Pond Life

By Jack R. Williams

Bumbling British graduate Tom Toft is a man without a plan. Struggling gallantly with his own antipathy, he stumbles into a doctorate in political philosophy at a prestigious American university, determined to find his purpose in life. When, in an uncharacteristic moment of luck, Tom secures a scholarship from an obscure philanthropic organisation, suddenly his future is looking bright across the pond.



The result of the 2016 presidential election galvanises Tom to put theory into practice by joining the political activism sweeping campus, through which he finally finds a purpose – and a girlfriend. But before long fate steps in and the budding progressive’s life is thrown into chaos through a series of unfortunate and publicly humiliating events.



Will this modern-day Adrian Mole ever make it out from underneath his desk?



Witty and thought-provoking in equal measure, Pond Life is a satire of contemporary academia that questions the institutionalisation of privilege and highlights the dangers of unequal power.

• Language: English
• Publisher: RedDoor Press
• Release date: Sep 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9781839785337

Book preview

PONDLIFE.jpg

POND

LIFE

Jack R. Williams

Published by RedDoor

www.reddoorpress.co.uk

© 2022 Jack Williams

The right of Jack Williams to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

The US News and World Report by Elie Wiesel. Copyright © 1986 by Elie Wiesel Reprinted by permission of Georges Borchardt, Inc., on behalf of the Estate of Elie Wiesel

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the author

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Cover design: Clare Connie Shepherd

Typesetting: Jen Parker, Fuzzy Flamingo

www.fuzzyflamingo.co.uk

For Myri

Life is not about regrets, it is about reciting those regrets for the amusement of others.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Chapter 1

My first professor at York used to say that philosophy isn’t about finding the answers, it’s about asking the right questions. I liked the idea, though wasn’t entirely sure what she meant. I still hadn’t worked it out when I returned for my final year to a campus gripped by post-graduation angst.

Despite starting university in the midst of the great recession, finding a job had always seemed to me an unwelcome inevitability, rather than something to worry about. Scouring the lists of graduate positions online, I soon discovered that a bachelor’s in Political Philosophy isn’t a golden ticket to a fulfilling career. In fact, the world generally seemed to suffer from a lack of fulfilling careers. The lists of vacancies swarmed with companies in the financial sector, proponents of a capitalist system I’d spent the last three years rallying against. I wasn’t going to be lured by promises of personal development and a dynamic work environment. Sadly, many weren’t so discerning. I watched, appalled, as presumed comrades fell over themselves in pursuit of lucrative appointments. What signs had I missed during all those two-for-one Tuesdays?

I wanted something practical, something a little different; an honest profession with a dash of adventure. Amongst the postings for jobs in sales, marketing and recruitment, only one tickled my fancy – a graduate position at the British Port Authority. I pictured myself atop a ship’s deck in the mist of the early hours, cup of hot cocoa in hand while lamenting the loss of a dozen souls to a watery grave. Besides, what was more poetic or ingrained in British blood than seafaring? Enthusiastically, I described these expectations in a preliminary phone interview to a nice lady from Human Resources. She listened politely, before asking: ‘What exactly do you think we do at the British Port Authority?’ I didn’t make it through to the next round.

My nautical ambitions crushed, things started to look decidedly wobbly. The prospect of scuttling back south to my hometown of Eastbourne and my parents’ comfortable semi loomed before me. My return would vindicate those school friends who’d forgone further education to earn a living, while I accumulated debt debating the finer points of political economy.

As the clocks went back and icy winds penetrated the walls of my student hovel, my principles began to waver. Was rejecting the whole of a market-based economy really such a good idea? In the end, a voicemail from my mother broke my resolve.

‘Hello, darling. Just thought I’d give you a call to see how you’re doing? All fine down here, though your granny’s causing problems again. She called the postman a… Well, it’s all sorted now. Oh, I bumped into Chris yesterday, she said to say hi, asked what you’d been up to. Any more thoughts on that front? Brenda from the flower club will be away for a month next summer, visiting her Greg in Australia. Means we need someone for an hour a week to pick up the foliage. Could be a possibility, for the short term? Would bring in a bit of cash for going to the cinema. I’m happy to have a word, if you like? Anyway, let me know…’

That evening I filled out a raft of applications for everything from wealth management to the invaluable art of actuarial risk assessment.

