never going to stop,' her companion wails.
 'I nearly went to sleep,' the third confesses.
Some vestigial loyalty makes Jeremy want to support his principal, but before he can think of any defence, the girls are outside. He watches them sauntering down the mews to the accompaniment of wolf whistles from the mechanics, until he cannot bear to watch any more. He resumes his post by the inner doors. Dr Hodgkinson has embarked on another reading from Dickens. The low-pitched, rhythmic sound emanating from the hall Jeremy identifies as snoring. He opens a door enough to reveal the tramp in the back row, head slumped against his chest. The temptation to creep away grows stronger.
*
Andrea has opted for a Laura Ashley look - long floral skirt and a silk blouse which shimmers enticingly as she moves. Jeremy cannot suppress the malicious thought that a committed socialist should not be so willing to change her persona. It is the first time that he has seen her in anything except jeans. He watches her staring at the exhibits in the office. The combination of his lust and Andrea's anger exhilarates him like riding a switchback railway - and there is a prickle of apprehension at the thought that if he is not careful, her wrath might be turned on him.
'It was only those three the commandant was worried about,' he explains.
'He's no right!'
'He thought he had.'
'Geoff and I spent the morning hanging them. Didn't you tell him?'
'He wouldn't listen.'
'Geoff's going to go spare when he comes and I don't blame him.'
'I think Dr Hodgkinson felt they weren't decent.'
'Decent!'
Jeremy puts a finger to his lips and points to the double doors. Mercifully, Andrea makes no immediate move to march into the hall, providing him with an interlude of unexpected and unalloyed pleasure. Her perfume pervades the air, eclipsing the scents of the schoolgirls. He tells himself that this is serious emotion. In spite of Ken, things could develop.
It is difficult to be sure that the readings have ended - two frail old ladies can hardly produce thunderous applause.
'It was very nice,' one tells Jeremy as he holds open the inner doors.
'Glad you liked it,' he responds, surprised that the reading should generate even this degree of enthusiasm. He watches them tottering outside with the deliberation dictated by arthritic limbs and he wonders whether he dare suggest to the principal that the next reading should be at an old people's day centre.
'A disappointing turnout,' says Dr Hodgkinson, joining his fellow trustees in the lobby. He glares at Andrea. 'I must say I expected staff to set an example.'
'You'd no right to change the exhibition!'
Dr Hodgkinson looks uneasy in the face of this onslaught, or perhaps his meagre audience has left him dispirited. He plays with his cuffs. 'I think you should have consulted me before putting it up.'
'There was no reason to. It's nothing to do with you.'
'As a fellow trustee - '
'That doesn't give you the right to censor everything that goes on here.'
'I'd hardly call it censorship.'
'Censorship or sabotage. What would you call it?‘ 
'It's fortunate I happened to look round before the critics got here.'
'Why? What's the matter with those?' She gestures to the office. 
As the two trustees glare at each other, Jeremy glances towards the hall, remembering the tramp.
'I don't consider them suitable,' Dr Hodgkinson announces.
'Suitable?'
'What's the press going to say when they see things like that?'
'They'll say we're an innovative arts centre.'
'It's not the sort of innovation people around here want.'
'What people?'
'The people of this town.'
'I want to know what people exactly.'
'Right-minded people.'
'You mean narrow-minded people.'
'Come, come.' Dr Hodgkinson smiles, evidently deciding to humour his wayward subordinate.  Patronising, Jeremy wants to advise him. Not the way to handle somebody like Andrea.
'This is ridiculous.' She glares at the principal, but Jeremy suspects that he is included in her disapprobation for not offering more support.
'Who's going to want to see a dirty nappy?' Dr Hodgkinson asks scornfully, compounding his tactical error.
Andrea's nostrils positively flare, entrancing Jeremy.
'Art isn't about pretty scenes on chocolate boxes,' she announces. 
'I'm well aware of that - '
'We're lucky to get a well-respected artist exhibiting here at short notice.'
'We can't afford to disregard of public taste.'
'We seem to be depending on your taste.'
'I think I'm speaking for the majority.'
'I'm putting those works back.'
A promising academic career cut short, Jeremy prophesies with regret.
'No!' says Dr Hodgkinson emphatically, but Andrea is already marching into the office. He looks at a loss in the face of this defiance. 'She's headstrong,' he explains to Jeremy, as though apologising for a recalcitrant daughter.
'Are you going to help me, Jeremy?' she appeals.
'I'm just seeing to the tramp,' he excuses himself, backing through the doors. He feels some distaste for going near the tramp, but as a penance it seems preferable to upsetting either of his fellow trustees. At least when the doors swing closed, the hall offers him a temporary haven. He pokes at the recumbent figure doubtfully, expecting a squadron of fleas to jump eagerly towards him. Nothing happens. The rhythmical movement of the tramp's chest shows that at least he is alive, though waking him might prove a problem if the smell of wine is any guide. Jeremy shakes him repeatedly, excited and alarmed by the sense of power over another person welling within him, yet disturbed by his reaction. The tramp stirs.
'Time to go,' Jeremy announces in the patronising tones which he would criticise in a policeman. His victim stares uncomprehendingly. 'Yes, time to go.'
The tramp rises meekly. With some regret that his own excuse for staying out of the argument has gone, Jeremy watches the bowed figure shuffling towards the lobby, standing gallantly aside for Andrea who is struggling through the doorway with the first of the exhibits.
'Can you take this one, please,' she orders, looking at Jeremy. His stomach knots with unease, but he does as he is bid. It is an admission of which side he is on. Dr Hodgkinson watches the betrayal impassively. The tramp watches with incomprehension. Taking care not to chip the brittle varnish on the nappy, Jeremy struggles upstairs with his burden. The thought passes through his mind that nothing is sacred in Geoff Rayner's household if the artist inspects every soiled nappy for its artistic potential.
'Can you get the other one?' Andrea calls up to him. She is struggling with the second work. Expediency tells him that he is better off doing what she asks if he wants to stand any chance with her. Anyway, in the eyes of his superior the betrayal has already taken place. He goes downstairs slowly, feeling divorced from a situation which is not of his making. If he could remain in that godlike state of uninvolvement, life might be more tolerable. 
A tight-lipped Dr Hodgkinson is collecting his books from the table on the stage. The tramp has gone - only the odours of cheap wine and unwashed clothes betray his former presence. Jeremy pushes open the hall doors, his new objectivity not totally succeeding in quelling his fear of finding the tramp collapsed in a corner. The lobby is empty. He looks in the office and the toilets, but the tramp is not there. Curiosity prompts him to peer outside. The tramp has come to a van and is having difficulty navigating around it, but this tableau palls to insignificance before the sight of the company heading along the mews. It is composed mainly of women. Jeremy's heart lifts at the thought of a queue stretching the length of the mews for Andrea's exhibition. When the garage owners complain, he will know that his dream of an arts lab. for the whole community has come true. Such is his euphoria that he dreams of pleasing Dr Hodgkinson by opening a heritage centre next door. 
And then he sees Miss Hollingshead. She holds aloft a crudely-made placard reading 'NO PORNOGRAPHY IN OUR TOWN'. Her companions carry placards with scrawled messages in similar vein. What he took to be the expectant murmur of visitors to the exhibition is revealed as a chanting which becomes more concerted as the crowd draws closer - 'No to filth, no to filth.'   
The company halts before him. It is an aging but determined company. Miss Hollingshead steps forward, wielding her banner with unpractised hands. Jeremy steps back. 
'I warned you, didn't I?'
He has to agree.
'We can keep this up, you know. We've got the power of the Lord behind us.'
Jeremy is tempted to say that he has the power of Dr Hodgkinson behind him, but this might not mean much to Miss Hollingshead. Instead he decides on appeasement as the best policy. He smiles. 'We've been having a reading - from the classics of our literature.'
'What about that?' The placard wobbles dangerously as Miss Hollingshead points to the poster for the exhibition. 'We know about your so-called art.'
'One of many events.'
