Two daughters, p.8
Two Daughters, page 8
Unfortunately, Stan’s Somali village was nowhere to be found, not at the geographical coordinates he had supplied, nor anywhere in the vicinity. This had cast a shadow over all his other work: who was to say, now, whether the Turkmen goatherds really existed? Or the LGBTQ+ circus performers from rural Venezuela?
‘God, how awful,’ Laurie said, helping herself to a biscuit. Tragedies always made her peckish. ‘So was he a bad egg, or what?’
Eric shook his head sadly. ‘It was the pressure that got to him.’
Stanley led—had led—the political science (poli sci) research group, which Eric maintained was quite distinct from his own group, political philosophy (poli phi). Eric looked down on Stan’s research, calling it applied; this apparently was a grave insult. Yet they had been distant friends.
‘The system is to blame,’ Eric added. ‘Also Colin Byrne-Beaumont.’
‘Did he push him?’
‘May as well have.’
‘How would you live without hyperbole?’
‘I wouldn’t. I’d literally die.’
Shevanti explained, ‘Colin was planning on replacing him.’
‘With who?’ asked Laurie.
‘Whom,’ Eric said.
Shevanti dunked a biscuit in her tea. ‘They’re bringing in someone from outside.’
‘Outside Cambridge?’ Eric swivelled. ‘That I hadn’t heard.’
‘Outside academia.’
He clutched his throat. ‘A … practitioner?’ he whispered hoarsely.
‘A career manager,’ Shevanti confirmed.
‘From the actual business sector?’ Laurie could see a kind of sense in that.
‘Apparently they think future human resource disasters can be averted by hiring someone trained in human resource management.’
Eric snorted. ‘As if corporatising higher education even more is the answer. You know what we need? Forget this Slow Food lark. What we need is Slow Academia.’ He held his index finger aloft. ‘Origins’—this was how he referred to his first book, The Origins of Socialist Thought in the People’s Republic of Mongolia—‘took twenty years to write and sold seven copies, which is exactly as it should be. That’s what academia used to be like. Take a walk by the river, a question occurs to you, then you spend a decade thinking about it. Not that you’d answer it, mind you, but you’d understand the question a lot better.’
‘Really, though?’ Laurie asked doubtfully. ‘I think maybe that was just you.’
‘You can’t run a university like a business! It erodes the very fabric of society.’
Shevanti nodded vigorously. ‘Look at Debbie,’ she said.
‘Who’s Debbie?’
‘She wrote the obits.’ Shevanti was the communications officer at Harry’s, which for six hundred years had faithfully issued a lengthy obituary for every one of its departed members. ‘We had to let her go. They want us farming things out to freelancers instead.’
‘Is that so?’ Laurie nudged Eric.
‘Ah. Right,’ he said. ‘Perhaps Laurie here could write Stan’s obit? She’s very, erm’—he cleared his throat—‘experienced.’
Now that Eric was, apparently, mobile again, Laurie moved back to Meadow Road. She spent her first evening splayed on the couch with her laptop, familiarising herself with the tone of the college obits.
Among a certain sliver of British society, Harry’s obits had come to occupy a cult status, an especially snarky write-up in death signifying that one was all the more auspicious in life. Dons were known to take notes for their own obits while still alive. Relatives of the deceased willingly supplied secret love letters, damning tax records, allegations of espionage and evidence of unusual sexual proclivities explicitly for the purposes of posthumous revelation.
‘Noel A. Horace (matriculation 1937) made the most of the sexual opportunities Cambridge had to offer,’ Laurie read aloud, ‘organising nocturnal croquet, naked except for gowns, before distinguishing himself at Normandy by accidentally shelling the British lines.’ Sniggering, she looked up.
But there was nobody to laugh with her, and as night fell, an unexpected melancholy descended over her. The windows rattled in their frames, the radiator ticked intermittently. She had to get used to being on her own again. She was, in theory, free to travel now, but she had begun to feel conflicted, as if it might be tempting fate. She was months into a prolonged period of inertia, involving vast amounts of television interspersed with the odd obituary, when Anil and Del dropped by unannounced.