Having struggled so furiously with my own antipathy towards the merchants of capital, it came as a surprise to find the feeling was mutual. Automated rejection followed automated rejection, each one a stinging reminder of the worthlessness of my ethical compromise. It felt as if I’d anguished over selling my soul to the Devil, only to discover he wasn’t interested.

In desperation I turned to one of Satan’s own, my brother Edward, for advice.

‘It’s a tricky situation, I must say. I think you had the right idea with the maritime gig. Why don’t you go abroad properly? The empire’s long gone, of course, so opportunities for young gentlemen with no prospects or discernible skills have diminished, but there are plenty of less glamorous postings overseas. You could join the ranks of those brave neo-colonial souls teaching English as a foreign language?’

Besides the allure of the high seas, the possibility of seeking my fortune elsewhere in the world hadn’t occurred to me. Leaving the British Isles would certainly open up a new vista of possibilities. Teaching English wasn’t an option, as Edward well knew. We’d so relentlessly ridiculed our cousin’s ‘life-changing’ two months reciting nouns in Lisbon, that my pride wouldn’t allow it. Maybe I could learn another language myself? I remembered a few phrases of secondary school German, and French couldn’t be that difficult.

The next day I battled to suppress images of Venetian canals and sun-drenched vineyards while explaining the idea of my undergraduate thesis to my supervisor, Professor Simon P Barker. I basically wanted to construct a new model for defending the existence of the state as a political entity: an endeavour of no interest to ninety-nine per cent of the world’s population, but still a pressing concern to those in political theory. Barker nodded sagely as I talked, gazing out of the window as if distracted.

‘Have you ever thought of pursuing an academic career?’

I was taken aback. I hadn’t thought my idea was that good. ‘No, not really. I’d sort of thought of doing something a bit more useful…practical.’

‘Plenty of opportunities in academia for practical research, especially in political theory. It can be a great living, it really can. If you have an aptitude for research, as you appear to have…’

I smiled sheepishly. ‘It could be something I might be interested in…though I’d sort of had the idea of going abroad…’

‘If you like… I have a colleague, Kenneth Atlee…’ He paused, as if awaiting a sign of recognition. Obligingly I narrowed my eyes and nodded slowly.

‘We were at Oxford together. He’s the Chair of Political Theory at Laughton now. It’s a bit dull out there, but not far from New York and the department is very good. He always moans that not enough English students go overseas to study. In the States they combine the masters and doctorate, so it would be a five to six-year course in total. Certainly stand you in good stead for a permanent academic position. I’d happily put you in touch?’

I struggled to remain composed at the mention of Laughton. Though not one of the most well-known Ivy League Schools like Harvard or Yale, Laughton was more than their match for academic excellence and historical prestige, boasting three former presidents among its alumi.

When applying for university, I’d purposefully avoided Oxbridge, partly out of an ad hoc socialist disdain for elitism and partly because I doubted my grades would prove sufficient. Still, when during the first weeks of York those venerable institutions came up, I enjoyed declaring I hadn’t even applied. Only later did I realise this is the same explanation the pudgy prepubescent gives for their failure to make the school football team. Three years on and stung by my capitulation to the good people at Goldman Sachs, Laughton shone like a beacon of salvation from across the sea. Besides, principles are all very well for people with options.

Despite my giddiness, I composed myself enough to stammer a question that made clear my financial resources were not limitless. Barker overlooked my embarrassment.

‘The thing in the States is that very few people actually pay to complete a PhD. Utter dunces and rogues, withstanding. Usually, the university waives the tuition fees then you earn money by giving classes. Some students manage to secure some sort of additional funding to help with living costs too. There are a lot of problems with American academia, of course, but then again isn’t there everywhere. The situation here is…’ He shook his head in resignation ‘…in what world does it make sense to rank universities on how many students pass their degrees?’

I tried to mimic his gloom, eager to leave before he questioned whether I too belonged to the ranks of the undeserving, pushed through the programme to improve the university’s standing in the league tables.

