The Lychgate Read online

  “Excellent.” Wallace slammed a flat hand on his desk. “That’s the spirit, Bob. Now here’s how we take it to the next level.”

  Bob raised one slow eyebrow. “The next level?”

  Judy Crane scribbled some notes on a pad and peered over the top of thick-rimmed glasses that did little to enhance her frumpy appearance. “I’ve been going over your course materials and teaching notes.”

  Bob flushed and sucked in his cheeks. “You’ve been what?”

  Wallace raised both hands to halt the discussion, then formed them into a T shape. “Now now, people. Time. Let’s walk this out with baby steps. Bob, we want to take a more proactive approach towards inclusivity.”

  The historian’s face darkened. “Who’s ‘we,’ Wallace?”

  The Dean beamed. “Well everyone. Who wouldn’t? It’s not like we’re living in the past, right? Though I realise ‘the past’ is your domain.”

  Bob remained silent, so the senior administrator went on. “I’ve empowered Judy to dig into the curriculum and teaching notes of every staff member, whether sessional or full-time. We’ve addressed diversity in campus life before, but have we addressed it in our actual delivery methods and materials?” He twisted to regard the woman. “Judy?”

  The woman’s face remained passive and unemotional. “No, you haven’t.”

  Wallace snapped his fingers. His sickening, fake smile grated on Bob’s nerves. “You see, Bob? We haven’t. Now, I know how busy the faculty are. You people don’t have time to go through all your work with a fine-toothed comb. Especially not to reflect on it in light of current thinking and inclusive best practise, do you?”

  Bob shook his head.

  Wallace motioned to Judy. “So this is where our Diversity Director comes in. She will assess everything, and I mean everything you do. Your notes, exercises, handouts, delivery style, language and posture - the works.”

  Bob frowned. “Posture?”

  Judy leaned across the desk. “Well look at you right now. You’re man-spreading.”

  The historian inhaled a sharp, audible breath to calm his fraying nerves. “Would you like to borrow my testicles and see how you sit with them?”

  Judy was about to launch back, when Wallace stuck out a straight arm. “Please, children. Play nice.” He wagged a finger. “Bob, that’s not a professional comment, is it?”

  At that moment, Bob wanted to stuff a professional comment up the patronising bastard’s backside and launch him out the top window. He turned to Judy Crane. “So what have you found while examining my notes?”

  She reached into a binder and pulled out a printed A4 illustration. “Well here’s a starter. Take a look at this.”

  Bob grabbed the picture. He recognised it straight away. It was an artist’s impression of a Viking raiding party coming ashore, ready to plunder. He shrugged. “It’s a picture. Rather a good one. Thanks to archaeology and technology surrounding facial and torso rebuilds, plus genetics and so on, we have the best idea possible about the Vikings’ appearance. The artist has taken a few liberties with their jewellery - some of that is ceremonial and wouldn’t have been worn during a raid - but otherwise it’s a good depiction.”

  Judy’s eyes bulged. “But look at them.”

  Bob cast another quick glance across the picture. “I’m sorry, I must be missing something.”

  The woman gave a gasp somewhere between a cough and a sob. “They’re all white.”

  The historian shrugged. “That’ll happen when you’re part of a strong, homogeneous racial culture that’s lived in temperate northern Europe for thousands of years, yeah.”

  Judy folded her hands. “How would you feel if you saw a picture like that as a university student, and you came from an ethnic minority background? Would you feel included or excluded?”

  Bob blinked. “Are you serious? I imagine I’d be delighted my ancestors were never around here to meet or join the Vikings. What are you getting at?”

  Wallace opened a thick file on his desk. “Let’s back up here a moment before we get into the meat of all that. Do you remember Sophie Jenkins, Bob?”

  The historian grunted. “How could I forget? She wasted two weeks and I don’t know how many man hours-”

  “Person hours,” Judy interrupted to correct.

  Bob paused then continued. “With her bogus allegations that I was some kind of misogynist in the courses I taught her. When Henry Blakeston found in my favour, she left in protest for another uni. Why?”

