Girl Unknown(65)

Too distracted to continue reading, I went instead to the common room for a mid-morning coffee. I shouldn’t have been surprised to see McCormack on the couch in the corner – I saw him almost every other day – but I was. He had on a formal suit, not the casual garb he wore for the day-to-day grind of university work. The pinstripes and tie made him look more like a banker than an academic. I noticed his hair had recently been cut and he was freshly shaved. Engrossed in reading from a thick folder, he did not see me approach.

‘McCormack,’ I said. ‘You’re a little overdressed for the kind of scrutiny you’re giving those documents.’

He smiled. ‘Dr Connolly,’ he said, examining his watch. ‘Aren’t you up before me?’

‘Up?’

‘Interview day. I’m just glancing over my presentation.’

Two things startled me: interview day, and presentation. Neither made sense to me, but already I was sweating with panic.

‘I’ve chosen not to do a PowerPoint,’ McCormack said, ‘I hate the damn things.’

‘What are you talking about? The interviews are next week.’

‘They changed the date, and added that we should present. It was all in the letter.’

‘I never had any letter.’

‘Are you sure? They sent one out about two weeks ago.’

How had this happened? Was it possible that I had received the letter and simply forgotten about it? Or had Caroline picked it up and failed to pass it on? My heart-rate doubled, and my mind began to race.

‘I’ve already seen two of the other candidates,’ McCormack said. ‘Barnes from London, and Gillis from Edinburgh. You’re on at twelve. Are you sure you didn’t get a letter?’

I looked at my watch. It was eleven thirty. I excused myself and ran back to my office. I rang Alan, but the interviews had already started. I explained what had happened to his secretary, Mrs Boland, but she insisted the letters had gone out. ‘By registered post. They were all signed for.’

I explained that I had not signed for anything, then listened to her rustling among paperwork for a minute or two before she identified what she was searching for.

‘Here we are,’ she said, then read out: ‘Signed for by C. Connolly.’

Caroline. A warm rush of anger went through me.

‘Shall I tell the panel to expect you?’ Mrs Boland asked.

I had little choice but to go ahead. ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I’ll be right there.’

It was too late to dash home for a change of clothes. I was wearing an old shirt, a worn pair of corduroys and a jacket that had seen better days. So much for first impressions. I combed my hair, took up my papers, and wondered what on earth I would make a presentation on. My mind went blank. I had to run up the two floors to get to the dean’s office, and when I walked into the room, out of breath, four serious individuals sat at the large oval table before me. Alan was the only one smiling. Acting as chair, he welcomed me and asked me to take a seat. I sat down and poured myself a glass of water. I drank it straight away, parched.

I made an attempt to explain the lost letter, how I had only just found out that the interview was to take place that day. Alan was sympathetic while the others looked askance, their eyes on my attire. Either way, I’d opened the interview on the back foot with apologies and excuses. It was not the start I had hoped for.

They asked about my publications, which conferences I had attended recently, if I would consider creating a symposium at UCD for combatants and veterans. Alan smiled his encouragement, but the others were tougher. The external examiner asked about enrolment, post-application conversions for our graduate programmes, possible interdisciplinary degrees that could be developed, and PhD completions.

I offered some platitudes about a personal-development programme for doctoral students and a mentoring scheme I hoped to initiate. It was bread and butter to me – until the extern asked his next question. ‘That’s all very good,’ he said. ‘But what about the actual retention of your students?’

All I could think of then was Niki. How she had walked out on me. My star student. He must have found out. Alan would have had to divulge the unfortunate fact of her departure and with it the reasons.

When it was time for my presentation, I rehashed the last paper I had written on the relationship between Roger Casement’s humanitarian work for the British Crown and his role as an Irish nationalist. Suffice it to say, I did justice neither to the research nor to the subject matter. The questions were routine, until Professor Mary Sinnott took up the reins. She asked about my doctoral work, and brought me back to Belfast. I talked about the Irish Battalion in the First World War, the so-called South Irish Horse, how I had developed my dissertation into my first book.

‘And your media profile, Dr Connolly, how does it impact on your contribution to university life?’ she asked.

I faltered. This is so unfair, I thought. I should have had time to prepare, just like everyone else. The radio interview came back to me, with a flush of shame and irritation. The letter of reprimand was no doubt still being drafted. I waffled, and stuttered, but ultimately re-focused my efforts. I wanted that professorship, after all. I talked about the media’s relationship with history through the years – the chasm between ethical reporting and sensational press. A vagrant image of Chris and Zo? entered my mind. My own daughter, living with him. Sleeping with him.