Nudging aside a crumpled pile of clothes, Del joined her on the couch. She was engrossed in a nature show: Helena Byrne-Beaumont, looking spectacular in her Gore-Tex getup, waving assorted invertebrates at the camera.
‘I say this out of love …’ he began.
‘Uh-oh,’ Laurie said, without taking her eyes off the screen.
‘You’re in a bit of a funk, aren’t you?’
On the TV, Helena scaled a tree to get closer to a spider. ‘Didn’t she literally just give birth?’ Laurie muttered.
Anil called from the kitchen island, ‘All you ever do these days is write about dead people, you ghoul.’ He was holding up a moulding bread crust between finger and thumb. ‘Also, this place pongs.’
‘If I was a guy, this would be normal bachelordom,’ she said, affronted. Then, to the TV: ‘Oh, no. Stop.’ A spider with a two-inch body and long, spindly legs was making its way across Helena’s face.
Now Anil noticed that it was a Byrne-Beaumont on TV. He came over and perched on the arm of the couch, enthralled.
‘So the fangs can’t penetrate human skin?’ the cameraman could be heard saying.
‘Not effectively,’ Helena replied, beaming unflinchingly.
‘This is not healthy,’ Del said, meaning Laurie, not Helena, and it occurred to her that they had discussed this, whatever it was, before. Her.
‘Wait—is this an intervention?’
He cleared his throat. ‘We just think it’s time you had … you know.’
‘What?’
‘A fella,’ Anil said. The TV was now showing a sequence of spiders copulating while Helena, in voiceover, explained the mating practices of the golden silk orb weaver.
‘Unlike in related species, male genital mutilation is rare …’
‘I have relationships,’ Laurie said. ‘Constantly.’
‘Although the female has been known to cannibalise the male during copulation.’
Del looked at her sternly. ‘One-night stands don’t count.’
Laurie sighed. There was no denying that she rarely upgraded her flings to boyfriend status. It had started years back, with Ricardo; inevitably, their late-night sessions in the gazebo had culminated in the loss of Laurie’s virginity. More recently there had been Dominic, a fourth-tier footballer whom she had dumped for a lack of spark, and Jonathan, a yoga teacher who was a little too invested in self-actualisation for her taste.
But now Anil and Del started playing amateur psychologist, alleging that, for her, nobody would ever live up to Eric. That she had some kind of—what?—Oedipal thing going on.
She held up a hand. ‘That’s, like, both weird and objectionable.’ She valued her independence, that was all. Since when had that become a crime? ‘Out,’ she said, shooing them down the hallway.
When she returned to the TV, Helena was sitting on a log, serenely breastfeeding her newborn. A handful of orb weavers roamed across the swaddle, and Laurie wondered what was likely to shock the viewing public more: the spiders, or the prime-time nipple.
The closing credits featured a montage of Helena with her elder child, feeding the family pets: a couple of horses, a dozen cats and dogs, assorted insects in glass containers. As Laurie watched the cherub-like two-year-old frolicking with a kitten, a thought occurred to her.
I’ll show them commitment. She reached for her laptop and surfed around until she found what she was looking for.
The pictures were arranged in a grid, the names accompanied by brief profiles.
Jasper. Too young, she decided. Too excitable. Too much work.
Callum. Too preppy. A snooty-looking face; not her style.
Eventually she found the perfect match.
Name: Jagger
Age: 11
Looking for a challenging but rewarding relationship? Jagger is a mature, long-haired domestic, a solo operator with a feisty temperament. Takes a while to warm up, but with the right carer, he is utterly devoted. Click here to adopt.
Jagger turned out to have had a troubled youth. The man at the shelter didn’t know the details, but the cat was clearly traumatised. He had scarred paws and a mangled left ear. He made a sort of shrieking sound whenever Laurie sneezed. Judging from the way he hissed at Jeremy Clarkson on Top Gear, she figured Jagger’s backstory involved either souped-up cars or bigoted shits.
