14. University

Graham is suspended, and has to fight for his place at Wessex University.

Dear Subscriber,

All things come to and end. But I didn’t think it would end like this. 

When I applied to come to Wessex University, I had a clear idea of what my first year would look like. I have spent half my life imagining freshers week, libraries, coffee bars, pubs, lecture theatres – the whole lot. And at the end of it all would be the exams. In my daydreams they start far away, like a distant drumbeat. Slowly, they creep closer in a flurry of revision. And finally they’re upon us. To war. And then the relief, the camaraderie, the elation of finishing. All eyes on summer, as we bounce out of exam hall. 

Safe to say, the ending I’ve actually been given isn’t remotely how I’d imagined it. 

But, I guess if I’ve learned one thing this year, it’s that life so often doesn’t turn out as you’d expect. 

Arbitration Station 

It’s said that after a car accident – after the noise – there’s often an eerie silence (I wouldn’t know, my Volvo never let me down, but I know the concept). 

Well, the days after I’d learnt about my suspension were a bit like that too. Everything felt weirdly silent. I read, re-read, re-re-read the email, but that was all that I had. I didn’t know what it meant, why it had happened or what I was supposed to do next. 

In the end, after a few days shell shock – moping around in my batman onesie and eating only bran flakes – I decided to take matters into my own hands. And by that, I mean I went to student services to ask someone else for help.

After explaining the situation, I quickly found myself in front of a Student Arbitrator – which sounded quite fancy, but was just a slightly sappy looking man with a lanyard and nervous laugh. 

Student Arbitrator: So, you have been suspended from the University. (Hehehe)

Me: Yes, I know that. What does that mean?

Student Arbitrator: That you’ve been suspended. (Hehehe) From the university. 

Me: Yeah, I know… I… what happens now. 

Student Arbitrator: Not much. You’re not allowed to participate in any university things. Or anything really. (Hehehehe)

Me: And then what?

Student Arbitrator: Well (hehehe) you can appeal the decision. 

Me: Yes, I know. The email says that 

Student Arbitrator: Ah, great stuff. (hehehe) Why are you here then? 

Me: Because I want to know what happens next! 

Student Arbitrator: You should’ve said! (hehehe) Basically, it will go to a tribunal. You will have the reasons for suspension put to you, and (hehehe) you can answer the points there – you will need someone to act as your counsel. Normally that would be a student arbitrator, like me. (hehehe) 

Me: Right. Can you do it then? 

Student Arbitrator: If you ask nicely. (hehehe) 

He explained (hehehe) that according to the information he could see, my suspension was on the grounds of conduct. 

Student Arbitrator: Do you have any idea why you might be suspended? 

Me: Yes and no.

Student Arbitrator: It’s one or the other! (hehehe)

Me: (trying not to thump him)

Student Arbitrator: (Hehehe) Look, if you think you’ll win… you should appeal! 

Hehehehehehehehehehehehehehe. Not. 

Doctor, doctor, give me the news 

My flat was empty. This wasn’t unusual these days – the flatmates were frantically preparing for exams, which largely meant long stretches in the library coffee shop punctuated by frantic cramming sprints. I should be preparing for exams too, but even if I revised really hard, I wouldn’t currently be allowed to take them. So I couldn’t really see the point.

Now that the weather was looking a bit brighter, the empty flat seemed airier. I rather liked it, really. It reminded me of that first weekend of the year, when I’d moved myself, and my small amount of stuff in to Galton Hall. And then I’d tried to move out again. 

With the Student Arbitrator (hehehe)’s words spinning through my mind, I went to get some proper advice. And there was only one person I could go to. 

Dr Sarah: Graham. How do you know where I live? Oh whatever, come in. 

Sarah’s house was like something from one of my academic daydreams. Not only were all the walls covered in books, but many of the floors were too. In her cosy little kitchen, we sat at her scrubbed wood table as Sarah made me a much needed cup of tea, while her partner Alice (very much back on the scene, thank the heavens!) listened to Radio 4 in the conservatory. 

Dr Sarah: I’d heard already, by the way. The suspension.

Me: Oh. How come? 

Dr Sarah: Well, when you missed my seminar on Kafka, I thought something was up. So I did a bit of digging. 

Me: You probably know more than me! 

Dr Sarah: I like to think that, generally, I know more than you Graham. 

We sipped our mugs of tea, neither of us acknowledging the strangeness of the situation. Me, in Dr. Sarah’s home – First Term Graham would’ve loved to know he’d end up hanging out with an academic at their house, but not under such desperate circumstances. 