The sound of Dr Hodgkinson clearing his throat makes Jeremy turn. For once he is grateful to see the principal, who grasps the situation at a glance.
'You're too late, madam. The reading was at twelve-thirty.'
'You're another of them,' Miss Hollingshead rounds on him.
Dr Hodgkinson looks offended.
'Another of the peddlers of filth.'
'I happen to be a trustee of this centre, madam.'
'Then you should know better at your age.'
Jeremy cannot help feeling some satisfaction as he watches the principal squirming. The ruler of the college empire has shrunk before Miss Hollingshead to a little man in an ill-fitting dinner suit. In other circumstances the couple might be mistaken for a comedy duo.
'I don't think you grasp what I'm doing, madam,' Dr Hodgkinson blusters.
'I grasp it all right.' She looks meaningfully at the poster.
'Ah - you're thinking about the exhibition?'
'Of course.'
'That's nothing to do with me.'
'You said you were a trustee.'
'I'm not personally involved in organising every event.'
She jabs at the poster with the handle of the placard. 'You approved this display of pornography.'
'It may interest you to know that I deplore some of the activities here as much as you do. In fact I've gone so far as to remove exhibits which I considered unsuitable.'
Miss Hollingshead looks unconvinced. 'So who are you?'
Dr Hodgkinson draws himself up to his full height, reminding Jeremy of a frog about to serenade its lover. 'I'm principal of the technical college, a trustee of this centre and organiser of the opening event - '
'So you organised the exhibition!'
'The opening event was a reading.'
'From the classics of our literature,' Jeremy explains.
'It's this exhibition we're concerned about,' Miss Hollingshead insists, jabbing at the poster again. 'We want it stopped.'
'I'm entirely in agreement with you, madam,' says Dr Hodgkinson.
This time it is Miss Hollingshead's turn to look disconcerted.
'Thank you,' comes Andrea's voice from the doorway. All eyes turn. Her face is flushed. 'Thank you for your support, Dr Hodgkinson.'
Jeremy remembers the doctor's avowal of support at the Christmas party. Fortunately for the principal, Andrea was not there.
Dr Hodgkinson spreads out his hands in despair towards her. 'You see what happens if we offend public decency?'
'Do you want everything to be safe? Is that what you think this is all about?'
'No - '
'Or what art is all about?'
'I think I know what art means,' says her fellow trustee haughtily.
Jeremy finds himself grinning at this esoteric turn in the discussion. He adjusts his expression to one better suited to their battle against the Philistines and tries to avoid Andrea's withering gaze. Evidently Miss Hollingshead also decides that the conversation has gone off at a tangent, for she announces, 'If you don't call off this exhibition, we're going to continue our protest throughout the afternoon.'
'And if you try to stop our visitors, we'll have you arrested,' Andrea responds. Jeremy marvels at this invoking of the forces of law and order when she belongs more naturally amongst the protestors, but it is not the moment to point out the paradox. His glance meets Dr Hodgkinson's in a rare moment of fellow feeling as the two women square up to each other.
'We know our rights - this is a peaceful demonstration.'
'You can demonstrate - so long as you don't cause an obstruction.'
'We're not going to let you get away with this. We're resolute in our beliefs.'
'You haven't seen the exhibition, so how can you object to it?'
'We've heard about it. We've read the newspaper reports.'
Andrea gestures to the inner doors. 'Come in - look round.'
Miss Hollingshead shrinks back.
'How can you object to something you haven't seen?' Andrea asks, pressing home her advantage.
'We live by the Lord.'
'You live by prejudice.'
'Ladies, ladies,' Dr Hodgkinson interposes.
'If you think decency is prejudice, then I'm sorry for you,' Miss Hollingshead continues, ignoring him.
'You don't have to feel sorry for me,' Andrea retorts, also ignoring him. 'What I pity are people like you with closed minds.'
Dr Hodgkinson glances helplessly at Jeremy who pretends not to notice.
'Anyway, we're going ahead,' Andrea sums up. 'If you want to stay here and get arrested, that's up to you.'
'If you're continuing with this perversion, then we're staying.'
'Fine.' Andrea turns her back on the company and storms inside, leaving Jeremy lost in admiration.
'You see what I'm up against, madam?' Dr Hodgkinson appeals to his antagonist.
'Can't you say something to her?'
'She won't listen to me.'
'We can't let her go ahead.'
'I've every sympathy with your point of view - '
'What are you going to do?'
Dr Hodgkinson gestures helplessly.
'I'll see what's happening,' Jeremy murmurs, backing away.
Nobody pays any attention. He retreats into the lobby, pushing the outer doors closed so that the watchers cannot see him take the final canvas from the office.
'What's happening down there?' Andrea asks as he struggles upstairs.
'I left the commandant trying to calm them down.'
'That means we'll never get rid of them.'
'So long as they don't force their way in.'
'They're too law-abiding for that.'
When he has put down his load, he watches her putting the soiled nappy in pride of place and he desires her. As she stands back to admire the result, he warns her, 'Wait till the commandant puts on his employer's hat.'
'You're the one who made him a trustee.'
'I didn't have much choice.'
'Forget about him for the moment. You said you were going to help me this afternoon.'
'If you want me to.'
'I'm relying on you.'
'The only trouble is I'm not really dressed for it.'
'Then go home and change.'
He knows that note of exasperation well. It makes him wonder whether all women are really the same. He thinks of the two suitcases which comprise his wardrobe and confesses, 'I haven't got anything to change into.'
'You've got a suit, haven't you? If you don't want to help, just say so.'
'I'll help,' he assures her, feeling like a pet dog frantic to please its mistress.
'Thank you, Jeremy.' She smiles. When she does that, he suspects that he would agree to anything.
*
'Evening shift clocking on,' says Alf as Jeremy bends over the office sink, washing what seems like more glasses than a pub could ever use.
'Great time to turn up - when all the excitement's over.'
'I wasn't going to come at all.'
'Then why did you?'
'To see how things went.'
'You can dry some of these now you're here.'
'Always ready to oblige.' Alf picks up a cloth. 'Where's Andrea?'
'Taking Geoff to the station.'
‘So how did it go?'
'Which event?'
'I'm assuming the reading was a total disaster.'
‘The commandant was expecting you.'
'I couldn't face it.'
'You and the others. Started with an audience of six and ended with three.'
'Sounds par for the course.'
'He wasn't pleased, particularly as none of the six were staff or students.'
'Tough.'
'He'd extended the lunch hour so they could come.'
'Fuck him.'
'You might change your tune on Monday.'
'He's got no more say here than anybody else.'
'He doesn't see it that way. He took some of the exhibits down.'
'I bet Andrea went spare.'
'She put them up again.'
'Sounds like good, clean fun.'
'That's one way of putting it. We've also had the police here.'
'Bloody hell.'
'We had a demo.'
'I thought you were going to say the vice squad raided the place and took away Geoff's masterpieces.'
'Do you remember that woman who called when you came to see me?'
'The weird old bird?'
'Miss Hollingshead. We had her here demonstrating with the rest of her church. Andrea went spare.'
'She looks fucking magnificent when she's angry, I'll say that for her.'
'She got the police to move them on.'
'I thought she approved of demos.' Alf has given up drying glasses and is poking among the paper plates.
'Not this one.'
'I suppose it depends which side of the barricades you're on.' He unearths a hoard of cocktail sausages. 'I'd have turned up earlier if I'd known there was free food and booze going.'
'It's not free - the arts lab. had to pay for it. Anyway, that was for the guests. The idea was for us to circulate and chat them up.'
'Doesn't sound like your scene.'
'It wasn't. I spent most of the time in here.'
'Did the London critics come?'
'All these taxis turned up five minutes after the train from London got in. Never were so many braying, upper-class accents heard in Marchant Mews.'
'That was what she wanted.'
'Andrea was in her element.'
'Do I detect a certain disillusionment creeping into your tone?'
'No - it just wasn't my sort of occasion. I didn't think it was hers.'