Suddenly, nothing else seemed appealing. I was to be a scholar, a critic of modern society with students hanging on my every word. My principles promptly returned, accompanied by a romanticism for the New World. To hell with learning another language, wasn’t English the world’s language anyway? Europe’s time had come and gone; America was the place to be young and ambitious. In politics, while we were led by a group of conceited Etonians, Barack Obama embodied the promise of the future. Even American depictions of poverty and destitution had an underlying aspiration lacking in the bleak English equivalents. The American dream emphasised personal development and creating a better tomorrow, all the English dreamed of was winning the World Cup.

I spent days carefully crafting an email to Professor Atlee and felt slightly jilted when he simply responded: ‘Yes, will look out for your papers, best.’ Certainly positive, although I couldn’t quite work out to what he was saying ‘yes’ to.

I kept my application to myself, sidestepping all enquires as to post-university plans and concentrating on my bachelor thesis. My argument proposed that political communities should be understood as networks of cooperation. Though initially I considered this a revelation, the text rapidly descended into a discussion of how other authors saw communities as forms of cooperation. As the deadline approached, I turned to searching for books with ‘politics’ and ‘cooperation’ in their title, whose only contribution was to swell the ranks of my bibliography.

Then, one damp Wednesday afternoon, as I lay in bed recovering from a nineties-themed ninety pence a pint night, an email appeared confirming my acceptance to the doctoral programme in political theory at Laughton University. My parents cried, my brother sent a magnum of champagne and those friends who’d already secured positions welcomed me into their ranks. Finally I could console those still refreshing the graduate job pages with the words: ‘I’m sure you’ll find something.’

Only once my thesis was safely printed and bound, and a week of cider-fuelled celebration passed, did I begin to scrutinise what my new life would entail. Like Barker had said, Laughton waivered the annual fees, however I hadn’t qualified for the full stipend – a salary afforded to most doctoral students. Instead, they offered me a tutor position where I’d earn a set amount for each undergraduate course I’d supervise: how quick one can go from pupil to master. The amount paid per course looked reasonable as a lump sum, though paled when compared with the cost of accommodation and the university’s obligatory meal plan. The university gave the brief advice that ‘students may wish to supplement their income with outside financial support’. I sensed my parents shiver.

Ever a conscientious son, I turned to my country’s public bodies for support. The British Academy offered plenty of encouragement to members of their flock seeking greener pastures overseas, though little in the way of material assistance. So spurned, I turned across the pond instead. There I found a whole tapestry of charitable foundations devoted to supporting prospective doctoral candidates, each with their own conditions. Many were limited to students from the United States, certain ethnic groups or for specific disciplines or sub-disciplines: one scholarship was devoted to those conducting research into the healing properties of asparagus. There weren’t many open to international students in the Humanities, but I cast my net wide. In each application I expressed my yearning for knowledge, my hope for an academic career and my desire to conduct pioneering philosophical research with a practical impact.

My industrious efforts bore fruit shortly before graduation, when a letter arrived awarding me a scholarship from the Willoughby T Forsyth Foundation of $24 000 a year for the duration of my studies – subject to satisfactory progress being made. My benefactors were an obscure philanthropic foundation based in the state of Missouri whose noble aim was to ‘assist young scholars in the field of philosophy at the outset of their academic journey’. Despite my late application they still had funds available and the board declared themselves happy to support a candidate with my credentials. Their website had been one of the more amateurish I’d come across; all mismatched fonts and pixelated images, underlining the importance of not judging by appearances. Finally my parents were free to enact long-envisioned renovations from cavity wall insulation to a downstairs loo.

I returned home the all-conquering hero; the mention of Laughton inoculating me against any suggestion that my 2:1 Bachelor of Arts in Political Philosophy constituted a waste of time and money. As June and July passed by, I soaked up the Sussex sun and contemplated what would await me stateside. I’d certainly find a girlfriend and maybe we’d move to New York or head to California once I earned the title of Dr Toft. Was this my last summer enjoying scones with clotted cream and forcing down cucumber sandwiches?

My relatives acted as if I’d never return. On my final visit to the family matriarch, my grandma stated sadly ‘I probably won’t see you again, dear’, although admittedly she said this after all my visits. My dad, on the other hand, seized the opportunity to press upon me a battered suitcase with one remaining wheel, cheerfully declaring that I could dump it on arrival. It took until Gatwick security before my mum’s stoic façade slipped.