Dr. Sarah: So, what’re you going to do? 

Me: I was hoping you’d tell me that. 

Dr. Sarah: I’m your tutor, not your boss. 

I took a big sip of tea – it was just the right temperature now – and mulled it over. And then, slowly, carefully, I spoke. 

Me: Sarah, I don’t think I’m going to appeal. 

Dr Sarah: What?! 

Me: I think I’m done. 

Dr Sarah: But you’ll miss your exams. You’ll fail the year. 

It was all such an effort, I explained. All I’d ever wanted since arriving at Uni was to fit in, to get on, to have a normal time, a typical experience. And every day was such an incredible effort. Smiling through the confused looks, politely answering the “why are you here?” questions, pretending I didn’t notice the eye rolls when I spoke in class. And every time it felt like I’d found my people, or found my place – the flatmates, the newspaper, Linda – it all seemed to fall apart as quickly as it had come together. Why would I fight the decision, when I didn’t know what I was fighting for? 

Dr Sarah: Graham, I can’t let you do that. 

Me: Sarah, I’m suspended. You can’t tell me what to do. You’re technically not my tutor. 

Dr Sarah: Well if I’m not your tutor, I can be your friend.

Me: (blushing) 

Dr Sarah: And as your friend, I’m telling you: you’re being a dick. 

Me: But I’m not sure anyone really wants me to stay. 

Sarah took her thick glasses off and rubbed her face in exasperation. She rocked back in her chair, looking as exhausted as I felt. 

Sarah: Graham, I have to be honest when I first met you I wasn’t sure if I would like having you in my class. And actually there have been plenty of times since when I haven’t been sure if I have liked it.

Me: You’re not filling me with confidence. 

Sarah: But have any of my other students have taught me as much? Academically speaking, maybe. But personally? Nah. 

Me: Well, that’s… that’s… 

Sarah: So I’m basically asking you. Maybe even begging you. You’re appealing this decision. I’ll send the bloody email for you, if I have to. I’d do anything. 

Well, that was certainly something to chew on. Just before I left Sarah’s, I asked her how things were with Alice (well, I mouthed it, as Alice was close at hand). She told me – via hand gestures – that everything was fine, things were much better now. 

Sarah: Thanks, Graham. For asking. I appreciate it.

Me: What friends do, I guess.

Decision time 

I made my way back to campus, and made for Galton Hall, desperate to flop on my bed and just pretend all of this wasn’t happening (the same thing I’d been doing for the previous three days, to be honest.)

When my key card didn’t work for the main door, I thought it was unusual. (So, I blagged my way in)

When my key card didn’t work for my flat’s door, I thought that there might be some kind of maintenance problem. (Morgana let me in)

And when my key card didn’t work for my door – the door to my room – I realised I’d been removed. 

My whole world was in that little room. Everything I currently owned, everything I liked or had chosen for myself, or had been bought as a gift. And now, I was unable to get in, to get to the place where I had started to feel like I could hang my hat.

It’s perverse, I only realised I had a home to lose when I’d lost it.

Sarah, again. 

Needs must, I told myself. So, back I went to Sarah’s.  

Me: Hello! 

Sarah: Oh. Back again. 

Me: I sent the email. 

Sarah: Right. Great. So what are you doing here? 

Me: You know how you said you’d do anything to get me to appeal? I sort of need… somewhere to live…

T Day

With a grim, grumbling inevitability, the day of the tribunal arrived. Now, look, I’m sure when we all imagine our day in court, we think of ourselves in our finery, well-prepared and feeling ready. Our day in court has a kind of linguistic echo of our day out and both are full of a 1950s suburban cheeriness, what a lovely day we had the day we went to Bangor, fish and chips, paddling, sunburn. Well, it wasn’t remotely similar.

Given I’d been locked out of my room – and had no access to my already-scant wardrobe – I had to ask Dr. Sarah and Alice for help with a tribunal-ready outfit. After many futile attempts to get into a pair of Alice’s denim dungarees, we settled on the only item of clothing Dr. Sarah had that was smart enough and could actually fit me: an academic gown. Dress for the outcome you want, not the outcome you expect I guess?

I’d barely slept the night before the hearing, unable to switch off the relentless videotape of possible outcomes that was spooling in my head. When the morning finally came, I felt wretched. Not even Sarah’s attempt at a hearty breakfast (pancakes, of all things – how sarcastically cheery!) could really bring me back to my best. 