At first he peed everywhere, until she bought an accessible litter box with lower sides for his ailing joints. She introduced him to different parts of the house; he ignored them and hunkered down under her desk, where the PC tower generated consistent warmth. He was an excessive groomer with little appetite—the exact opposite of Laurie.
And yet, gradually he chilled out. After she had had him for close to a year, it occurred to her to celebrate his birthday. She dressed him in a tiny party hat and presented a special play mat designed to encourage gentle exercise. She offered him chicken kibble and catnip-infused chews. She even baked a tuna-flavoured cake, which he merely sniffed disdainfully before returning to his position under her desk.
Which was when she finally had to admit that perhaps Anil and Del had been right: something was missing from her life.
11
AVA
AFTER ALL THOSE YEARS AVA HAD SPENT FRETTING ABOUT HER FATHER’S MS—and trains, for that matter—there was a cruel irony to the fact that ultimately it was a heart attack that did him in.
Jim had fallen forward along the length of the caravan, and that was where he had been found, facedown on the floor between the bar fridge and the fold-down table.
As the head porter relayed the message passed on from the NSW social services—it had happened the evening before last, during the first leg of her flight—he patted Ava on the arm awkwardly and handed her a welcome package. Inside was a map of the college, six condoms in Star Wars-themed wrappers, and an invitation to the matriculation dinner the following evening.
‘Might be a distraction,’ he said. ‘Given the circumstances.’
He showed her to her allocated lodgings, a spartan room on the ground floor of the college, next to a store cupboard filled with poles and plastic cushions for the punts. The room was furnished simply: an unadorned chest of drawers, a wooden desk and chair, a single bed on which she lay for hours, trying to sob quietly.
‘Maybe I should just come home,’ she told May on the phone.
‘And what?’ May demanded. ‘Go back to doing night shifts?’
‘At least for the cremation.’
‘You can’t afford the flight.’
She was painfully aware of a stuttering in her chest. Was this what a broken heart felt like?
But May was right. In the end, she even cajoled Ava into attending the matriculation dinner.
‘As if I have anything to wear,’ Ava protested feebly.
‘As if I’d let you leave without it.’
And so she emerged the next day, blinking, as a clock chimed somewhere and the final rays of evening sun spiked the stained glass of the chapel opposite. She tugged at the fabric of May’s favourite dress, the skin-tight one with the black sequins, which May had stashed down the side of her suitcase. Making her way across the cobblestones to the dining hall, she felt raw and exposed.
The hall was dimly lit, the air thick and musty, as if unstirred for centuries. Candles glowed on crystal-laden tables, each set for four new graduates and one college fellow. Ava found her name card at a table under a carved crest with strange beasts reared up on their hind legs. Her tablemates were two women around her age, and a boy who looked no more than fifteen. The fellow’s seat was empty.
Before they could speak, a voice rang out. Ava didn’t see where it came from; only heard it say something in—presumably—Latin. The college provost was introduced, somebody called Colin with a string of surnames. They turned to take in the man standing at the front of the hall.
‘No doubt you’re wondering what a provost is,’ he said.
Ava was not: she was staring at him. It was as if her peripheral vision had fallen away.
‘Apparently it means I’m the boss around here, although sometimes I wonder about that myself.’
He smiled as scattered laughter broke out. Late thirties, medium height, draped in a black gown. During one of their many revolts against the establishment, Harry’s students had abolished the bat-like gowns worn at the other colleges, though fellows still donned them for formal occasions. Ava was transfixed. There was nothing showy about his looks. He was just sort of … clean, with a conspicuous aura of good health and self-composure. Clean-shaven, trim build, brown hair cut short and neat, thinning inoffensively at the temples. To Ava, he stood out as if haloed.
‘But enough about me. The focus tonight is on you, our new doctoral candidates, our next generation casting off. Think of all those who attended this very college before you: Salman Rushdie and E.M. Forster and Rupert Brooke, John Maynard Keynes and Alan Turing; Robert Walpole and half a dozen other prime ministers. Look around you. How will you change the world?’