  Judy adjusted her pantsuit. “Sophie is my daughter.”

  Bob regarded her with a deadpan expression. “I thought your name was Crane?”

  “Sophie hasn’t had time to drop her father’s surname, with all her studies. My husband left us not long ago.”

  Every fibre of Bob’s being wanted to shout ‘I can’t imagine why,’ but he resisted the urge. Besides, the reality of his own marital abandonment (of which this woman was undoubtedly aware) would dull the blade of his sarcastic comeback. “What has her complaint and the resulting investigation got to do with my current teaching? Wallace, you’ve got Henry’s findings in that file, I assume?”

  “I have. The thing of it is though, Bob, it’s one example of how a young mind’s perception of your teaching methods drove her away from this university. Potentially from her learning journey, were it not for her mother’s intervention.”

  “My teaching methods? Oh Jesus. She got a bee in her bonnet when I shot down her suggestion there were cohorts of female Anglo-Saxon warriors, going into battle with the men. Claimed I was propagating some institutional, patriarchal conspiracy against women. For goodness’ sake, if her nonsense were true I’d teach it. We’d covered Boudica in an earlier course component, if you want to talk about strong female warriors. I don’t care what genders went into battle, nor what colour they were.” He flicked the Viking illustration with a rough hand. “I’m a historian. I deal in facts that help us understand the past. Facts, Wallace. They’re not reflections of my attitudes about things today. I’m no misogynist. I don’t even hate my ex-wife, for God’s sake; though I’ve justifiable cause.” His nostrils flared like a straining horse.

  The Dean’s face evened out, his sickly smile a distant memory now. “Perhaps you’re too close to your material, Bob? You know: too attached. Tunnel vision. Can’t see the wood for the trees. That’s why I want Judy to ease the burden and help you refine your work. Together you can smooth the road of history teaching for the next generation of learners. Doesn’t that sound good? We’re an inclusive and progressive educational establishment. Our delivery paradigms should reflect that enlightened commitment.”

  Bob’s jaw tightened. If this cretin uses another fucking buzzword, I'll break his bloody nose. “Wallace. History is history.”

  Judy clicked the end of her pen to halt him. “But what you’re teaching is so repulsive.”

  Bob rubbed his eyes and fought against a sneer. “I should hope it is. That shows humanity has moved forward in at least a few areas. Listen, you can’t take some liberal, PC, flavour-of-the-moment orthodoxy and use it to-rewrite history as you’d like it to be, or wish it was. We grow and appreciate change and our positive strides in the human story, when we understand how we got to where we are now. If you teach falsehoods, you steal that from your students. Let them learn about and understand the past as it was, then they can be grateful for the present. Maybe they’ll build a better future.” Bob folded his hands, semi-satisfied with an impromptu speech he never intended to deliver.

  Wallace tapped and stroked the file on his desk. “Okay, Bob. Would you wait outside for a few minutes, while Judy and I discuss one or two things?”

  * * *

  “There he is.” A set of brilliant white teeth shone out in stark contrast to the rich, mocha skin of their owner. His smile echoed in two bright, intelligent eyes beneath a hi-top fade of thick, black hair.

  Bob Mason turned from packing a final few items from his desk into a sturdy cardboard box.
His creased brow softened upon the interruption from his faculty peer, Ndola Mwangi. It didn’t matter how much of the proverbial brown stuff hit the fan, this English professor of Kenyan extraction had an infectious smile Bob couldn’t resist. “How was the course and follow-on conference?”

  Ndola crossed the threshold of an otherwise empty office to join his friend. “Very good. But then I come back to find you’re leaving the university. Not to mention the most extreme rumours circulating campus about you.”

  Bob pushed the box aside and perched on the edge of his old desk. “You mean that I’m a racist, misogynist, xenophobe who’s been kicked out for my fascist beliefs?”

  Ndola clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Something like that. The scuttlebutt is pretty wild. I’m surprised not to find you applying boot polish to your face and launching into an Al Jolson routine.”

  Bob laughed at the insanity of it all. “So much for ‘Business in Confidence.’ I’ve a fair idea how those suggestions got leaked.”