'I always suspected she was a bit of a champagne socialist on the quiet.'
'The alarming thing was standing in my own arts lab. on its opening day with the critics on one side and the police and demonstrators on the other and wishing I was somewhere else. That has to be wrong.'
'You don't have to like everything that's put on.'
'The trouble is none of it's mine. So far we've had Dr Hodgkinson's reading, Andrea's art exhibition, with your rock concert coming up.'
'You wanted us to help,' Alf says, pursuing his search of the debris.
'More a matter of having help thrust upon me.'
'If you didn't want it, you should have told us to bugger off.'
'Everything moved too fast.'
'I thought you were more interested in getting your leg over Andrea.'
'I wouldn't quite put it like that.'
'What did the critics think of Geoff Rayner's masterpieces?'
'Five works sold - including the soiled nappy.'
'I hope we get commission.'
'We'll be lucky if it pays for the drink.'
'Speculate to accumulate - that's what they say.'
'Andrea expected you here.'
'I'm not trailing along to every event, especially the poncey ones.'
'It would have been a nice gesture.'
'It's all very well Andrea moaning - I bet she doesn't come tomorrow tonight.'
'She might actually - to make sure her exhibition doesn't get wrecked.'
'So you'll be turning up to sniff around her?'
'I don't know yet.'
'Why don't you come along? It'll be a bit of fun. Better than all this.'
'I suppose it's not as though I've got any pressing engagements.'
'Good man. Is there any wine left?'
'Upstairs.'
'Right. I shall go and have my private viewing and sort out the bottles.'
'You don't fancy doing some washing up?'
But Alf has already gone.
*
Night. The thudding rhythm can be heard from Marchant Road. In the light from sparse street lamps Jeremy threads his way between the parked cars, vans and a garishly-painted coach clogging the mews and hopes that the fire officer will not pay an unscheduled visit. The sight is what he has wanted since he first saw Marchant House - young people thronging the brightly-lit entrance. He joins them - an anonymous figure, his collar turned up against the cold, hands thrust in pockets, trying to imagine that he too is making his first visit to the town's newest attraction. He queues meekly at the entrance, buoyed up by the chatter around him. The bouncers in black suits and white shirts make the lobby seem smaller. An arts lab. should not be intimidating, he tells himself, mantra-like. People should feel free to come and go. He will tell Alf.
A transformation from the previous day, he has to admit once he gets inside. He blinks as the strobe lights play across his eyes. Spotlights are focused on the musicians. He wonders whether there might be a case for having lights along the edge of the mezzanine to illuminate the stage. Amongst the figures sitting on the floor are doubtless many of his own students, but he can only make out the nearest faces. No sign of Alf. Sweat, smoke and scent mingle. Already he feels overdressed. His ears buzz with the noise till he wants to press his hands over them. This is the community he worked for, he tells himself. This is his dream.

Chapter 11

The presence of the converted coach indicates that some visitors to the previous night's gig have not strayed far. The rainbow patterns stuck to the glass conjure a sixties world of hippies and free festivals, of which the arts labs were a part. The embers of nostalgia burn brightly as Jeremy remembers seeing the film of Woodstock and wishing that he could be there. He longs to hear the twang of a guitar again and to greet somebody with 'Hi, man.'
The first intimation that something is amiss is when he finds the outer doors of the arts lab. unlocked. Only other members of the committee have keys and he cannot imagine any of them bothering to come at eight o'clock on a Sunday morning. It passes through his mind that the Fiendish Hedgehogs are staying overnight. The chance to greet somebody by saying 'Love and peace' might yet come. 
He listens. The sound of a radio comes from inside. Tentatively he pushes the outer doors further open. The sound and the smell come from the office. Intruders do not usually cook breakfast. As he hesitates, debating whether to investigate or to contact the police, a young man clad in a tracksuit and sporting a ponytail edges past him from the mews. Jeremy checks himself from apologising for being in the way. His ensuing indignation is mingled with apprehension and curiosity. He steps into the lobby. The pony-tailed youth stops, suddenly wary.
'What's going on?' Jeremy asks.
'Who are you?'
'I could ask you the same question.'
'We've got this place.'
'Got?' Jeremy queries, aware that he is slipping into his schoolmaster pose.
'Taken over,' ponytail explains. 'So who are you?' 
'The owner.' 
'You know what you can do.' 
Jeremy makes a good guess. 
The inner doors open. The man who appears in the doorway is heavily built and obese. His stomach hangs over oil-stained jeans. A red headband gives him the appearance of a buccaneer. He chews gum. Through the open doorway, Jeremy glimpses sleeping bags scattered over the floor. 
'He owns this place,' ponytail explains. 
Headband gazes upon Jeremy as though deciding his fate. Jeremy gazes at the stains on headband's sweatshirt, trying to decide whether they are tomato - or blood. 
'Out,' says headband, cutting short the reverie. 
'I say.' Jeremy notices that his voice has gone up an octave. 
'You don't say nothing. Out.' 
'You tell him,' ponytail agrees. 
Jeremy stands his ground, not from bravado, but from incredulity at what is happening. This proves to be a mistake. Headband moves forward - and keeps moving, propelling Jeremy inexorably through the outer doors to the street. As he gasps for breath, the doors are slammed shut. He stares at the panels, feeling the temptation to bang his fists against them, but knowing that this is a hopeless gesture. 
'My arts lab.,' he tells the world. 'They're in my arts lab.!' 
But there is nobody to listen. Sparrows on the telephone wires look on, unconcerned as he trudges away with the tired movements of an old man. The posters mock him. He thinks of the mortgage and he groans in his despair. Then he reflects that at least Dr Hodgkinson will not be able to give any more readings from the classics of our literature and he feels a little better. 
Garage doors are open beside the exit to the mews. A diminutive old man lovingly washes his employer's Bentley. He nods at Jeremy. 'How's it going?' 
'Got squatters.' 
The old man breaks off from washing the car. His mouth drops open. Water from the sponge drips on his shoes. 
'The last thing I expected when I came down here,' Jeremy confesses. 
'You want to get them out.' 
'I know that.' 
'Get some big blokes and go in there before there's any damage.' 
Jeremy thinks of headband and concludes that the blokes would have to be very big. 
'Only language they understand,' the old man insists. 'I've seen enough of them. Yobs, that's all they are. Yobs.' He squeezes the sponge as if demonstrating what he would do with them. Soapy water trickles over the concrete. 'Turn-up for the book, eh - on top of everything else that's happened.' 
'Everything else?' 
'This arts place. You work there, do you?' 
'Sort of,' Jeremy agrees. 
'Some of the goings-on...' The old man shakes his head. 'I dunno what it's got to do with art.' 
'There won't be any more for a while - not while the squatters are in.' 
'You remember what I said - get some big blokes.' The old man looks impatient to get back to work. 
'If you see anything else happening down there, let me know,' Jeremy says. 
'How will I get in touch with you?' 
'I'll be around - quite a lot, I expect.' 
'I'll keep an eye open.' 
'Thanks.' 
'There's not much I don't see.' 
Jeremy does not reply. As he walks on, he reflects that little will be achieved by coming back; but like an animal returning to its lair that is what he will do again and again. The caretaker has to get up while the other trustees are in bed, he acknowledges ruefully. So much for his role. 
He passes through the ornate Victorian gateway into Princes Park. Since moving to the area, the park's reputation has deterred him from exploring it. In its Victorian heyday the occupants of the surrounding houses must have promenaded there; the present occupants transact their drug deals there. Dampness makes the smell of leaf mould more intense, charging the air with freshness. Rain has collected in pools on the path and hangs in beads on the shiny green leaves of the overgrown shrubs. Pearls of dew are strung from countless spiders' webs. Motionless figures swathed in sleeping bags or corrugated cardboard lie on the seats of shelters. Bottles and beer cans litter the concrete beneath them. Jeremy watches with the fascination of one who might shortly be joining that shabby company. Yesterday his future seemed settled, if not quite the idyll of which he dreamed a few months earlier. What the old man called the yobs have changed all that. The thought of headband ejecting him from his own property has the vividness of a bad dream, dominating everything. 