There was a low murmuring as they glanced this way and that, some bashful, others cocky. Ava felt eyes upon her. Her scalp prickled.
‘That’s the pep talk part of my speech. But remember: the road ahead is arduous. Research is not easy. It’s not all breakthroughs and brilliant inventions. It’s chipping away, carving out a niche that feels incalculably small. The trick to a PhD is to take the project you have in mind, halve it, and halve it again. If you’re lucky, you’ll achieve half of what you’re left with.’
He spread his arms, gown fanning out dramatically like a preacher’s robes. ‘What do we want? Incremental progress! When do we want it? After an exhaustive review of the literature and a torturous process of trial and error! Let that be your rallying cry.’
Again there was laughter, a burst of applause, a few spontaneous whoops.
‘But for now, let us be merry—I see some of you need no encouragement—and enjoy our supper.’
And then Ava was holding her breath, because he was striding directly towards her. Closer and closer, until he reached her table and lowered himself into the empty seat.
Waiters appeared, dressed in crisp black and white, balancing plates up to their elbows. She recognised what might be a fig, a waft of balsamic vinegar.
‘Call me Colin,’ he said when they had receded. ‘Any other classicists here? No? Pity. It’s nice being provost—makes me feel vaguely powerful—but I do miss Aristotle. Now, introductions!’
Through her lashes Ava could see, or perhaps sense, the provost looking around the table, nodding companionably at each of them in turn.
‘To my right we have young Lennox—shall I do the honours? Lennox isn’t new to us; he’s been here at Harry’s since his undergraduate days. What were you, twelve? Nine years old? Goodness, time flies. In any case, Lenny here is one of our very finest mathematicians—’
‘One of?’ Lennox interjected sullenly.
‘—surely our very finest mathematician. Am I correct in thinking the rest of you are new faces?’
Expectantly, he looked straight at Ava. Somehow she managed to squeak out her name and department.
‘Ava,’ he repeated. ‘From avis. Latin for bird.’ There was a tiny gap between his two front teeth. He leant in and lowered his voice, as if sharing a secret. ‘Political science, you say. How serendipitous—I’ve a keen interest in politics myself.’
Ava felt lightheaded. She took a long sip of wine, feeling it warm her chest. Colin moved on to their tablemates. Then the waiters reappeared with the mains—ravioli with summer truffles on a sea of parmesan froth—and perhaps it was the wine, or grief, or the peculiar magic of the provost sat within arm’s reach, but the rest of the dinner passed in a blur of conversation of which she could later remember nothing.
As they finished the cheese course, he beamed around the table. ‘Now, don’t be strangers, you lot.’
‘Have you clocked on already?’
‘Oh.’ Ava looked at the electronic unit mounted beside the door to the poli sci wing. ‘I don’t—’
‘We’ll have to get you a code.’ This was Franziska, a postdoctoral researcher with a pierced septum and a pronounced German accent. It was the first official day of Ava’s PhD; she’d been offered compassionate leave, but work provided a welcome distraction. Mostly, she was surprised at how well she was functioning.
Franziska led her down a deserted corridor. In a hushed voice, she said, ‘So the office vibe has … changed.’
Ava nodded sympathetically. After her interview with Stanley Diederiks, there had been a long stretch of radio silence, broken eventually by a brusque email from one Professor Jennifer Pepper, who introduced herself as Stanley’s successor. Inventing data outright—Ava could hardly believe the details of his demise. But then, maybe she could. There was no such thing as a bad egg, Jim always used to say; just ones shaped by circumstances and their environment.
It wasn’t until she was literally waiting to board her flight from Sydney that, checking her emails on an airport computer, she received confirmation that the European Framework funding was intact. Stanley had been just one consortium partner among many. The relief Ava felt outstripped even the sadness evinced by his death. This probably made her a terrible person, but there it was.
Franziska ushered her into a small, brightly lit common area. Whiteboards hung from the walls, all featuring complicated scoring grids.
‘Impact factors, citation scores,’ Franziska said in a low voice. ‘Sarge found everything too subjective.’