‘Oh no, I’m being silly. I just always thought you might move back home once you’d finished studying and now…’ She rallied herself. ‘You enjoy yourself, darling, and be careful when you’re crossing those big highways, okay?’

Chapter 2

I decided to travel to Laughton a month before term started, keen to acclimatise to my new surroundings. My first lesson came after momentarily maintaining eye contact with a middle-aged woman on the subway from the airport into New York. This is not the done thing and she had no qualms telling me so. My second was that Laughton’s climate does not resemble that of southern England. I arrived in that quaint town to be greeted by a wall of intense mid-August heat. Gloriously bedecked in woollen trousers, shirt and jacket, I dragged my suitcase along the New Jersey streets, attempting to appear as nonchalantly ‘local’ as possible.

Laughton is an odd place. The town consists of a single road of shops that lines the northern side of a sprawling collection of university buildings, designed predominately in mock Gothic style. Once I changed into appropriate attire, I wandered around in a state of blissful contemplation. The campus stood eerily empty, except for huddled groups of tourists taking photographs of the hallowed quads. To ease my cultural adjustment, I devoured all of the great American novels I could lay my hands on. Hemmingway, Steinbeck, Faulkner, though my favourite was the Ivy-League dropout Fitzgerald. Secondary school analysis had ruined my relationship with Gatsby, so I turned instead to his debut novel This Side of Paradise, and a selection of short stories called All the Sad Young Men.

I saw this literary immersion as a necessary precursor to my upcoming scholarly exploits. If I was to devote my life to writing papers and books, I wanted to at least try and make them entertaining. In many ways I’d wasted my time as an undergraduate in a fog of hangovers, skimmed readings and rushed essays stuffed with Chomsky quotes. I now had a new opportunity to form my own intellectual identity.

My scholarship covered the cost of a room in the impressive graduate college. Impressive from the outside at least, inside it followed the same standard layout of university accommodation the world over. Cramped rooms and practical furniture with a patterned carpet designed to mask all manner of stains. On my first night I suffered a panic attack, induced by flashbacks of my parents abandoning me at York. Back then I’d sought out fellow occupants and engaged in riotous drinking games to overcome homesickness. Now the residence stood as silent as the rest of the campus. I’d have even greeted the sight of a tourist or two. Things didn’t change once the term started. My fellow graduates kept so completely to themselves, that I began to suspect the place had been condemned for asbestos and I’d been assigned a room there in error.

My new colleagues didn’t provide the social stimulation I’d hoped for either. I arrived at the Political Theory induction reception to find a group of young men and women who bore an uncanny resemblance to yours truly. I am not a particularly vain man; indeed, I generally approach the mirror with caution. But if observing one’s own reflection is surreal then being confronted with a whole room full is positively alarming. Not only did our countenances shine with a similar pastiness, but we all wore button-down shirts of varying shades of blue and on each nose perched a pair of wide-framed glasses. The only way to distinguish between us was by the development of facial hair of which my cheeks remained unnaturally smooth.

This look extended to the faculty, affording us the opportunity to witness our future deterioration, culminating with the head of department and my sponsor Kenneth Atlee. He stood in front of us and surrendered himself to multiple yawns before beginning his departmental address.

‘Good evening, good evening and welcome to Laughton. Another year is upon us and our research remains as pressing as ever. We’re happy to welcome a new member of faculty, Susan Tiernan. Susan joins us as an assistant professor from Berkeley, but we won’t hold that against her.’ He chuckled. I was the only one polite enough to join in. ‘Susan’s research will focus on…well, hopefully, she’ll focus on lots things. Very pleased to have her. I’d also like to welcome our new group of doctoral students.’ He scanned the room, failed to locate us and smiled. ‘We look forward to seeing you at the weekly Political Theory seminar and, um, elsewhere.’

As he’d assisted in securing me a spot, I imagined Atlee might have designs to take me under his wing: a young protégée whose brilliance gave him hope for the next generation. So, after the tepid applause had lapsed, I approached to introduce myself.

‘Who?’

‘Tom, I was at York with Simon.’

‘Ah yes, Parker. At York, isn’t he?’

‘Yes, exactly. Thank you so much for everything with the application and—’

‘My pleasure.’

‘Well,