As he ventures further into the park, anger takes over from the surprise. He rails against the intruders for what they have done, not only to his arts lab., but to his peace of mind. He voices his anger aloud, to be jolted back to his immediate predicament when a woman walking a poodle moves onto the grass to avoid him. 
The serenity of the park comes as a pleasant surprise after all the stories Jeremy has heard about it. The rose garden is forlorn in winter, the wooden arches green with damp, the thorn-covered branches bare. Only the rock garden preserves some colour. He climbs the steps between stone outcrops festooned with plants. There is no point in hurrying. From the summit he surveys lawns separated by copses of trees and shrubs, as though each was intended to have its own character when the park was laid out. The irony is that what seems archetypically Victorian must have been unknown to those first visitors who saw only a bleak expanse of grassland planted with saplings. They might recognise the buildings. The Gothic gardeners' store could have strayed from the set for a horror film. Spindly stone columns and slits of windows are wreathed with ivy growing unchecked over ornate bargeboards and the steeply-pitched slate roof. Rusting iron finials emerge from the greenery, giving the building the air of a long-forgotten signal box. The shelters are of timber, but constructed in similar style. Generations of initials are gouged in their walls.  What particularly appeals to him is the cast iron fountain. Alas, water no longer cascades from the shell-like basins supported by nymphs. The shells are filled with rubbish. Rust scars their surface. A plaque proclaims that the fountain was erected to mark the park's opening. In that sad memorial he senses aspirations akin to his own - except that his legacy will have a mortgage attached to it for the next twenty-five years. 
He can see the houses in Marchant Road. They still look stately when glimpsed through the trees beside the park railings. He wonders whether he will be a permanent inhabitant of the world of bed-sits. The thought of becoming a non-smoking version of Mr Wheeler makes him shiver. 
The far side of the park is given over to tennis courts. The chain link fencing seems a jarringly modern innovation to one who has not yet shaken off the dreams of Victorian days. The wooden changing room in peeling green and cream paint belongs to the interwar years and reminds him of the parks of his childhood. Nobody plays on the courts early on a  winter Sunday. A breeze ripples the water lying on the asphalt. He vows that if he does not get back together with Sally by the spring, he will ask Andrea for a game of tennis. And he will make a point of ensuring that Ken is not there. 
However much the walk calms his mind, it makes his plan of action no clearer. At that hour he cannot look for commiseration from his friends. Instead he returns to his room. The house is silent. The other inhabitants are night people - something which annoys him as he tries to blot out the noise of parties and the thudding rhythms of hi-fi systems in the small hours. In the silence of a Sunday morning he is tempted to get his own back by shouting down the stairwell at some imaginary companion, or turning his radio to full volume; but cowardice prevails and he lets himself quietly into his room, taking care not to bang the door. The squalid surroundings no longer bother him, though he knows that he could never invite either Andrea or Sally there. If they saw the grime-encrusted Belling and the solitary dining chair, its seat patched with Sellotape, they would conclude that he has let himself go. 
He makes coffee to distract himself from weightier matters. Starlings chatter in the gutter outside his window. He often hears them scuttling across the roof. At first he thought the sound came from mice - a line of reasoning which prompted two anxious days with piles of Alphakill placed strategically around the skirting. Now the scrabbling over the slates is reassuring. If he has any bread left, he scatters it outside the skylight for his unseen companions. 
Clasping the mug with both hands to warm them, he sits on the bed to consider his next move. His fellow trustees need to be told what has happened. If they are so interested in his arts lab., let them share the problems. It is a moment when he wishes that he knew more about the habits of his fellow trustees. Alf he can envisage lying in bed as long as possible. The chance of getting any sense out of him before lunch is remote. Andrea is more likely to be up at a reasonable hour, unless Ken pampers her with breakfast in bed - something Jeremy would not put past him. Dr Hodgkinson is not the sort to indulge in anything like that, yet Jeremy baulks at the prospect of stalking the commandant in his lair. He groans. If people wanted to squat in his arts lab., at least they might have done it on a weekday. 
When the coffee is drunk and Jeremy's hands grow cold again, he has still come to no decision. He puts the mug on the floor. At such moments he wishes that Alf had never introduced him to Marchant Mews. Fifteen minutes and another mug of coffee later, he goes out again, his decision made. This time he takes the car. Amazingly nothing has happened to it in those weeks of being left overnight at the kerbside, prey to any passing thief or vandal. Its unexpected survival makes him wonder whether the area's reputation is undeserved; or else the presumption exists amongst the criminal fraternity that better pickings are to be had elsewhere. 
Jeremy has never been to Dr Hodgkinson's house before. Not unexpectedly it is in one of the more expensive areas of the town, where the property is detached and the shrub-laden verges and tree-lined boulevards are well tended. Dr Hodgkinson's house is comparatively modest, which means that it only has a single garage. The front garden is long. A Fiesta is parked in the drive - doubtless Mrs Hodgkinson's, as the commandant drives a Vauxhall. The lawns are edged with military precision. No weeds dare to seed in the pristine flowerbeds. Jeremy is not surprised by this obsessive tidiness. It suits the principal's character. Only a few stray leaves on the lawn denote that the daily inspection has not yet taken place. He scans the windows. The curtains have been pulled back, demoting that somebody is up. 
Dr Hodgkinson opens the door. He looks surprised to see Jeremy, who has the unexpected bonus of glimpsing his superior in casual attire. It comes as no surprise to find that this includes wearing a tie. 
'Got a few problems,' Jeremy begins. 
'Is it about that concert?' 
'Indirectly. It's complicated.' 
'You'd better come along in.' 
The door is opened wider. In spite of his concerns, Jeremy cannot help being intrigued by the opportunity to see how Dr Hodgkinson lives. His host ushers him into the living room, which proves to be much as he anticipated. Judging by the way everything is spotless, Mrs Hodgkinson is houseproud. In this ordered world no children chip the skirting with toy cars, or write on the curtains with felt pens. There is no need for stripped pine, which resists all Sammy's attempts to damage it. The principal’s home is a place of gilt lamps, polished parquet flooring, carpets thick enough to blanket all footsteps and tasteful prints in silver frames. Only a large Sony television sprouting speakers like ears and with a video underneath strike an incongruously up-to-date note. A remote control and a copy of the Radio Times on an occasional table betray the principal’s favourite chair. Jeremy makes a point of choosing a different chair when he is invited to sit down. 
Mrs Hodgkinson appears from the kitchen to view the unexpected guest. She shows no sign of recognising him from the party. She pulls her dressing-gown more tightly around her sparse frame. 
'One of my staff,' Dr Hodgkinson explains, evidently taking the view that staff members do not merit introductions. 
'I'll let you talk.' She retreats hurriedly to the kitchen. The smell of toast reminds Jeremy that he has not had breakfast. 
'It must be something important,' Dr Hodgkinson probes, settling in the favourite armchair. It is evidently more comfortable than the one Jeremy has chosen. 
'I popped into the lab. this morning - ' 
'The arts centre.' 
'Thought I'd clear up after last night.' 
A disapproving look comes to the principal's face. 'I've never thought pop concerts were a good idea - attract the rogue elements.' 
'We've got squatters.' 
Dr Hodgkinson leans forward. 'You're sure?' 
'They threw me out.' 
The principal bangs his hand against the arm of the chair in exasperation. 'I knew something like this would happen. I should have put my foot down.' 
Jeremy is not sure why a performance by the Fiendish Hedgehogs should provoke squatting, but this is not the moment for semantics. He explains, 'I thought you should be the first to know.' 
Dr Hodgkinson nods, evidently finding this perfectly understandable. 'We'd better contact the lawyers. Get things in train.' 
'What things?' 
'Court orders.' Dr Hodgkinson looks surprised by the naivety of the question. 
'You think that's the best way?' 
'It's the only way.' 
'I suppose so.' 
'What else is there?' 
