AMP: Artists' Meeting Place and Resource Collective

For earlier Chapters and an explanation of this dreadful story, see blog: The Cardiff Grandma. WARNING: This novel contains fake Welsh.
In the previous episode – Samantha Panther, ace reporter, meets a lacivious old Bangladeshi in -- Luxembourg.

The Cardiff Grandma Chapter 20
‘Colleagues, lady, gentlemen… it has come to my attention that My…sorry, I mean The… University is not maximizing itself to the maximum,’ the Vice Chancellor was a clumsy public speaker at the best of times. He continued, ‘This is not good enough!’ he demanded, pounding his fist on the hardwood table as he spoke.

‘This institution was founded on lies, deceit, double-dealing and intimidation.’ There was a murmuring of agreement from the assembled individuals gathered at the assembly. This was nothing new. The Vice-chancellor was a formidable figure at the worst of times. To actively disagree with anything that he said would undoubtedly lead to what would, in some circles, be described be described as ‘consequences’. In other circles, such as legal or medical ones, the same thing was more often described as ‘violent assault against the person’.

‘Far too long now we have not been exploiting the full range of European grants, funds and bursaries available. At the same time we have failed to exploit of most pliable asset – the students!’ This was news to all present – they’d been working hard at exploiting students for years now. What use a postgraduate if not to do all your academic leg-work only for you to steal all the glory and acclaim?

The Vice-chancellor had called the extremely extraordinary extra special general meeting to discuss a few key matters with his staff. This was a semi-regular state of affairs and tended to happen two or five times a month above average.

‘The students don’t come here for an education. They don’t come to learn things and acquire knowledge. We should not be wasting the time we spend wasting their time by trying to teach them things!’ For a Vice-chancellor he often lamented his generally poor vocabulary. If only he knew other ways of saying ‘wasting time’ he’d not sound such a twit – he thought to himself. His mind then began, as it prone to do at times, to wander: Just what other ways are there of saying ‘paraphrase’? His daydreaming was terminated by the barking of a dog in the street outside the luxurious, paneled university boardroom.

‘Where was I?’ he demanded in his strictest schoolmaster voice. ‘WELL?’

‘Err… ‘wasting time’ Vice-chancellor’ offered one of the seated, suited attendees.

‘Exploiting students’ offered another.

‘Yes! Of course. Students come here for one thing and one thing only…’ his mind had wandered again. This time it had wandered out of the room, through the foyer and down to the staff canteen where it enjoyed a quick coffee and flipped through the papers before sauntering back to the boardroom once more. The gathered assorted departmental heads, school directors and faculty chiefs were all to used to this sort of thing. They waited patiently.

‘Now, is there any other business?’

Nobody dared speak… almost nobody anyway.

‘Goo…’ began the Vice-chancellor and then stopped mid-word when he caught sight of a tentatively raised arm. The unvoiced, alveolar plosive ‘d’ was halted before it could complete the word. A grey-haired person at the far left end of the unfeasibly long table had cleared his or her throat and slowly raised his or her right arm. ‘I, I..’

‘YES?’ bellowed the vice-chancellor.

‘err, I’m Dr Smithy’, the person forged on, ‘…from the department of experimental quadology -- In the school of Physics, Planning and Modern Foreign Languages(?)’ Smithy offered, ending with a rising intonation that could easily have been mistaken for a question. The Vice-chancellor stared at him. Offended at the lack of response to his statement? Smithy added ironly, ‘Department of Language, Art, Design and Dentistry?’

‘Yes, man! Or woman! Well… what is it?’

‘An adverb of manner indicating a positive appraisal of -- but never mind that now.’ Tempering the audacity of the question with ellipses, Smithy went on. ‘It was just…just the issue of mergers. I mean… I mean can you tell me…tell us, err, whether there is likely to be further departmental mergers … only, it’s just that…you see we…uh…well I…as senior lecturer of the Gecko-Roman Foreign Dentistry programme, I –’

‘- Greco-Roman’ the Vice interjected in ringing tones.

‘No, Gecko-Roman. Gecko is very hot now in Italian design. Gecko handbags, Gecko belts, Gecko shoes… And who buys most of these?’ In his or her mind’s eye, Dr Smithy was pulling a laser pointer out of his or her suit pocket, aiming at a chart ⁄ ‘Roman dentists. Foreigners, in fact.’

Did Dr Smithy imagine it or did the Vice stiffen imperceptibly? He or she must have imagined it because it was imperceptible. Therefore, the Vice had not stiffened. Stiffening perceptibly would have been out of the question.

‘I certainly hope that is not TRUE Doctor!’ Sparks flew from the Vice’s eyes as he hammered his fist down in front of Smithy, shooing a horsefly that had been in the vicinity.

‘Of course not, no, never, Vice-chancellor. It’s all founded on forged data.’

‘It had better be. And next time – ‘ the Vice’s eyes glittered like tongs – ‘don’t bother with data.’

He whirled round to face the other so-called professionals. ‘Any other questions? Baker? Wainwright? Fletcher? Taylor? Sawyer? Mason? Miller? Thatcher? Pinesniffer? No? This meeting is now closed. You may all go back to your work. Except for you, Schumacher.’

The Vice glowered unwaveringly at the gimlet-eyed man in the fancy double-breasted sleeves, but Schumacher outlasted him. The Vice-chancellor blinked, but what did that matter? He was still the Vice-chancellor. And if he had his way, he’d soon be The King. The only thing standing in his way were two future corpses, that liar Smithy who’d lied about lying and Schumacher, the jumped up ambulance-chaser with his shiny leather briefs. Schumacher…Grandma never should have taken him on board, should have let him race after them, nipping at the tyres as they sped away with the siren blaring. There was no place in that Awful Business‚ for lawyers and their weakness for fancy footworks… Schumacher… Schumacher… Schumacher, weary of waiting for his name to be spoken aloud, turned on his heel and left, then right, then right again. It wouldn’t be wise to leave by the main entrance. He leapt into a maintenance closet, fortuitously knocking a sleeping maintenance worker unconscious in the process. Thinking quickly, Schumacher switched his conspicuous garb for the uniform of the worker, and somewhat reluctantly trading in his shiny black leather briefcase for the worker’s accessories he went out, opening the door carefully before him.

No one noticed the gimlet-eyed woman with the twelve o’ clock shadow and crooked seams sticking out of her apron climbing the elevator up to the main exit+ on the third floor. Like all maintenance workers, she was invisible with her mop and her battered suitcase. A short time later, stopping at the Dog and Sledgehammer on the way home, Schumacher allowed himself a small smirk. Bringing it to his lips, Schumacher polished it off in a single gulp and leaving the mop and the battered suitcase behind him, their purpose served, he departed through the open door.

Once back at home, Schumacher divested himself of the uniform, flinging it over a chair. He noticed for the first time the nametag pinned on it. It said Mrs. Ddwwchllyff. Schumacher froze: that had been the Vice-chancellor’s voice.