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“Even Dr Blyth, like a broken clock, is correct twice a day.”
The worst thing about Francis Crawford, reader in early modern history at the University of Leeds, was the effortlessness of his condescension. In the three years they had been colleagues, Jerott Blyth had come to hear the soft, carrying voice in his nightmares. It was remarkable how Crawford never raised his voice; indeed, never seemed to make any effort to project from his typical posture as a slim, crumped heap of immaculately elegant menswear, yet he could cut across conversations with laser-like precision.
Professors Douglas and Harvey, whose acrimonious disagreement had been reached an increasingly high volume, turned in affront.
Crawford folded his hands on the table in front of him and leaned forward. “Gentlemen. And” with a gracious nod at the blue-haired Dr Somerville, lecturer in history of gender and sexuality, “honoured colleagues, we have two choices. We can offer Christian Steward a full scholarship. We can offer Robin Stewart the same. This Dr Blyth has accurately asserted. As he also correctly observes, we can offer each of them a half-scholarship, but neither of them is likely to take it.”
“Both of them can get a job and work alongside their studies, surely.” Douglas’ accent, Jerott thought, belonged to the kind of person he would have—indeed, had—started fights with down at the pub during his early twenties, on the grounds that anyone who sounded like a Tory MP at Prime Minister’s Questions ought to be glassed on principle.
“As you did, surely,” Somerville said. They had not, quite, achieved Crawford’s level of vocal virtuosity; Jerott was the only one who heard it. They cleared their throat and spoke louder. “Christian Stewart’s application shows that she has applied for PhDs at Oxford, Cambridge, and Glasgow, as well as with the AHRC. Robin lists Leeds as his only application.”
“True, though it’s a DPhil at Oxford,” Crawford said. “But irrelevant. The criteria for this scholarship are academic excellence, alignment with the themes of the work of the late Richard Chancellor, and availability of adequate supervision in our department.”
“As PGR lead,” Douglas began, and Somerville caught Jerott’s eye and grimaced. The fact that the department’s most out-of-touch member was the one in charge of its postgraduate research programme was a source of perpetual friction.
“Work experience, or potential to gain it, is also not a criterion for our consideration at this meeting.” Crawford, Jerott reflected, was a bastard, but he did know how to chair. “The school meeting at which we are supposed to present our preferred candidate for approval is in two hours.”
“Who would you choose?” Crawford’s pale brows rose, and his ice blue eyes met Jerott’s brown ones calmly. “On academic merit, Christian Stewart is clearly the superior choice. The writing sample she submitted is of publishable quality and her references are impeccable.”
“Robin Stewart is—”
“Robin Stewart,” Crawford effortlessly interrupted, “also has excellent letters. His academic pedigree is perhaps less distinguished, and the work he chose to submit stands out for competence rather than originality.”
“Robin Stewart’s work is a new reading of—”
“A Marxist interpretation of the economics of the late medieval border between England and Scotland, Dr Somerville, is hardly untrodden ground.”
“But the cartulary of Lymond Abbey is unedited,” Jerott said. “And Robin Stewart’s proposal for a new digital edition to accompany his analysis of the economic role of northern monastic institutions is explicitly connected to the Brotherton’s goals to re-catalogue and digitise the Buccleuch Collection of Borders Manuscripts. It’s a dissertation that could only be written here.”
“And Robin Stewart’s work aligns with your expertise in economic history and Jerott’s in late medieval history,” Somerville said firmly. “If we were making our judgment on academic merit alone, I agree that Christian Stewart’s application wins out. But the fact is that we haven’t got a medical historian or a full-time early medievalist.”
“Margaret Lennox is—”
“Currently on research leave,” Lymond said smoothly, as Douglas continued to splutter ineffectually. “Dr Somerville’s points are well taken. Christian Stewart, however, proposes a project which spans the ninth through the thirteenth centuries. Assuming she is willing to be steered later, support of her project is well within Dr Blyth’s capacity.”
“I wrote one article about the economics of medieval medicine,” Jerott protested.
“Didn’t the Leverhulme project you proposed last year focus on the economics of medicine in the north of England between the tenth through fourteenth centuries?”
Jerott imagined picking up a chair and smashing it across Crawford’s mouth. “That wasn’t funded.”
Lymond leaned back in his chair. “It scored above the threshold. Didn’t you resubmit it to the AHRC?”
“I did.”