Sarah drove me the short distance to campus, and walked with me to University House – the place where my fate would be sealed. It was early in the day, few people were stirring, the place still hungover from long nights in the library and last minute exam prep. Outside the building, Sarah handed me over to my Student Arbitrator (heheheheh) who escorted me inside.

Sarah: See you in there, Graham. You’ll be fine.

Me: (unable to reply) 

Sarah: Just remember to breathe. 

Me: (still unable to reply)

Sarah: And to respond to questions. It’ll help. 

Me: Ok.

The main event 

The room where my tribunal was set to take place was seriously boring-looking. How could somewhere so functional and dull be the location for such high-stakes drama? This was meant to be a consequential moment in my life, not an afternoon in the office. 

My arbitrator and I stood on one side of the room. Across from us, was a long panel of six severe-looking University bods, decision makers, VIPs. In the middle was the Chancellor of the University herself, Professor Dame Angela Pearson. Not on the panel, but present and ready to put his case that I should certainly be suspended, was the Vice Chancellor himself. 

Professor Dame Angela: Good morning everyone. Thank you all for coming and for looking so… smart. 

She looked at my academic gown and I straightened my back with pride.

Me: (Whispering) I can put the cap on too.

PDA: Shall we just get started?

Professor Dame Angela outlined the order of the day: we would hear the charges against me, with the University putting its case first. Then, I would be able to argue against each of the charges. Finally, this grand jury of greying and disinterested university bods would make a final decision as to whether my suspension stands. 

PDA: As with all university enrolment issues, we must be guided by the principles outlined in our constitution. Namely, that a good student satisfies three distinct tests. They must contribute positively to campus life, they must have recognisable and profound academic value and they must represent the university positively to the wider world. If these three tests are satisfied, the suspension should be lifted. 

Student Arbitrator: hehehe

I gulped, gathering my gown – and gathering myself.

PDA: Mr. Nutkin, your suspension is a consequence of three complaints. They are: 

First, a campus disruption (with dangerous elements) arising from a rooftop protest against the naming of Galton Hall. 

Second, a misinformed and malicious article claiming the university was seeking investment from petrochemical company Shell, brining the institution into disrepute. 

Finally, a complaint – on the grounds of misconduct – from a fellow student, one Anthony Taylor-Turner. 

This final charge hit me like a tonne of dirty washing. Anthony! I thought we were friends now. I didn’t care what the university or the Vice Chancellor thought of me, but Anthony. We were brothers in arms. We’d done drama warm-ups together. That kind of thing bonds you for life.

PDA: Mr Nutkin, the panel understands you will be represented by the Student Arbitration service. 

Student Arbitrator: Hehehehe. 

At precisely that moment, there was a commotion at the back of the room. A voice, familiar to me, called out from the doorway. And with it, the shock and disappointment of Anthony’s complaint melted away like ice in a sink. 

Ella: Your honour… I will be representing my dad. I mean… my client. 

In strode my daughter Ella – in full lawyer mode. Well, in full I’m a law finalist and should probably be revising, but fuck it this might be fun mode. Behind her, Jayne and Graham 2 hovered on each shoulder looking anxious. Ella replaced the Student Arbitrator (hehehehe) beside me, sending him for an early bath. My daughter, suddenly seeming much older than her 21 years, smiled at me slyly, winked and turned to Professor Dame Angela. 

Ella: Can we crack on? I’ve got to get back to Durham tonight. 

I started to wonder if all the money we’d spent on her education might’ve been worth it in the end.

The First Complaint Against 

The Vice Chancellor – with his sparkling shoes, his sparkling suit and his sparkling bald head – outlined the first complaint against me. 

VC: Mr. Nutkin was found – by me, no less – on the roof of his halls of residence, deranged and demented. His behaviour was dangerous and could’ve been disastrous. He was claiming to protest against the name of Galton Hall, besmirching the good name (and fine work) of esteemed humourist and dramatist Ray Galton. Moreover, his choice of attire – namely a batman costume – was perceived to be threatening and uncouth. 

Me: It was a onesie. 

Ella: My client says it was a onesie. Onesies aren’t threatening. 

VC: We clearly have differences of opinion when it comes to… appropriate attire… haven’t we?

Professor Dame Angela asked me to respond to the VC’s first allegation. Ella looked a encouragingly, nodding me on. 