  “That would be our new Diversity Director, then?”

  “Have you met her?”

  “I just got out of a meeting with Judy Crane and Wallace Simons. Now the crazy stories make sense. Let me guess: she wanted to re-write history in accordance with her year zero?”

  Bob folded his arms. “You got it. Thought I’d put forward a good case in defence of rationality. Wallace asked me to step outside. When I came back in, the ultimatum they offered made my position untenable. Dare I ask what’s happening to your English material?”

  Ndola pursed his lips. “I’m not too sure about changing Shakespeare to ‘Romeo and Julian’ so gay and transgender students feel included.”

  Bob’s mouth dropped open. “You’re kidding?”

  The African winked. “Yeah, I am. I wanted to see the look on your face when I said it.”

  Bob punched the man’s upper arm with a playful fist. “Git.”

  Ndola positioned himself next to the historian on his desk. “Do you know they actually did that in an East London school?”

  “When?”

  “Ten years ago. It made the papers.” He got up again with renewed agency and paced around the room. “Judy Crane will look through all my work and assess my teaching style. Then we’ll see.”

  Bob wanted to spit. “You know she doesn’t hold a single, formal teaching qualification, right? I bet the woman thinks Didactic Delivery is a courier firm.”

  Ndola snickered. “Joker.” He licked his lips. “It’s a worrying development. I must have been asleep.”

  “How’s that?”

  “At what point did Eric Arthur Blair go from being a novelist to the prophet of our age?”

  Bob frowned. “Who’s Eric Arthur Blair?”

  “Ah. You might know him by his popular pen name: George Orwell.”

  “Okay, now I’m on board. It’s crazy. The road to hell paved with good intentions. This whole PC nonsense has become a self-serving, fanatical religion.”

  “Mmm.” That thoughtful sound rumbled deep in the English lecturer’s throat. “And God help the heretics. Now we have disagreements between the various protected classes of diversity, because they don’t like certain other protected classes. Somebody has to decide whose rights are more protected than others.”

  “Ouroboros.”

  Ndola paused in his circuit. “Huh?”

  “Ouroboros - the serpent that eats its own tail. An ancient symbol, common in Egypt and Greece.”

  “I see. Trust you to assign a historical metaphor to it, old friend. Do you need help carrying this stuff to your car?”

  “My car’s in the body shop. I’m waiting for a taxi.”

  “You crashed your Land Rover too?”

  “No, I came out of class while working my notice period, to find some moron had painted swastikas on all the door panels. It’s in for a re-spray.”

  Ndola frowned. “Did you speak with Security? The car park has CCTV.”

  “That’s the funny thing. I went straight round there, and it was all: ‘Yes Dr Mason. That won’t be a problem. Come back tomorrow and we’ll have the footage for you.’ Next day their reception was chillier. They claimed not to have anything caught on record.”

  “This is so wrong. What are you going to do now?”

  Bob threw up his hands. “I dunno. Don’t think I can stomach another job in Higher Indoctrination - whoops, I mean Education - if it’s all going this way. God help us if some of the young people graduating from these institutions ever breed. The nation’s screwed.”

  Ndola winced. “What about working as a museum curator? Historical accuracy is the name of the game there.”

  “Way ahead of you. Internet recruitment sites aren’t bursting with opportunities. People get those positions through connections and keep them for life. Can’t say I blame them. I’d do the same if the situation presented itself.”

  “Are you okay for money?”

  Bob made eye contact with him. “I reckon you’d put your hand in your own pocket to help if I asked, wouldn’t you?”

  Ndola shrugged. “How many years have we been friends? Of course. Amelia is always asking when you’re coming round to dinner again. We don’t see enough of you since Janice left.”

  “I miss Amelia’s cooking. How’s Durah?”

  “Every ounce a teenager and all that goes with it. She’s driving us both nuts.”

  Bob grinned and went to lift his box.

  Ndola reached for it. “Pick up your bag. I’ve got this.”

  “Thanks, Man.”

  “So, what about the finances?”

