It's Only Temporary (2 page)

Looking around at my three rooms I started to feel a sense of dread, where would I go? Where could I put everything? My books and my records (I still steadfastly clung to listening to vinyl LP’s as opposed to the philistine creation of the CD), constituted the vast majority of my possession. They needed a room to themselves in order to be catalogued correctly.

Having made myself a cup of Earl Grey I started to feel a little more fortified, this slowly turned to indignation at the gross injustice of this decision. A decision that was not only detrimental to me as an individual but to the institute itself, losing someone of my calibre was the academic equivalent of self-destruction.

The realisation that I only had the remainder of the summer, six short weeks to secure myself another position
let alone just one week to locate suitable accommodation be it only on a temporary basis, spurred me into action.

Returning to my office I discovered the letter Robert had so kindly signed for. I l
ogged onto my computer and spent the morning updating my resume which, even if I said so myself, was pretty impressive.

My published papers
An exploration of the embalming of cats in the time of Erasmus II
and
Dental hygiene of eunuchs at the court of Ptolemy III explored,
had received wide spread critical academic acclaim befitting the important works that they were.

I sen
t it via e-mail to over thirty universities, including several in Europe and America which I knew delivered studies concerning ancient Egypt.

There was also the more pressing issue of having a roof over my head. I briefly considered that I could go and stay with my parents in
Devon. There is a book called “Men are from Mars and Women are from Venus”, in the case of my parents and I it was more like I was from Earth and they were from some form of parallel reality.

Their decision to “live an alternative lifestyle” was one that was inflicted on me as a child. As a nine year old I found that having my mother turn up to parents evenings in a Kaftan telling the teachers I was “Boring” seriously affected my desire to be associated with them.

I told my friends that my dad was a scientist working in the USA for NASA when in fact he sold wind chimes at car boot sales. My Mother was described as a “Pharmacologist”, she actually made varies types of herbal remedies and sold them alongside the wind chimes.

My adolescent rebellion was to work hard, pass my exams, not smoke drugs and wear sensible clothes. Things my parents never seemed to be able to manage, that along with acc
epting my normalness, or as my dad put it my “Capitalist Capitulation”.

I did see them once a year at Christmas, when I caught the train over on Christmas Eve and stayed until Boxing Day in which ever cottage they happened to be renting.

Currently they reported having “glorious views of nature” and a “pool”. Despite this, being constantly reminded of my innate failure to be a “Social Revolutionary” meant that two days exposure to them was my maximum. Staying with them would be a last resort.

I made an imp
romptu visit to see Trudy, the university accommodation officer. Trudy was a fifty something, chain smoking Cliff Richard fan with an approach to life that would have suited a concentration camp guard.

I settled in the chair opposite her desk and as the smoke cleared became aware that I was under scrutiny from several different angles.

Saint Cliff looked down on me from about twenty posters and pictures which were haphazardly located around the room. I considered that perhaps their placement may not have been as random as it initially seemed, no matter where you allowed your gaze to settle his face looked back at you. What was more disconcerting was that the Michael Angelo effect was in full force as each and every photo seemed to make eye contact with me. I even subtly moved my chair but Cliff’s steely gaze followed me.

‘Have you brought your keys Mark?’ she asked, eyeing me suspiciously over her latest cancer stick.

‘No, and its Marcus.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well because I need them obviously.’

‘Not for much longer.’

‘This is why I’m here.’

‘To tell me you’ve been given the bullet? I already know.’

‘What? Bullet? No! I actually have no idea what that expression means. I don’t speak housing officer I am afraid.’

The thought occurred to me that I was also suffering the ignominy of Trudy knowing about my predicament before I did.

‘I was hoping we could reach an agreement that could in effect, make this whole process a little more humane,’ I said.

‘I don’t take bribes.’

This was not going as well as I had hoped to be fair.

‘Of course not and I don’t offer them, I am hoping we can reach an accommodation about my………accommodation. So to speak.’ I said.

‘I have no idea what that means.’

This was the problem when dealing with those of lesser intellect; it required communicating in something other than English.

‘Sorry, what I meant to say was I am here to appeal to your humanity and ask if I can be granted a stay of execution?’

Realising she would probably take this literally I added, ‘By way of allowing me more time to source other lodgings.’

‘I don’t have any,’ she said.

‘Any what?’

‘Either of them.’

I suddenly recalled why I had avoided contact with this person for the past twelve years. She was obviously mentally incapacitated in some way.

‘Either of what?’

‘Humanity or alternate lodgings. I need your place by next Monday, so you need to be out by Friday to allow the cleaner in over the weekend to sort it for the new bloke.’

‘What new bloke?’

‘The guy who is going to be teaching Business Studies, popular course apparently. He’s moving in on Monday.
’

‘I had hoped for more time,’ I said.

She took a long drag on her cigarette and as she exhaled the cloud of smoke she said, ‘Look Mark, I know this is difficult for you.’

Somewhat of an understatement I felt, but probably not the time to mention it.

‘So I’ll do what I can to help.’

My heart soared, at last a break through. This heinous woman was going to prove to be my saviour.

‘You can keep your stuff in boxes in the store room until you are sorted. Oh yeah, I’ll call the housing people at the council and tell them you are a special case.’

‘What does that mean?’ I asked.

‘Basically that you are a prat who got himself sacked and is going to be homeless.’