Jeremy is tempted to suggest calling upon the services of the bouncers, but this seems unlikely to go down well. 
'I know a good man,' his host is saying. 'Play golf with him sometimes. What I'll do is get on to him straight away to sort this out.' 
'If you could,' Jeremy finds himself agreeing. 
'I'll have a word with Alf,' Dr Hodgkinson adds in confidential tones. 'Now he can see what happens when he puts on events like that.' 
'You think the gig caused the problem?' 
Dr Hodgkinson looks blank. 
'The concert,' Jeremy interprets. 
'Without a doubt. Attract undesirable elements and you're bound to get trouble.' 
'He was doing it to raise money.' 
'Which we’ll lose getting rid of the squatters. I really should have put my foot down.' 
'We do need money coming in.' 
'We need to attract the sort of people who are prepared to pay a reasonable price for tickets - the sort who go to art galleries, concerts and readings.' 
Recollection of the reading prompts Jeremy to glance around for a bookcase, but the room is devoid of books. He would like to see the principal’s library.  
'The first reading taught us some valuable lessons,' Dr Hodgkinson assures him. 
'I suppose it did.' 
'We have to see it as a learning curve.' 
Jeremy tries to look as though he understands. 
'We need to make what we're doing more widely known,' Dr Hodgkinson explains. 
Jeremy suspects that people knew only too well what the reading would be like, but he keeps such thoughts to himself. 
'Another thing we need to ensure next time is that students from the college attend. I want them to be aware of our literary heritage.' 
'There won’t be a next time unless we can get in the place.' 
The principal waves away the problem. 'I'm sure my colleague will get that sorted that out.' 
'I thought I'd better let you know rather than take any action myself.' 
'Of course, of course.' Dr Hodgkinson nods vigorously. 'Somebody like Alf Bell has many qualities - though I'd like to see more commitment to extra-curricular activities at the college - but I'm not sure he's the sort to deal with this situation. Too impetuous.' 
Jeremy agrees - and feels a turncoat for agreeing. He is tempted to ask whether the same strictures apply to him. 
'Perhaps it would be better if you didn't tell the others for the moment,' Dr Hodgkinson cautions. 
'They are trustees.' 
'Let's get the legal situation clear, so we can give them the facts.' 
Jeremy nods. He follows the reasoning, although instinct tells him that this is not the whole story. 
'Till then, leave it with me,' says Dr Hodgkinson, getting up to signal the end of the audience. 
Jeremy rises. He allows himself to be ushered through the hall. 'You'll say good-bye to Mrs Hodgkinson for me?' 
'Certainly.' The principal leans closer to confide, 'She doesn't like meeting people first thing in the morning.' 
Jeremy is about to say that Sally is the same, but he thinks better of it. If news of his relationship difficulties has not reached Dr Hodgkinson, diplomacy is best served by not raising it in conversation. 
'I'll have a word with you tomorrow,' the principal assures him, opening the front door. 'Let you know what's happening.' 
'We should tell Alf. He's got another gig organised for Friday.' 
'We'll sort that out tomorrow. If these pop concerts attract unruly elements, perhaps cancellation might be the best thing.' 
'And there's Andrea's art exhibition.' 
Dr Hodgkinson sniffs. 'The less said about that the better. I've already had complaints.' 
'She's got somebody coming in tomorrow to act as curator.' 
'Don’t worry - I'll deal with Mrs Sibley. Glad you came to me first.' 
Jeremy is about to answer, but he finds himself facing a closed door. He has the uneasy feeling of having done the wrong thing for the second time that morning.. 
* 
'You've done the wrong thing,' Alf says unhesitatingly. 
'You're the one who left the doors open.' 
'I locked the front doors when I left.' 
'What about the emergency exits?' 
'I didn't know they were open.' 
'You were supposed to check.' 
'Any road, what did you want to tell the commandant for?' 
'Because he’d be furious if he found out after everybody else.' 
'He only muscled in on this thing at the last minute.' 
'He is a trustee.' 
'One of them. The trouble is he always thinks he's king of the castle.' 
'He's getting one of his solicitor pals onto it.' 
'Which is going to take months and cost a packet. What we ought to do is get the bouncers back and let them sort it out.' 
'He wouldn't go for that.' 
'Which is why you should have got in touch with me first.' 
'At eight o'clock on a Sunday morning?' 
'Not quite that early,' Alf admits.
'I guessed you’d be sleeping it off after the gig.' 
'What were you doing down there at sparrow fart?' 
'I often get up early.' 
'Can't bear to be away from your baby?' 
'I was going to clean out the toilets if you must know.' 
'Whatever turns you on. Perhaps the squatters would let you be honorary bog attendant if you asked them nicely.' 
'When I heard people inside, I thought the band was still there.' 
'I watched them pack their amps and depart. No nubile groupies, which was disappointing.' 
'I walked around the park trying to decide what to do and then I went to see the commandant.' 
'We'd have been better off dealing with this ourselves.' 
'It’s done now.‘  
'We can't wait for all the legal shenanigans. You're paying the mortgage, don't forget.'   
'Glad somebody's remembered. I hope you didn't leave yesterday's takings there, talking of money.' 
'It's all safe, don't worry.' 
'Thank Christ for that.' 
'How many squatters are there?' 
'I don't know.' 
'Tens, hundreds, or what?' 
'They didn't exactly welcome me in for a head count. About twenty as far as I could see.' 
'You know I've got another gig next weekend?' 
'Looks as if you’ll have to cancel it.' 
'You must be joking. The publicity's gone out. What do you think's going to happen when all the punters crowd into Marchant Mews and find the gig's scrapped?' '
They'd string you up.' 
'Who said I was going to be there?' 
'I'm not telling them.' 
'Anyway, I reckon we can get the bastards out before then.' 
Jeremy feels less confident that his arts lab. will survive the experience. 
* 
'Who are they?' Andrea wants to know. She is curled on the settee in her jeans and sweatshirt, the Sunday papers spread around her. Jeremy has difficulty in not staring at her. He envies Ken. 
'I don't know,' he confesses. 
'Don's absolutely right in his approach,' Ken decides. 
It takes a moment for Jeremy to realise that Dr Hodgkinson's first name is Donald. Even in meetings of trustees, the college hierarchy cannot be forgotten. 
'Has he talked to them?' Andrea asks. 
'He hasn't been there since I discovered them.' 
'I think we ought to.' 
Jeremy imagines Andrea remonstrating with headband. It is an interesting prospect. 
'We need to know why they're there,' she explains. 
'The point is they broke in and they've got to be removed,' Ken interrupts. 'What we need to know whether they're making a political point, whether they're unintentionally homeless - ' 
'I don't see that it matters.' Andrea’s eyes are closed as she summons patience. 'It depends whether you want to look at it purely in financial terms, doesn't it?' she argues. 
Jeremy suspects that he has strayed into a well-rehearsed marital disagreement.
'They're acting illegally,' Ken points out.
'If they can't find anywhere else to live, what do you expect them to do?' 
Instead of answering, Ken turns to Jeremy in mute appeal. Jeremy shrugs. 
'I'm going to see them about the exhibits,' Andrea decides, uncurling her legs. 
'I'd leave it to the solicitors,' Ken cautions. 
'There's less chance of the exhibits getting damaged if we start talking now.' 
'It's up to you,' Ken says in the tone of one who knows that argument is pointless. 
'Jeremy's going to come with me.' 
Jeremy raises his eyebrows. 
'Aren't you?' she says mischievously. 
How can he turn her down, even though the thought of encountering headband again is hardly appealing? 
'Are you ready?' she prompts. 
'We're going now?' 
'Why not? We want to see them before the solicitors antagonise them.' 
'It's a bit early in the day.' 
'If they're already up, what's the point of waiting?' 
'Think about it first,' Ken urges. 
'I have thought about it.' 
He spreads out his hands in exasperation. 'Okay, if that's what you want to do.' 
'You're sure you don't want to join us?' 
'Quite sure.' 