Me: Well… in my defence… urr… obviously, this is all in my defence… urm… I did look it up and I thought that the hall was named after a eugenicist. But I must’ve read it wrongly. It’s my eyes, you see. And even if it wasn’t named after… a y’know… that name is still a bit unwise, don’t you think? No offence to Ray Galton’s family. Or his fans. Obviously. 

VC: None taken.

The Second Complaint Against

Then, as instructed by Dame Angela the VC outlined the second charge against yours truly. 

VC: Mr. Nutkin used The Wombat – this university’s award-winning student newspaper, a fine organisation – to publish a base, inaccurate and entirely false article about yours truly claiming that I was involved in some kind of underhand deal to sell off parts of the University to morally bankrupt companies. 

Ella: Isn’t there a Starbucks on campus? 

VC: Your honour… Angela… that’s not the point. Moreover, this event caused me great distress as Mr. Nutkin’s overhearings (of an entirely private conversation) were connected to my current divorce proceedings, a deeply private matter.

Me: It can’t be that private, you were talking about it quite loudly.

VC: In a doctor’s waiting room. Haven’t you heard of patient confidentiality? 

Professor Dame Angela, stepped in to calm things down. She again asked me to respond to the second case against me. 

Me: Look, I misheard the Vice Chancellor talking about Shell. But that’s not really my fault. I’m 57, the old hearing isn’t what it once was. 

The panel looked at me quizzically – I assume for my answer, and not because they (like me) struggled to hear.

The Third Complaint Against 

Professor Dame Angela: The third complaint has been standing for many months. Back in October, we received a formal complaint from a Mr. Anthony Taylor-Turner (of Galton Hall) around Graham’s demeanor, manner and presence in their shared accommodation. Do we have Mr. Taylor-Turner in order to expand on his complaint? 

Ella’s phone started to ping. She asked PDA if she could quickly pop out for a second. Some mild commotion was abated when Ella returned with her brother Charlie, who was chaperoning Anthony into the room. 

PDA: Mr Taylor-Turner, your complaint, if you will. 

Anthony: Oh, that? Yeah, that’s super old. I don’t feel like that anymore. Graham’s alright really. And he’s a half-decent actor, and a first-rate prompt. 

PDA: Right, charge dismissed. But the first two charges still stand, of course. Nothing we’ve heard negates these two original points made by the VC. We move on. 

My side of the story 

Upon hearing that the first two complaints would still stand… I started to feel like I wouldn’t. 

Me: Sorry, can I… I think I need a… I feel a bit…

PDA: Let’s take 15 minutes.

In a toilet cubicle, I realised I was having a long, dark loo-break of the soul.

 I considered my options: 

1. Run 

2. Hide 

3. Enter witness protection, change my identity and pretend none of this ever happened. 

Crucially, “stay and fight” wasn’t one of the options presenting itself to me. It felt certain I wasn’t going to get this suspension lifted, not with the Vice Chancellor and the whole University apparatus against me like this. A fourth option might have been “stay in the toilet until it all blows over” but that wasn’t possible: Ella knocked at the door and we were walking back to the tribunal again.

Only, we were intercepted as we approached the door. The Vice Chancellor – his head shinier than ever, perhaps he’d just waxed it? – stood in the way.

VC: We’re wasting our time here, aren’t we?

Me: Oh, do you think it’ll blow over?

VC: No, I mean… you’re going to lose. In fact, I’d say you’ve already lost.

Me: (speechless)

VC: Put it this way, I’m going to make sure that graduation gown is the last one you ever wear.

Ella, elle l’a 

Ella gave me a firm hug – the first one she’d given me since around 2015. She didn’t need to say anything, it was clear what she meant. I guess resilience is something that comes naturally with me as your father.

Back in the room, amidst the grey furnishings and people. Ella took to the floor, making a formal statement in response to everything we’d heard. 

Ella: I am not a student at this university – I’m at Durham, maybe you’ve heard of it? – anyway, I’m unfamiliar with your three tests (contribution to campus, academic value and reputational excellence) but I think I get the gist. 

PDA: Right. 

Ella: I would like to make three submissions to prove these tests have been satisfied. If I may. 

PDA: Of course. Go on. 

The First Test 

Ella shuffled her papers (no idea what they were, but good prop though!)

Ella: To satisfy the test of “contribution to campus life” we wish to call Lou Rathnayake, Morgana Papadakis and Poppy McGuinness. 