“Weren’t those announced last week?” Douglass drawled. “Stuck out again, eh, Blyth?”
“I imagine,” Lymond said, “That we will have an update on that at the school meeting, for which, let me remind me you, we still do not have a candidate to recommend.”
The debate raged on, but the tide had clearly turned towards Christian Stewart. Jerott’s arguments in support of Robin Stewart’s work and its potential fell on increasingly deaf ears. Walking out of the room half an hour before the school meeting was due to start, he thought wistfully about poking his head into Kate’s office and informing their department secretary of a sudden migraine. Kate would call him a Muppet for failing to take his medicine in good time and added his name to the list of apologies. He went back to his office and attempted to answer student emails without managing to finish or send a single one.
In the hallway outside the meaning room, he ran into Lymond, leaning against the wall and texting one-handed. With the other, he combed his fringe to sweep over his forehand and fall behind his left ear. Up close, there were dark circles under his eyes. Jerott walked past him without speaking and took a seat near the back of the room, next to Somerville.
“I’m sorry about Robin,” they said quietly.
The start of the meeting saved Jerott from speaking. Professor De Guise, was to his mind, a less commanding chair than Crawford, but she had the same trick of compelling attention without effort. Jerott fiddled with the ribbon bookmark on his notebook and waited for the meeting to be over.
“And we come now to happier news,” Professor De Guise said. “Francis, will you update us on the awards committee recommendations?”
Crawford adjusted his cufflinks. “After a long and contentious discussion, we recommend the award of the Chancellor scholarship to Christian Stewart, for an original and meritorious proposal on the history of medieval medicine. Proxime accessit is Robin Stewart, whose proposal on the economic history of the late medieval Anglo-Scottish border, drawing heavily on manuscripts in the Brotherton collections received the strong support of Dr Blyth.”
After the recommendation was confirmed and minuted, Professor de Guise thanked the awards committee on its work. She looked down at the papers in front of her and smiled. “Before we open the floor for any other business, I’d like to congratulate the many members of our school who submitted funding bids this year. Our pro vice chancellor for research and innovation,” she paused, supressing a smile as a ripple of derision ran through the room, “Professor Leonard Bailey has made the capture of external funding a priority for the humanities at this university. Many of you have stepped up to this challenge, and I would like you to know that at yesterday’s faculty board meeting, the efforts and successes of this school were formally acknowledged. All of you have made heroic efforts to apply for funding without additional time or support for the immense amount of work these applications take.” She paused. “It gives me great pleasure to announce that a record number of your applications were successful. Margaret Lennox has been awarded a British Academy Mid-Career Fellowship for “Slavery in Early Medieval England.” We also have an award for a BBC New Generation thinker, for Philippa Sommerville, who will be studying sex education in twentieth century Britain. Congratulations Philippa. Francis Crawford has been awarded a Leverhulme International Fellowship for “The Game of Kings: Chess in the Early Modern Mediterranean World,” which he will be spending at the University Ca’ Foscari of Venice and the University of Istanbul. And last, but by no means least, it gives me great pleasure to announce that Adam Blacklock has been awarded an AHRC Early Career grant to work on the life and art of the Russian icon painter Andrei Rublev. Please join me in applauding our colleagues on these achievements.”
Jerott clapped politely. Any other business went by in a haze of complaints about teaching, marking, and workloading, which Professor de Guise dispatched to the appropriate subcommittees with her usual efficiency; Kate announced the date of the next meeting, and Jerott stood up so fast he nearly tipped his chair over.
“Coming to the pub?” Somerville said. The piercings in their left ear flashed as they caught the afternoon sunlight. He said yes, and reconsidered when Blacklock joined them, laughing at something Crawford had said. He congratulated them all, and ducked his head to pretend to text. Conversation washed past unnoticed.
“I could murder a gin and tonic,” Somerville said, and snapped their fingers in front of his face. “Put your phone away, Jerott. Let’s go.” They strode ahead with Blacklock, talking about teaching, leaving Crawford and Jerott walking together in silence. They turned the corner together, and Crawford waved a hand vaguely and disappeared into the men’s toilets. Jerott caught up with Blacklock and Somerville, now discussing some science fiction show about a murderous android.
“You just love its hatred of eye contact,” Somerville was teasing.
“Eye contact should not exist.” Blacklock said vehemently. “Firstly, the phrase itself makes so sense. No one touches eyeballs. No one wants to touch eyeballs. Eyeballs should not make contact. Eye contact implies contact with eyes which should not happen.”