'Shall we go in my car?' Jeremy asks hesitantly, not wanting to miss an opportunity to have Andrea to himself. 
'Okay.' 
As they set off, Ken watches from the doorway. 
'Your environmental conscience at work?‘ Andrea asks. 
'How do you mean?’
'Going in one car.' 
'If you put it like that, I suppose I am,' he agrees, relieved that Andrea has jumped to the wrong conclusion.    
'I'm concerned, of course, but it's easy to produce over-simple answers like recycling aluminium cans when it's better not to use them in the first place.' 
Jeremy nods, trying to show the right degree of interest. He hopes that he has not unwittingly prompted a discourse on recycling which will last the length of the journey. 
'Or you can provide solutions which disadvantage the poor. It looks good when a company shuts a polluting factory in Britain or Germany, but what doesn't get mentioned is that they transfer operations to the Far East or India.' 
Jeremy groans to himself and wishes that he had a radio in the car. 
'If we run interdisciplinary courses, this is the sort of issue which needs tackling,' Andrea continues. 'It's too easy to adopt a piecemeal approach.' 
'What are you going to say to our squatters?' he asks to change the subject. 
'I don't know yet.' 
'The one I saw looked as though he bent iron bars before breakfast.' 
'Then let's hope he's in a good mood.' 
Jeremy does not feel hopeful. He remains silent as they turn into the mews. The coach and the vans are still there. When the car engine is turned off, there is silence except for the chorus of sparrows. It is an unnatural silence. Even the little man who was washing the car has disappeared. Jeremy remembers the emptiness of the town in High Noon and he shivers. 
'Shall we make a move?' Andrea prompts. 
With a heavy heart he abandons the safety of the car. The temptation to leave it unlocked in readiness for a quick getaway is overridden by the thought that people who break into arts labs. might relish easier pickings.  He walks slowly towards Marchant House, wishing that he was with Andrea in happier circumstances. He takes a sideways look at her. She betrays no trace of nervousness. However ungallant it may seem, he hopes that she will do the talking. 
No lookouts are posted outside. For a moment he clings to the idea that the intruders have gone, or that his celebratory Chinese takeaway supper caused him to hallucinate, but he knows that this is wishful thinking. As they go inside, the smell of eggs and bacon from the office reminds him that he has not had breakfast. The sound of a radio comes from the hall. A dog barks, which is more disturbing. He never encountered a dog on his first visit. It is a deep bark, suggestive of a large dog. His qualms are not shared by Andrea, who pushes open the inner doors with such single-mindedness that they catch him in the chest as they rebound. 
The mongrel galloping across the sleeping bags to greet them is smaller than he expected. Rather than having the attributes of a guard dog, it seems pleased by the promise of new playmates. Bodies in grubby sleeping bags lie across the floor. With rucksacks and bundles of clothes scattered amongst them, the hall resembles a refugee camp. The children are already up. A tiny girl smeared with chocolate stares with undisguised curiosity at the visitors. A boy carrying a stick looks as if he would like to use it on them. The barking arouses other sleepers. Sleeping bags wriggle like chrysalises as bleary-eyed occupants try to focus on the intruders. The faces appearing over the edge of the balcony remind Jeremy of a row of rag dolls. Lest anybody might still be unaware of his new playmates, the dog does not cease barking. A girl hurries down the stairs to confront the visitors. She is in her twenties - long hair, long dress, leather sandals. A round, open face. The dog looks puzzled at being shooed away. It stops barking, to slink through the open double doors of the emergency exit. Through the doorway Jeremy glimpses the moss-encrusted wall screening the alley from the gardens of the adjoining houses. Bare branches hang over the copingstones. 
'Who are you?' There is hostility in the girl’s eyes. 
'I could ask you that,' Andrea responds. 
As they size each other up, Jeremy looks around helplessly, feeling superfluous in this clash of female wills. He sees one of the squatters picking his way to the emergency exit. As it closes, the noise echoes through the hall. 
'Can you go, please?' the girl commands. 
'It happens to be our centre.' 
'We're living here.' 
'Perhaps we could discuss it.' Andrea's tone has softened. 
'We are.' 
'Not like this. My name's Andrea by the way.' 
'I'm Emma.' The girl relaxes. 
'Isn't there somewhere we could talk privately?' 
'Why?' The suspicion is back in her voice. 
'I thought it might be easier if we didn't disturb everybody.' Andrea is placatory.
'There’s the little room by the entrance.' 
Jeremy takes this to mean his office. With ill grace he follows the girls. A gas cylinder and a burner have been set up on his desk. Beside them is a dirty frying pan left over from somebody's breakfast. 
'So?' Emma begins. 
Andrea hesitates. Jeremy watches in fascination as she chooses her words, socialist ideals vying with expediency. 
'We wondered why you came here in particular,' she says at last. 
'We heard about the gig and thought it might be fun.' 
'But why stay here?' 
'It was right for us - and the emergency doors were left unlocked.' 
Jeremy secretly curses Alf. 
'We don't break in,' Emma adds quickly. 'We know the law.' 
Andrea nods, apparently appreciating this fine distinction. 'You move around as a group, do you?' 
'We try to keep together.' 
'How long have you been doing it?' 
'People come and go. I've been with them a year.' 
'And you get on together living communally?' 
'It suits us.' 
From the interest on Andrea's face, Jeremy wonders whether she might be tempted to join them. 
'And you travel around the country, do you?' she continues. 
Emma frowns. 'We're not travellers. If we were, we wouldn't be squatting in places like this.' 
'I wondered about the coach.' 
'We've got some friends staying.' 
Jeremy marvels at this labyrinthine world of friends staying with friends who are themselves homeless. 
'So where did you live before?' Andrea asks. 
'We were squatting in an empty block of flats, but the council evicted us.' 
'It must give you a totally different perspective, staying together as a group.' 
'I suppose so. It's not something we think about.' 
'What about schooling?' 
'So long as we stay in the same neighbourhood, it isn't a problem. Otherwise the children have to change schools, so we try not to move too often.' 
Jeremy wants to ask how long they envisage staying in his arts lab., but Andrea may not take kindly to being interrupted. 
'This is fascinating,' Andrea marvels. 
Emma smiles at this naivety. 'You get used to living with uncertainty.' 
'I lived in a squat for a while in my student days, but it wasn't really communal.' A note of nostalgia has entered Andrea's voice. 'What I liked was not being tied down. I could bum around abroad when I wanted for a few months, without having to worry about the rent. It's more difficult when you've got a job.' 
Jeremy imagines her bumming around - and what Dr Hodgkinson would say. He imagines bumming off with her, which is infinitely preferable. 
'We've thought about educating the kids ourselves,' Emma is saying. 'We've got a couple of qualified teachers, but it's difficult to cover the whole range of subjects.' 
Andrea nods. 'I'd like to have a longer talk about it sometime.' 
'Okay.' 
'We came this morning because we're on the board of trustees of this place.' 
Jeremy admires the long, slow build-up - a textbook example of getting the opposition on your side, even if Andrea does mean every word of it. Perhaps a sociology lecturer can adopt the appropriate tactics without thinking. 
'We've just opened the place,' he contributes. 
'There's an art exhibition upstairs,' Andrea says. 'I wondered whether the exhibits were okay.' 
'All we've done is move them to the side.' 
Secretly Jeremy is disappointed. Part of him hoped that the nappies and other artistic creations would be languishing in rubbish sacks - and that he could watch Andrea at her angry best. 
'I know the artist - he's one of the goodies,' Andrea assures the other girl.‘  
'I'll make sure nobody damages them.' 
'I'd be grateful.' Andrea hesitates, evidently reaching a tricky stage in negotiations. 'Presumably you're not staying here permanently?' 
Jeremy is glad that he never interrupted. He admires her handling of the situation. As well as her physical attractions, Andrea is evidently a diplomat par excellence - except in her dealings with Dr Hodgkinson. She has contrived to make Emma look uncertain. His only qualm is that Emma has plenty of reinforcements, including headband. Jeremy wishes he knew the whereabouts of his adversary. 