Into the room ambled my flatmates, looking thoroughly irked that they’d been dragged away from the Library. Ella smiled at them encouragingly, and proceeded to get them to open up as to why I was a Good Thing On Campus (GTOC). 

Ella: Morgana, how has Graham contributed to your campus experience? 

Morgana: He’s… very… sharing. He lets me watch football on all his subscription channels. 

Ella: Anything else? 

Morgana: He gave the Women’s 3rds a great afternoon back in November. Shame that we also got disqualified, but that’s all part of the beautiful game. 

I winced, remembering the outcome of the Mercia Uni showdown, wondering if my suspension for playing an ineligible player had yet been lifted. Sparing my blushes, Ella moved on to Poppy. 

Ella: How has Graham contributed to your campus life? 

Poppy: He always eats what I cook. He gives good advice. And he introduced me to Charlie. 

VC: Who is Charlie?

Poppy: Her brother.

Ella: Ew, disgusting. Moving on. 

After Ella introduced Lou, there was a rustle of papers from the panel. We checked over, and could see baffled faces across the length of their table. When we asked if everything was okay, one of the panel spoke up, confused. 

Panel 1: Sorry, we don’t have a Lou Rathnayake on our agendas. We have a Luke. Is that the gentleman’s name?

Ella: Point of order.

Me: I think you’ll find it is Lou now. That’s what they want to be called.

PDA: Does it matter?

Me: Says the woman with Professor and Dame in front of her name. And for the record, Lou’s not a gentleman, they’re a person. And a very gentle person they are too.

There was some mild grumbling from the panel – probably waking up from their sherry comas – and Ella calmed proceedings by carrying on gamely.

Ella: So, Lou. Go on.  

Lou: Graham does stuff like… well, the thing he’s just done. He tried to get it right – and that’s how he’s improved my life on campus. In fact, I’d have dropped out without him. 

VC: Angela… I mean, Professor Dame Angela… this is rubbish. They’re just his friends.

PDA: Thank you all for your contributions. That will be all.

The Second Test 

After some baffled muttering and eyebrow raising from the panel, Ella moved on to the second of our tests. I must say, my heart started feeling funny – I think it was pride, but I made a note to see the campus doctor if all went well. 

To satisfy the second test – academic excellence – Ella said she was going to call one of my tutors. Oh heck, this felt rather exposing. It was like parents’ evening, just the other way round. I turned around expecting to see Dr. Sarah at the door, but instead there was Professor Anders Alexander, brandishing a sheaf of paper like a weapon. I’m surprised he hadn’t provided his own wig and gavel.

Professor Anders: Is it my cue? 

PDA: Uh, yes? 

Professor Anders: Where do I stand? Centre stage? I haven’t done my vocal warm-ups.

Ella: Please. 

Professor Anders: You want to know about this strange man’s academic contribution? Here is his final essay from last term – on alienation, dislocation and the surreal in Ionesco’s play The Rhinoceros. And let me tell you, I’ve never read something that is so alienating, dislocating and surreal as this essay. It is baffling, infuriating and downright cryptic at times. Does it make sense? Who knows?! And that’s exactly reflective of Ionesco’s masterpiece. In a stack of identikit, tedious and try-hard essays this one stood out for how it marries form and content, a revolutionary approach to essay writing. 

VC: That’s… quite a claim. 

Professor Anders: I look forward to teaching him on my European Theatre (with Chairs) or Experimental Theatre (the Chairs Are Conceptual) modules next year. 

The Third Test 

Flattered – but entirely unconvinced that these testimonies were going to work – I looked to Ella to introduce the third test. I could see a trace of doubt play across her face, so subtle that only a father could spot it. Who on earth was she going to introduce to vouch for good ambassadorship of the University? 

Ella: I’d like to introduce… Graham. 

A surprised groan went up across the panel. I turned to Ella, stricken. Was I supposed to defend myself? What could I say? Oh, I helped an old lady across the road – and I was wearing my Wessex tracksuit, so she might’ve left us some money in her will. Maybe. Hopefully. 

But then somebody else stood up. 

Graham 2: Hello, I’m Graham. I’m engaged to Jayne – Graham’s ex wife. 

VC: Christ, this is like Coronation Street. I’m hooked.

Graham 2: I can vouch for Graham’s excellent role as an ambassador for Wessex University. The way he talks about this place, and his studies… well, it’s bloody inspiring, actually. I never really thought somewhere like this could be for and old sod like me, I thought all that had all passed me by. But since meeting Graham, and seeing how much he flamin’ loves it here… it’s made me realise that I too would like to come to University. In fact, I admitted this to him at Christmas time and I’m hoping he’ll coach me through a future application. 