  “I’m fine. Still got some of my share from the equity on our old house, after Janice and I split. It’ll cover rent while I re-group, even if it won’t buy a property. I’m no spring chicken, though. Won’t lie to you, Ndola, I’m worried. What does a forty-eight-year-old historian do for a living outside of academia? Stack shelves in a supermarket? Sell DIY supplies? It’s not the most transferable set of skills.”

  “I wish I had an answer for you, my friend. Something will come along.”

  Bob shook the cloak of depression from his shoulders and grabbed his bag. A sly smile spread up one side of his face. “Wonder if they need a Diversity Director anywhere?”

  The rich, fruity bass notes of the Kenyan’s laugh followed him down the hallway.

  * * *

  Bob drove in aimless patterns across the fenland landscape after collecting his Land Rover. Like the historian’s onward career path, there was no planned destination or strategy to the journey. A sign for Crowland flashed past on his left. His repainted vehicle slipped through the quiet streets, turning here and there. At the odd-shaped Trinity Bridge, he followed East Street round past the abbey. A sign at the community hub and library announced ‘Off-grid Community Living Presentation Tonight.’ Bob needed something else to do, or he might drive around in circles until sunrise. He signalled right and pulled into the compact car park at the northern end of the structure.

  There were still a couple of seats available in the back, when he entered. A family comprising a husband, wife and teenage son, were accompanied by a man and woman each in their early thirties at the front of the room. The woman stood up to speak and Bob settled down to listen.

  An hour later, he’d heard the story of how this curious group banded together as down-shifters on a rural site not far away. The woman - Constance Creek (an attractive, round-faced lady with big, brown eyes and a short chin) - had an almost evangelical zeal for getting away from the modern world. At that moment, Bob couldn’t deny the appeal of such an idea. The curls of her bouncy, side-parted brown hair jiggled with every nuance of enthusiasm in her voice. The threesome family were once mixed livestock and arable farmers, driven to the point of bankruptcy by impossible profit margins. They’d packed it all in, starting a new life in small-scale, non-commercial farming. One that would progress towards a goal of near self-sufficiency. The other guy was a thatcher who still took the odd gi
g in his old business for extra cash. He'd simplified his life and reduced outgoing expenses by joining the group. A logical skill set for their recently completed, major first project: a thatched barn.

  The audience were invited to ask questions. An array of hands shot up.

  One woman stretched her arm higher than others. “Constance, do you miss the comforts of the modern world?”

  The presenter didn’t have to think. “You have to weigh your answer to a question like that with its associated cost. When I performed a soul-less, corporate job, it felt like I was shovelling excrement all day. I hated it. Now I actually DO shovel excrement from our communal toilets, but I’ve never been happier. Would I enjoy a flushing toilet, electric light and hair straighteners?” She pulled at her curls to a ripple of laughter. “There are certain days when that might be nice. Yeah. But then I see the produce grown from our own manure, and life takes on a completeness it never had before.”

  A man to Bob’s right jumped in. “Isn’t it dangerous using human waste to grow crops?”

  Constance wasn’t fazed. “Not if you observe some simple rules. The first year after ‘production’ of the waste," (more polite laughter) “you can only use it for stuff that grows above ground. So, no root veg. After that the risk drops and it's a cheap and effective source of fertiliser. It might surprise you to learn it’s sold to commercial farms as ‘sludge,’ with the backing of our government. You can buy cereals and other products grown using human sewage from several major outlets. Some companies avoid it, and the sewage used has been treated. Ours isn’t, but we don’t sell the produce on. It’s for our own consumption. The practise was common for centuries, without major issues. Everyone who joins us at Deeping Drove, does so knowing that their new life could be both uncomfortable and unpleasant. There are some risks, but the benefits outweigh them. Let me ask you this: have you ever eaten a supermarket ready-meal?”

  The man nodded.

  Constance opened both her hands out with the palms facing upward. “Then I’d say you’re in greater danger of long-term health complications than we are. Take one down to your local laboratory and ask them to test it. When the results come back, I put it to you that our ‘poop produce’ will sound rather appetising.”