‘I see.’

‘Don’t mention it. Least I could do.’

It was indeed.

I had no intention of contacting the housing office but asked Trudy where it was out of politeness. She told me to ask for Sharon at the “Destitute and Desperate” desk, I was not sure if she was joking.

Back in my office I once again logged on in the hope that my email inbox would contain a reply from someone who had seen the glorious opportunity to have me on their staff, after all it had been at least forty five minutes since I sent out my resume. It was empty.

I began to search online for rented accommodation, eventually settling on the imaginatively titled “Flats4U.com”, selecting the “London” then “Three Rooms” options I began to search for my next abode.

Almost immediately I found one, as it was situated only a few miles from the campus it appeared to meet all my needs. The advert stated a price of four thousand, seven hundred pounds. I assumed this was an annual figure and that it was potentially negotiable as the landlord helpfully suggested PCM. “Please contact me”, to discuss this further it seemed. There was a clear statement that a deposit equivalent of a month’s rent would be required.

I calculated that this would be approximately three hundred and ninety one pounds. This could potentially cause me a slight difficulty as I had spent every penny I had on my summer trip to Egypt. My account currently showed a balance of two pounds seventeen pence. However PCM was an open invite to negotiate this and assure the landlord of my qualities as prospective tenant.

Mother of God! What are you supposed to do, sell a kidney? PCM apparently stood for per calendar month so the young man at the letting agents informed me. As the rent was payable in advance I would have needed nine thousand four hundred pounds to be able to move in.

I looked at several other properties that were in less salubrious areas but there was nothing I could even remotely afford. A sense of hopelessness descended over me and I realised I really only had two options, my parents or the housing office.

I rationalised it was a case of better the devil you know than the one you don’t and with an air of despondency I called my parents, my mother answered on the fourth ring.

‘Hello luscious Linda here, what can I do you for?’

Oh kill me now, I thought to myself.

‘Hello Mother, its Marcus.’

‘Marky! Quick Rob
, its Marky on the phone!’

She had always called me “Marky” and I had always detested it, at least they did not christen me that. I could hear my father in the back ground telling her to hang on.

‘Marky, I am putting you on speaker phone so your dad can join in.’

‘Hey Big Mac! How’s it hanging son?’

I was regretting this decision already.

‘Hi Dad.’

‘So Son, to what do we owe the honour?’ my dad continued. He only ever called, me “Son” when he was feeling fatherly. The rest of the time it was “Pal”, “Mate”, “Dude” or the Cringe worthy “Big Mac”.

‘Actually I have a bit of a problem.’

‘Yeah? What’s up?’

‘I was wondering if I could come and stay with you for a bit?’

There was a pause; it was my mother who broke the silence.

‘But it’s the summer Marky. You never visit us in the summer.’

‘I know, but I am in a bit of difficulty and was hoping you could put me up?’

‘For how long mate? m
y dad asked.

Before I could respond I heard my m
other say ‘It’s the
Summer
Rob!’

‘I hope for no longer than six weeks. I am happy to sleep on the sofa.’

‘Erm, you see pal the thing is we are not in a cottage. We tend to stay on a campsite during the summer, with the van.’

“The Van” was my dad’s pride and joy, a VW Camper that was older than I was. He had restored it from the ground up and I had to admit it was in excellent condition.

‘Oh, I see. Is there an awning or something?’

‘No I am afraid not,’ my mother answered a little too quickly. ‘I am sorry love it just isn’t convenient at the minute.’

Convenient? Neither was being unemployed and homeless.

‘Is something amiss in the land of the pyramids Son?’ my dad asked.

‘No Dad, everything is fine. Nothing to worry about.’

There was a pause.

‘Listen Son if you are really stuck.’

My mother cut him off, she as trying to muffle her voice and I could imagine her with her hand over her mouth.

‘Not during the summer Rob! He won’t like it?’

‘It’s ok Dad. I will speak to you soon.’

‘Alright, bye Son,’ although he sounded far from alright.

‘Byeee Marky. Love you!’

Not enough to have let me interfere with your summer though, I thought.

‘Bye Mother, love you too.’

The housing office was the most depressing building I had ever seen in my entire life, a monstrosity of dirty grey concrete that was straight out of some Orwellian nightmare.

With some trepidation I entered and was surprised to see that the interior was a stark contrast to the exterior. Outside the building was imposing and intimidating, inside it was simply horrible. The furniture was a uniform purple colour, the carpet was blue, the walls yellow and the staff were dressed in black business attire as if they were in mourning. This seemed to be appropriate in relation to the despondency you felt upon entering.

A very large security guard with a badge that told me his name was Carlos and he was here to help approached me.

‘Afternoon,’ he said.

‘Actually the expression is “Good Afternoon” I think you will find. I assume you were greeting me? Otherwise you are simply pointing out that it is in fact past midday.’

‘Do you have an appointment?’ he asked his features slightly less than welcoming now.

‘I don’t know.’

He paused just long enough for me to deduce he had already formed the opinion that he was dealing with yet another idiot.

‘I was told to ask for Sharon,’ I offered.

‘Ah
, so you do have an appointment, which desk is she on?’

‘Destitute and Desperate,’ I said.

He laughed, ‘That’s funny mate, good one. Follow me.’

Glad to be back in his good books I followed Carlos to a small waiting area, where I sat myself on one of the hideous chairs.