VC: Lord save us. 

Jayne: Lord save us.

PDA: Thank you Graham.

Graham 2 was sent to sit down, as Professor Dame Angela drew herself back up to her full height. She thanked everyone for their statements, and announced that crunch time had finally come. The panel were now going withdraw to consider their conclusion. 

VC: You simply have to disqualify most of this evidence, Angela. His friends, his ex wife’s new man… none of these are credible.

Professor Dame Angela didn’t reply, simply ushering the panel out of the room.

Jury’s out 

Outside the tribunal room, Ella and I hovered by a coffee machine. Graham 2 and Jayne tried to look cheerful beside us while Charlie and Poppy seemed to be getting along famously (not now guys, please). Morgana, Lou and Anthony nervously approached. 

Anthony: Graham, I’m so sorry… it really didn’t mean to… 

Me: Don’t you worry, kiddo! It’s all in the past. Like so much of my life. 

Morgana: Look, we’d love to stay but…

Me: You need to go and revise. I get it. Off you go, don’t worry about me! It’s honestly going to be fine.

I didn’t mean it though. I didn’t think it was going to be fine. How could it be? The Vice Chancellor had made that quite clear.

From our position in University House I stared back through the window at the campus outside and watched the flatmates scamper across to the Library. The day was brighter now, and really getting going. Students – people just like me, and yet so not like me – were milling around, drinking coffee, chatting, laughing. Just getting on with the business of student life. The buildings were white in the bright sunshine and I yearned to be back outside, trooping across campus from lecture to seminar to lecture, doing the thing I came here to do. Living. 

A painful swell of love burst in my chest. (Ouch, doctor again!) I knew this might be one of the final times I stood here, on campus, as a student. The years that had stretched out in front of me – second and third year – were now wound in like a hosepipe during a drought.

And around me, were all the pieces of my life. My kids. My ex-wife and her new chap. My friends. It wasn’t so bad, I guess. This next part of the day might really hurt – this moment could be as humbling as that bit post-divorce where I was sleeping on my brother’s sofa. But at least the constituent parts of my life were good. 

Before I could lose myself entirely in reflection, we were called back into the room. It felt like a formality, the outcome a totally foregone conclusion. Back we went, with a kind of calm, accepting resignation.

The Verdict 

Inside the tribunal, an anticipatory hush fell as Professor Dame Angela spoke in her careful tones. 

PDA: Thank you all. We, the panel, have carefully considered all the points made, and have reached a conclusion. In light of everything that has been set before us, we have made the decision that, in the case of Graham Nutkin, the decision to suspend him from Wessex has been… 

STOP! 

A shout from the back of the room. Someone was at the doorway. Speak now or forever hold your peace! A deus ex machina (see, Anders was right, I was good at this theatre malarkey). 

Dr. Sarah: You have to stop, we have a final submission to make to the panel. 

VC: No! No more! It’s too late!

Dr. Sarah: The terms of the tribunal state that a character statement should be made as part of the defence. So that’s what we’re going to do. 

It was strange, she kept saying ‘we’. As in the royal we? Herself pluralised? Or was it her and Alice? Or did she mean the whole English faculty? This was confusing enough, but was getting confusing-er. 

Dr Sarah strode into the centre of the room, long coat swishing behind her. And, following behind was another familiar figure. 

My heart (still sore from all the bursting and hurting it had been doing today) did a kind of triple backflip thing, with some spins and a ta-dah finish. There was a samba band in my chest. My legs started to feel like jelly, and a whole menagerie of butterflies landed in my stomach. 

Linda. 

For the first time since the play, it was Linda.

VC: Is that right? Can anyone check that? 

Ella: Yes, character statements must be permitted. 

PDA: Very well. Please do proceed.

I could barely hear what they were saying. Linda. All I could see, hear, think about was Linda. She looked exactly as she always did, all nice and smart but not stuffy. Warm and welcoming, utterly human and totally normal in this room of stiffs. It was like someone had turned the lights on. 

Dr. Sarah: The character statement will be made by Linda Barnes, a PhD candidate from the English department. 

Oh God. I wasn’t sure I was going to like this next bit. But surely, if she’d agreed to testify it was going to be okay? Amicable? On friendly terms?

Professor Dame Angela waved Linda on, and the room fell into an expectant silence. 

