Girl Unknown(66)

‘The position of professor is not just another rung on the ladder,’ the dean said. ‘It is a position of leadership. We’re looking for someone with the necessary charisma and sang-froid not to be rattled in situations of intense or unpredictable pressure.’

He could not have disguised his disapproval more thinly. I told him I had learned a great deal about pressure in the previous academic year, and how, all things considered, I was learning to use it to my advantage. But that was not true. Look at me now, I thought, struggling to answer these questions, my life falling apart around me. Zo? – taken from me by my best friend.

I thought of Linda, her last lecture, her Angel of History: ‘From Paradise a storm is brewing, and this storm has so much violence that it catches in the angel’s wings and the angel cannot close those wings. The storm grows in intensity, picks up and propels this celestial being into the future.’

Alan ended the interview by asking me what history meant to me – what was history?

A line from Ambrose Bierce came to me: ‘History is an account, mostly false, of events, mostly unimportant, which are brought about by rulers, mostly knaves, and soldiers, mostly fools.’

I said something else.

At home, I asked Caroline about the letter. She was adamant she had not received it.

‘You might not have noticed actually signing for it,’ I suggested. ‘You could have been distracted by something else.’

‘I’m telling you, David, I never signed for it.’

‘It was your signature,’ I insisted.

We rowed, and she accused me of not believing her, of not trusting her.

But I couldn’t let it go, my temper flaring. ‘Well, what did happen? If you didn’t sign for it, who did?’

I asked Robbie and Holly, who both denied any knowledge of the letter.

‘It must have been Zo?,’ Caroline said, and I turned away from her, enraged.

‘For God’s sake,’ I muttered. ‘Everything is her fault, according to you. Why on earth would she sign your name?’

‘Because that’s what she’s like, David. You know it, and I do too. She’s capricious, destructive, cruel.’

We rowed some more, but it was pointless. Whoever’s fault it was, the damage had been done.

I waited for an email, a letter, a phone call, but there was nothing.

In the meantime, my mood plummeted. I felt loneliness come over me – as if, until then, I hadn’t realized how important my mother’s presence in my life had been. She had been taken from me, and so had Zo?. It was a desperate week, one in which the hope for promotion did not diminish but, if anything, heightened. As if the professional advancement could somehow counteract the losses I had suffered personally. To say I was unsettled when Alan finally called me into his office is probably something of an understatement.

‘I wanted to follow up with you on your interview,’ he said. ‘An official communiqué will follow, but I’m sorry to say that this time you have been unsuccessful.’

I sat down. The energy seeped out of me. The extra committee work, the substitute teaching, the journalism and research, all for naught. I couldn’t help thinking it had been a colossal waste of time.

For Alan to talk to me like that was professional courtesy. But, with the bitter taste of defeat in my mouth, I explained to him how surprised I was about the interview date change, and that I had not received official notice. He told me rather matter-of-factly that these things happen all the time, that the letter had been sent, and that all of the other candidates had appeared, and, besides, he insisted firmly, I had not missed the interview.

I thought again of what might have happened to the letter, Caroline’s accusations creeping into my head. Had Zo? signed for it, then secreted it in her room, shredding it before she left? Laughing at me. Making a fool of me yet again. Her cruelty echoed and added to how Linda had left me in the dark all those years ago – some inexplicable disdain had been handed down from one generation to the next.

‘David, I know it has been a difficult time for you.’ The line between mentor and manager was sometimes a blurred one with Alan. He invited you into his confidence, but I was never sure whether it was for professional motives or personal altruism. It occurred to me that maybe he didn’t know the difference. ‘My condolences again for the passing of your mother.’

I thanked him.

‘This business with your new-found daughter, it must be taxing, not to mention distracting.’

‘It’s not entirely pertinent to whether I got the job or not. You know that,’ I said, noticing the deep grooves of age on his forehead.

‘The panel was very impressed with your showing.’

I felt like saying, ‘It doesn’t matter. I wasn’t good enough. No need to sugar-coat the truth.’

‘It’s also beholden on me to tell you that they have selected Dr McCormack for the position of professor.’

Anyone but him.

‘We realize that you’ll be disappointed, but for the moment, can I say that your research outputs are strong, teaching and learning are also strong …’

‘Why didn’t I get it?’ I asked, although I had a good idea of the answer – I was playing along with this charade of feedback. ‘You can be honest with me.’

Alan was back at the window. A flock of seagulls swooped by. Behind them, I could see the two red and white Pigeon House chimney stacks at Poolbeg.