'It's not really up to me,' Emma says, sounding hesitant for the first time. 
'How do you make decisions?' Andrea asks, her voice betraying genuine interest. 'Is there one person in charge, or do you do it collectively?' 
'I suppose it's collective. Some people get more involved than others. Some prefer practical things.' 
Andrea nods understandingly.  
'Usually we stay in one place for a few months,' Emma vouchsafes. 'Then the hassle starts and we have to move on.' 
'That’s really interesting.‘  
'Are you going to start court proceedings?' 
If Andrea is disconcerted by the directness of the question, she recovers quickly. 'That's for the board of trustees as a whole to decide.' She weighs her words. 'I'd argue against taking that course on the grounds that if you're going to move on anyway, it wouldn't be worth the expense of setting the legal machinery in motion. The only people to gain are the solicitors and barristers.' She turns to Jeremy. 'I don't know what you think.' 
Jeremy is thinking how magnificent she is, but he forces himself to say, 'I wouldn't be happy if it meant waiting months.' 
'I'm sure we can negotiate something,' Andrea says quickly. 
Jeremy wonders what.  
'As I said, it's not up to me,' Emma cautions. 
'Understood,' Andrea agrees. 'If the consensus is that you want to stay longer, perhaps we could talk about it.' 
'Okay.' 
'What I would say is that if any damage is caused, it's going to turn the trustees against you.' 
Jeremy loves the way Andrea can make a threat sound like a problem for both of them.  
'We've got a vested interest in keeping the place habitable,' Emma points out. 'And as I say, there's no problem about the exhibits - I'll make sure they're looked after.' 
Andrea smiles. 'We'll leave you to it - let you enjoy the rest of your Sunday morning. I’d really like to come back another time for a longer chat and to meet some of the others.' 
'Sure.' 
As Emma sees them to the door, Jeremy savours the irony of being escorted from his own arts lab. - though it had ceased to be his own before the squatters came. The smell of eggs and bacon recedes, replaced by fresh morning air as they walk away.
‘Well, well,' he murmurs. 
'Not how I'd expected to spend Sunday morning.' 
'You handled it well.' 
'I don't like to think in terms of handling a situation - it smacks of manipulating people.' 
'I meant you weren't confrontational the way Alf or the commandant would have been.' As Andrea seems mollified, he adds, 'Alf should have checked the doors.' 
'It's a bit late to worry.' 
They have stopped by the car. 
'So do we stall the commandant and his lawyers?' Jeremy asks. 
'I think so, don't you?' 
'I'm not sure.' 
'Do you think it's acceptable to have them physically thrown out, which is what it might come to?' 
'She didn't offer to pay the mortgage while they're there.' 
'How can they?' 
'I've got to.' 
Not a fact which Andrea likes. In the car she stares ahead, not speaking. Jeremy feels a sneaking sympathy for Ken. 
'So we're going to Dr Hodgkinson's house?' he queries. She nods. As he reverses out of the mews and heads for the bourgeois suburbs which Andrea professes to despise, Jeremy searches for words which will put them on the same side again. Other matters keep intruding on his thoughts, like what will happen to his arts lab. Suddenly he wants to see Sammy - to join in the boy’s games, take him in his arms and share his laughter. The life which is denied to him has a lot going for it. 
When they stop outside Dr Hodgkinson's house, his words of reconciliation are still unsaid. 
'Don't think I'll come in,' he announces as Andrea unfastens her seat belt. 
'Why not?' 
'I can't face the commandant twice in a morning.' 
'Honestly!' 
Her exasperation alarms him. Any closeness between them has gone. 
'All I want to do is to run an arts lab!' he pleads. 
'Don't bother to wait.' She gets out the car, slamming the door. Jeremy leans across her seat to wind down the nearside window. The fabric is warm. 
'How will you get home?' he calls. 
'Ken can pick me up.' 
'I don't mind waiting.' 
'Don't want Dr Hodgkinson to see you, do we?' 
He watches her marching up to the front door and some of his desire dies. After she has been ushered inside, his thoughts go back to what he still wants to think of as his arts lab.  The events of the day induce a sense of truculence. Other people assumed responsibility for his arts lab. - now that it has been taken from them, let them deal with the problems. He is only the man who pays the bills - and if he decides not to bother, they could worry about that as well. He glares at a passing newspaper boy who makes a two-fingered gesture in return. For once Jeremy sympathises with Mrs Wilberforce in her contention that standards of behaviour amongst today's youth are sinking to new depths. 
He has every intention of waiting for Andrea in spite of her ill-tempered remarks, but his bladder feels uncomfortably full. After twenty minutes he begins to suspect that she has been offered tea, which is more hospitality than he was given. Suitably affronted and with a head of indignation, he switches on the ignition and drives slowly away, expecting Andrea to come running from the house, waving frantically. Nothing happens. He goes faster, liberated by his decision. There will be a frosty encounter at college in the morning, but that is another day. The next mortgage payment is even further in the future. At least he still has his lecturer's salary. 
He drives to what he has come to think of as his family's home. It is nearer than his bed-sit and his bodily needs are pressing. When he rings the bell, he hears Sammy running to the door and Sally calling him to let her open it. She does so cautiously at first. Sammy peeps around her legs and jumps up and down in delight at seeing his father. 
'It's daddy! It's daddy!' 
'I wasn't expecting you,' Sally greets  him with less enthusiasm. 
'I wondered if I could use the bathroom.' 
'You came all the way here to use the bathroom?' 
'I was passing. Been dodging about a lot this morning.' 
'Dodging about,' she repeats, mystified. 
'Everything's been happening.' 
'I don't know what you mean.' 
'If I could just use the bathroom...'  
Mercifully she lets him in. With Sammy at his heels, Jeremy hastens upstairs. Intellectual and artistic endeavours wither before the imperatives of the body, as he experiences the blessed relief of a good piss. It is only when he washes his hands that he notices things missing from the bathroom - Vickie's things. A new optimism surges through him as he goes downstairs, scooping up Sammy on the way. 
'Where's Vickie?' he asks above the delighted squeals. 
There is no optimism in Sally's voice as she says, 'She found a flat. She moved out a couple of days ago.' 
'Why didn't you let me know?' 
'I might have done if I'd seen you, but you were too busy with your arts centre.' 
'Arts lab.' 
'Whatever.' 
'So I could move back?' he asks cautiously. 
'Daddy. Look, daddy.' Sammy holds up a picture book. Dutifully Jeremy admires the exploits of Mr Pig. He wonders whether this is another message about sexism from their erstwhile guest. 
'You never did apologise to Vickie,' Sally reminds him. 
'I was a bit preoccupied.' 
'That's one way of putting it.' 
'How about if I took her a box of chocolates?' 
'She's not the sort to appreciate chocolates.' 
'I suppose they'd have to be vegan.' 
'Don't start again.' 
'Okay. Sorry.' 
'You know you were unfair to her?' 
'Perhaps.'  He hesitates. 'I could call at her new place and apologise if it's going to make things easier.' 
'How do you mean - make things easier?' 
'Between us.' 
'It's not a question of making things easier, Jeremy.' 
'Isn't it?' 
'I don't know if we can go back to how we were before.' Now she has said it, she seems calmer. 
Sammy breaks the silence by asking, 'Can I have my book, daddy?' 
'Sorry.' Jeremy hands the book to him. As Sammy settles on the floor to look at the pictures, Jeremy turns back to Sally. 'I've got a new lot of problems to worry about.' 
'How do you mean?' 
'Squatters in the arts lab,' 
'Can't you get them out?' 
'Everybody's got different ideas about how to do it - or even whether we should.' 
Sally frowns. 
'Whether to throw them out, go through the legal processes, or leave them to it till they move on,' he explains. 'We've had a talk with them.' 
'What are they like?' 
'The girl we spoke to was reasonable enough.' He tries to bring together his impressions. 'It's unusual these days - people wanting to stick together as a group and not being so concerned about where they live or what they do. Very sixties.' 