Linda

I had to try really hard to concentrate on what was being said during the next bit. The blood was rushing around my body so quickly, it was barely remembering to keep my brain engaged. Linda, Linda, Linda, Linda, Linda. 

Linda: Ur, so… urm. Sorry, I’m not usually tongue-tied. This is a bit unexpected, actually. Slightly unprepared. God, I’m meant to be good at this, I was a teacher for thirty years. Okay. Right. 

You want me to talk to you about Graham’s character? Well, look. I can’t lie to you all. And you’ve heard all the evidence, I’m sure. He’s infuriating. He lies. He’s never read Dickens – or he hadn’t until recently. He’s proud, deluded and frequently very, very stupid. 

But he tries. Really, he tries. Far too hard, sometimes, but the effort is appreciated. And all of it, the pride, the delusion, the idiocy… it comes from... well it comes from somewhere – and I think that it’s a good place?

It’s weird – I think I met Graham exactly when I needed to. And he showed me that there’s a future for me – a 56 year old who is struggling through a probably pointless PhD, whilst neglecting her kids and making no money. Without meeting Graham… well… I wouldn’t have had the courage to do the thing I’ve been too scared to do for years. Seeing him rip everything up and starting again… I don’t know if Graham’s mentioned his divorce, but he’s a great ambassador. I’d still be with Pete had it not been for his example.

Me: (what?!) 

Linda: I know I’m supposed to be the former teacher here. But Graham taught me that you have no choice but to keep putting one foot in front of another. To keep chipping away. To keep smiling on through. That there’s always, always something to live for. 

You’ve probably got loads of technical reasons why you’ll uphold his suspension – not least because he’s not the kind of face you’d want on the prospectus. But it’s a face that’s made a real difference to my year. And if I didn’t at least try convince you of that, then… I’d probably never forgive myself. 

My fate unsealed

After Linda and Sarah had taken seats, the panel didn’t speak. In fact, they acted as if this most recent evidence hadn’t been given at all. Poor Linda, all of that for nothing. (And poor me… but we already know that).

Professor Dame Angela rose again to make her final statements and deliver the verdict. She cleared her throat.

PDA: Thank you for that… ur… very personal contribution. In the end, I must say, it makes no difference to the overall verdict. 

Me: Oh God. 

PDA: The panel has decided that, given the full evidential picture, the suspension will be lifted with immediate effect. 

Everyone: Shock and awe! 

VC: Oh for heaven’s sake. 

PDA: Mr Nutkin should resume his academic activities immediately. 

Me: Immediately?

PDA: Immediately.

Me: But the exams are… like… now.

PDA: Get cramming.

Oh heck. Every silver lining has a cloud.

VC

As I was about to leave – I was desperate for a wee, quite frankly – I found myself cornered by the imposing figure of the Vice Chancellor. He smiled at me, a pained, effortful smile. His hand stuck out in front of him, his version of a peace offering. I took it and shook.

VC: Well done, Nutkin. Impressive stuff. Now remember, if you don’t pass these exams you’re not going to be here regardless of what this panel says.

With that, he swept away – to his life of shady meetings and petrochemicals (probably, don’t sue me!). But I couldn’t help calling after him.

Me: Vice Chancellor! Some advice for your post-divorce life… may I recommend just being nice? From personal experience, it’s a good way to live.

VC: Goodbye, Graham.

And he was gone.

Love and Justice 

Outside the room, the drab building didn’t seem so bad anymore. Everything was bathed in a warm light that seemed to be coming from nowhere. 

I hugged my kids, and Jayne. And even Graham 2 (hug as firm as his handshake). I hugged my flatmates, especially Anthony. And I hugged Dr. Sarah and Professor Anders. 

And then I saw Linda. 

She was still there. 

As we gingerly approached one another, I could feel everyone around us trying to get a good look – to get an ear in – but without letting on that they were doing so. After a morning of histrionics, this attempt at subtlety completely failed. Ah well, we needed to talk – even if it was in front of loads of people. 

Me: Well. Bloody hell, Lin. 

Linda: Yeah, sorry. Had to make a few digs. Even things out a bit. 

Me: I can’t thank you enough. 

Linda: No. But you can forgive me. For everything. 

Me: And you me.

Linda: Let’s stop this. Life’s too short. 

I was desperate for things not to fall silent, for there to be no painfully meaningful and horrendously loaded hush that we could over-analyse in the future. So I just gabbled. As is my way. (C’mon subscriber, you know this by now.)