“But contact lenses,” said Jerott, to wind him up. Blacklock spluttered.
They crowded around their usual table at the campus bar. Crawford came in with Henry Lauder, professor of legal history, and Jerott claimed the first round. Lauder, whose long beard and untidy hair made him look like he had escaped a fantasy novel via a Farraday cage, sat down next to Somerville, and began to ask them about their Radio 4 programme.
“Stewart did an informal interview with me before he applied for the Richard Chancellor scholarship,” Crawford said, while they waited at the bar. “I couldn’t say anything about it in the meeting; Chancellor quite strictly stipulated that the candidates were to be judged on their applications alone. Odd fellow, our Robin. Clearly very bright but has a massive chip on his shoulder. It didn’t make me warm to him.”
Jerott paid for the round, not trusting himself to speak. “Not many people with his and my accent in academia,” he said, when his hands were full, and the urge to punch Crawford in the jaw was mostly under control. “I met Robin, when I went down to Man Met for the economic history conference. He did one of the lightening talks from their Masters’ students. It stood out.” He handed Lauder and Somerville their pints and sat down with his own. Somerville and Blackboard were both enthusiastically pitching their murderous robot show to Lauder, who had become convinced that the protagonist was meant to be a sympathetic dalek, a misunderstanding which took much effort and another few pints to correct.
Despite himself, Jerott found himself relaxing—the beer helped, and so did the banter between Blacklock and Lauder and Somerville; Crawford said unusually little but the corners of his mouth curled up whenever Somerville spoke.
“You’re going to be great on Radio 4,” Jerott said to them, pleasantly drunk, some time after Lauder had gone home. “I’ll tell me nan to listen to you. Her mother was in the Workers' Birth Control Group; she’ll be mad about it.”
Somerville grinned. “I’m surprised you even know what that is.”
“Jerott, not know about a working-class protest movement?” It occurred to Jerott, through a pleasant beery haze, that Crawford was rather drunk as well. “My dear, have you met our Dr Blyth? How he became a historian of medieval economic history is a mystery for all the ages.”
“Reading E.P. Thompson,” Jerott said promptly, and they all laughed. “Followed by module on the medieval peasantry.”
Crawford leaned forward. “Did feudalism exist?”
“No,” Somerville said, emphatically. They had been alternating lime and sodas with half pints but also appeared pleasantly intoxicated. “No, fuck off, Francis, I am not listening to you two shout at each other about Marx and Marc Bloch.”
“And Susan Reynolds,” said Crawford said, combing his hair with his fingers again, and Somerville rolled their eyes. “Hated all my medieval modules when I took then the first time, thanks, and you two having the intellectual equivalent of hate sex about Marxist historiography of the Middle Ages has shockingly not changed my opinion on the matter.”
Blacklock, weaving his way back from the toilets, held up a hand. “I’m sorry, who’s having hate sex? What?”
Somerville flicked their hair across their forehead in an uncanny imitation of Crawford. “I said what I said.”
Crawford stood up. “On that happy note, I’m going to go have the physical equivalent of hate sex with gravity and my bicycle.”
“You numpty,” Somerville said, “take the fucking bus.”
Crawford looked owlishly concerned. “But that’s your bus.”
Somerville looked baffled. “So? I fail to see the connection.”
“Your bus. The bus you take to get home.” Jerott, slouching comfortably against the shredded fabric of the booth, found himself judging the man’s lack of capacity. “I don’t want to look like I’m following you.” He attempted to sweep his hair across his forehead, missed, and sent his glasses sailing into Blacklock’s lap.
“Do you want to be following me?” Somerville sounded intrigued. “That can be arranged. But I think I should be following you to make sure you get home alive.”
Blacklock handed Crawford his glasses. “Human mating rituals,” he stage-whispered to Jerott. “We should leave them to it.”
“You’re not fucking Murderbot,” Somerville said, blushing, and Blacklock said, “Of course I’m not fucking Murderbot, Murderbot and I share correct and sensible attitudes towards eye contact and sexual intercourse.”
Jerott stood up. “I share Henry’s confusion about what the hell you’re all on about.”
“Only the greatest science fiction show of the twenty-first century,” Blacklock said. “You will be assimilated.”
“Fuck off,” Jerott said affectionately, and went out into the night.
Explicit.