'You sound as if you'd like to join them.' 
'I might have done once.' 
'You couldn't even share our house with Vickie.' 
'That's different.' 
'I don't see why.' 
'Vickie was more interested in imposing feminism than harmonious living.’ 
'She supported the arts centre.' 
'She didn’t come.' 
'If the hippie ideals mean so much to you, perhaps you ought to let them stay.' 
'It's an argument,' he has to concede. 'Except that I'm paying the mortgage.' 
She watches him gravely, the grey eyes hypnotising him as of old. 'The mortgage on our house,' she reminds him. 
'Strictly speaking.' 
'I think you ought to decide what you do want.' 
'I'd save a bit of money if I didn't have to rent a room.' 
'That was your choice.' 
The surge of annoyance which passes through him is soon dissipated. Not the moment for another row, he tells himself. Not with Sammy there. He asks, 'And meanwhile you haven't got any bills you'd like me to pay?' 
'There's one.' 
He watches her searching amongst the correspondence on the mantelpiece and he wants to laugh at what is happening. She unearths a gas bill. 'I was going to send it on to you.' 
'It's a bit high, isn't it?' 
'You need to keep the place warm when there's a baby.' 
'And I suppose Vickie didn't think about paying her share?' 
'She was a guest.' 
'Right.' He looks down at Sammy, happily absorbed in his book. 'I'm going now, Sammy. Are you coming with me to the door?' 
Sammy looks crestfallen. 'Why can't you stay?' 
'Not possible this time, unfortunately, my little mate.' 
'I don't like it when you go.' 
Jeremy looks back at Sally. Her face is impassive. He turns to his son again and squats beside him. 'See you soon,' he tells him. 'Let’s have a hug.' 
The book is forgotten. Sammy presses against his father, holding him clumsily. 
'Got to go now,' Jeremy says, loosening his son's grip. 'And I won't leave it so long next time.' As he stands, he looks helplessly at Sally as Sammy clings to his legs. 
'Let daddy go, please,' she tells the child.
'I want him to stay.' 
'He can't.' 
Sammy lets go with reluctance. 
'This is what's going to happen,' Jeremy warns. 'It's not what I wanted.' 
'It's the situation you're creating.' 
'Don't let's go through it again.' When Sally does not respond, he threads through the litter of toys to the hall. He wonders whether the day will come when Sammy will have to see the room where his daddy lives. 
It is a relief to be alone in the car and away from emotional confrontations. Jeremy stares at his former home, seeing it as a stranger might. The street has a Sunday morning quietness as people savour those few precious hours of relaxation. Three hours ago he began his walk feeling at peace with the world. Since then the only chink in the unremitting gloom is the news that Vickie has found a place of her own. Now her malign influence has been removed, Sally should be more amenable, though on the evidence of his visit that has yet to happen. In a strange way he does not care any more, except for not seeing enough of Sammy. Having a warm, clean bathroom and eating something other than an unvarying diet of takeaways are tempting prospects, but such things apart, he has grown used to his attic room. Several times over the weeks he has hoped that Andrea might take pity on him and invite him home for a meal, but this has never happened - and now it never will. To use Alf's phrase, he has blown it. His dreams of knowing Andrea better are as ashes. Her only feeling for him is contempt. Sally's words echo in his mind. Perhaps in her innocence she is right - his arts lab. has found its proper use, however far that may be from his original conception. He grins. It is easy to imagine some malign fate directing his every action towards this culmination. 
A sudden decision prompts him start the car and head back to Marchant Mews, though in truth he wonders whether this was in his mind all the time. He has no clear aim. As he threads through the back streets, he closes his mind to what will happen. He passes his lodgings - the place where he is destined to remain if Sally has her way - aware that the grand reconciliation has eluded him. A better tactic might have been to call bearing chocolates and flowers. Such offerings incur Vickie's scorn, but they always work with Sally. 
The mews is quiet - no police cars, no sign of the other trustees.  Jeremy wonders whether Andrea and Dr Hodgkinson are still locked in earnest conversation. Whatever Andrea might claim, they are the talkers; he is a doer. He locks the car again. The rear windows of the coach are covered by curtains, leaving the world inside hidden and unknown. He imagines himself as a traveller, being able to cock a snook at Dr Hodgkinson and sharing a coach with Sally and Sammy. Less attractive is the thought of sharing things like washing water. Sally would not care for that. One consolation is that there would be no room for Vickie. 
The lobby to the arts lab. still reeks of cooking. Jeremy peers into his office, where a dumpy girl fries breakfast on his desk. She looks at him suspiciously. 
'Is Emma around?' he enquires.
'In the hall.' 
'Thanks. Have a good breakfast.' As he goes out of the office, he knows that the girl is watching him, but he does not care. He pushes open the auditorium doors confidently. Headband is there, which dents his confidence, but so is Emma. She smiles. He smiles back. 
'Thought you'd like to know what's happening,' he explains. 
'What's happening is that we're staying put,' headband says. 
'Nobody's arguing. This place was meant for the community and you're part of the community.' It is an impressive statement, worth writing down given that not much in his lectures is so memorable. And it attracts the other squatters, who gather around him as though he is a prophet. He smiles benignly and tries to exude confidence as he continues, . 'They’re having discussions about what to do. We're trying to head off any precipitate action.' He can hear the pomposity entering his voice. He suspects that Andrea would handle things better, but this is his moment. 'I said you were part of the community,’ he continues, ’Only a part, mark you. I'd like other people to be able to come here. I'd like the place to continue as an arts lab. while you're here.' He looks around at the puzzled expressions of his audience. 'How do you want to play it, folks? What can you offer? Start a restaurant? Alice's restaurant!' 
The blank looks show that his film-going memories go back further than those of the squatters. 
'Can you play something? Have we got any budding guitarists?' 
No volunteers. 
'Come on, folks. You must have some skills.' 
The way Emma looks at headband makes Jeremy wonder whether they are a couple. The thought makes him despair of women's taste, but this is the moment to exploit any opportunity. He casts aside caution and fixes his gaze on headband. 'What are your skills?' 
'He plays the guitar,' Emma answers for him. 
'Great. And what about you? Do you sing?' 
She shakes her head, her sudden coyness making her seem younger. 
'You'll give it a try, won't you?' Jeremy urges. 
'You haven't heard me yet.' 
'I want everybody who can sing or play an instrument,' he appeals to the company. 'Don't be shy.' The bewilderment on the faces of his audience does not deter him. 'Or let's have a mural. Who wants to paint a mural on that wall?' He points behind the stage. 'Let's say fuck to the world.' 
That produces a stirring of interest. He thinks that Andrea would be proud of him. So might Vickie. 
'It's all going to happen here. We're going to light up the town every night. Isn't that right?' 
The faces betray a lack of enthusiasm. 
'Don't look so hopeless. That's for no-hope college students.' 
A few smiles. 
'This is by the community, for the community, right?' 
'Whatever you say,' somebody murmurs, humouring him. 
'I do say,' he calls back. And then the self-consciousness overcomes him. He stares at the faces, aghast at what he as done and at what these strangers will think of him. 'I'll let you muse on that,' he ends, his voice betraying his uncertainty. Rather than waiting for a response, he pushes open the doors and hurries outside. The sharp morning air is good after the fug of the hall. He feels a moment of indignation - smoking is not allowed in his arts lab. - before he remembers that the will of the community should take precedence. He has burned his boats again. He stops, closing his eyes. 
'That was good.' 
He opens them again, recognising Emma's voice. She is alone. 
'You think?' he queries, not sure whether she is mocking him. 
'Telling us what you thought.' 
'Or making a fool of myself.' 
'You weren't doing that.' 
He stares. Her face has an almost severe simplicity, like that a Madonna in a renaissance painting. 
'So what happens now?' he asks. 
'You make it all happen.' 
'Keep my vision.' 
'That's it.' 
He cannot stop himself from smiling. He knows that there is a chance of something working out.