Me: So, you’ve left him then…

Linda: Oh. Yes. 

Me: Bet that feels… great?

Linda: It’s… it’s fine. It’s what happens. 

Me: Well, ur… congratulations. I guess.

Almost as if they knew I was about to make some kind of horrendous faux-pas, the group started to drift away. I could sense that we’d need to move along – there were other tribunals to hear, other lives to upend. And anyway, I was suddenly busy again. The day was going to take over from here, and I had urgent revision to do. 

Me: Well, I best be off. 

Linda: Graham. Do you… do you think… we could… 

Me: You say it. Not me. 

Linda: Drink? 

Me: Absolutely. 

Linda: When?

Me: Well, my exams finish on Wednesday at 11am… so maybe Wednesday 11:05?

Exams Over

The following days were a frenzy of cramming, coffee, chocolate bars, chips, panic attacks, whisky and then some exams. It was all such a blur that I can barely remember it – which is probably a good thing. I might deploy the same technique next year (if I pass). 

After the pens down please of my final exam, I walked back to my room elated. The bright summer sunshine seemed to lift me a foot off the floor, I was practically floating. I’d done it. It was over. I’d finished the year. 

Inside, I set about clearing up all my mess – not just from the last few days, but from the whole year. 

The bean-to-cup went back in its box. My clothes (now available to me again) went into a suitcase. The liquor library was packed up. Down came Jamie Vardy (you can add your own and down went Leicester City jokes…). 

I was just about to remove the last of my things from the room when I remembered that one final poster. I carefully unpicked the blu-tac and gave it a final look. 

The best is yet to come 

I thought about what Linda had said at the tribunal. The best is yet to come. 

I left it on the desk, a good luck present for whoever was taking this room next year.

Now 

I’m not sure what’s more surprising about the ending to my year: the suspension, my frantic exam season, or the fact that I find myself in Greece, on the island of Meganisi, hiding from the sun as I type this to you. 

After term had ended, Linda and I did go for that drink. I’d love to say it was normal and uneventful, but after a bit too much to drink booking this holiday seemed like an entirely logical thing to do. Linda needed to get away to work on her PhD and I’d just got a rent rebate for the days I was locked out of my room that was burning a hole in my pocket. The idea made total sense when we were sitting in Proud Mary’s.

And frankly, it still feels like a pretty good idea. And if nothing else, I’m once again reading Dickens – Linda’s got me on The Pickwick Papers which is all about this older chap and his younger friends, gallivanting around, getting into scrapes and getting each other out of messes. People criticise Dickens for being extreme or grotesque, but it all feels pretty relatable to me. 

I think the holiday is doing me a lot of good – Linda says she’s never seen me so calm. And why wouldn’t I be calm? There’s nothing to do apart from wander down to the Blue Bar, go swimming in the sea, lounge about reading books and eat ourselves silly. And the food here is amazing, all this fresh stuff – I think my body is starting to recover from a year of baked beans. And I’ll certainly be adding some Ouzo to the Liquor Library when I’m home. 

Home! 

They say that going away makes you appreciate what you’ve got at home. Well, maybe that’s true. Although I’m starting to worry that I don’t actually have a home. Not in the normal sense. What souvenirs could I buy here when I don’t have a fridge to put magnets on, or a shelf for seashells? Where can I walk around with nothing on, or put my feet on the sofa? (I haven’t seen a sofa in ages.)

But I do have my own version of a home. Not my flat, or my halls. But, like it or not, it’s the University. Sure, they tried to evict me, but we won them round. I don’t believe in fate or any of that nonsense, but it does feel like Wessex Uni is the place I’m meant to be. It might have started as a convenience, or even a symptom of a breakdown, but slowly it seemed to fit. There’s certainly nowhere else I can imagine myself (not even Meganisi, however wonderful it is).

And with Linda there, well… why would I be anywhere else.

Linda’s dozing now – under a copy of The Financial Times– and I was going to have a doze too but…

I’ve just seen my results have come through. 

So, dear subscriber, I will leave you here. I need to check if my results are good enough to stay on until 2nd Year.

If they are, I’ll be going into my first student house with Morgana, Lou, Poppy and Anthony. 

And if they’re not?

Well. It won’t surprise you to hear that I’ll make something up. I always do.  

So.

Here goes.

I’m opening the email.

Until next time, 

Graham x 

Thanks for reading The Best Is Yet to Come.