The Pitcairn Perspectives by Philip Spires - HTML preview

Annual project appraisal, Hackney Metro

 

Sometimes, the scene can be important, can impose its character and style on proceedings. Designers thus often determine the message, if not its content, then at least its perceived character. This is how the medium can become the message, so what is communicated becomes its presentation. We have many stock phrases to describe such impressions, slick, informal, strait-laced, matter of fact, conventional, the list is not trying to be exhaustive. Decor, colour, the use of motif, verbiage, furniture, they can add that extra quality that then both accentuates meaning and communicates in its own right.

For what the participants called their regular meeting, annual at most, perhaps conducted a dozen times in total, the setting said it all. Hackney Metro University would probably win no architectural awards. Let’s rephrase that. Hackney Metro University would probably not make the entry for architectural awards.

Built largely in the era of brutal functionalism, its concrete almost surrounds. It seems ubiquitous, is visible everywhere, its grey almost tricking the eye to ignore the blackness of the glass that bands across its structures, apparently suggesting a similar vacant darkness within. There is one earlier building at its heart, a brick-built three-storey London school board relic, green domed at either end, still proudly showing off its original white painted, giant wooden sash windows, now peeling both paint and putty on the upper stories and, no doubt, unopened in 30 years. Its sash cords are probably rotted, the hanging counterweights long since not hanging and its movable sections having been screwed through to static in the seventies. And the newer sections of Hackney Metro? They are from the era of austerity, constructed in the second half of the last century, it has to be said, but having the air of a badly jig-sawed puzzle whose concept fit together, but whose reality left draughty gaps. It was in one such building, in a room whose decor boasted grey plastic tiles, grey painted walls and mottled false ceiling tiles which appeared to have been recently sprayed with chewed liquorice, where Edward Pitcairn met his minders.

Add a table, chipboard topped, metal framed, whose iron-on plastic wood-effect finish was already migrating from the edges to reveal fibres that had repeatedly been poked by bored, seminar suffering fingernails, and sit the assembled on plastic bucket seats mounted on tubular frames that had for many years shown evidence of creeping metal fatigue. There four people, three men, all middle-aged to elderly, all white, all suited and tied, all quietly formal in their informal way, and one woman, much younger, brightly made up with redder than red lipstick, mirror surfaced patent shoes, no leg covering emerging from an extremely short skirt that had a zip all the way up the front and a top that was, well, a top, though what it was on top off was largely visible. The six male eyes around that junk-heap table regularly followed the undulations of what was not covered as her recording hand took notes of what was said. Her name was Debbie, and she was the proud owner of a short-term renewable contract as an administrative assistant in the vice-chancellor’s office, a post whose daily tasks enervated, but whose proximity to albeit local power rendered forever interesting.

Debbie had already placed on record with the union representative, unfortunately for Debbie representing a union of which she was not a member, that Professor John Mitchell, 58, now high flying, business and management type, had a habit of standing too close when delivering her daily work schedule, her seated at her desk, he towering above her swivel chair from his six foot three. Debbie was quietly resentful, but largely tolerant. Had she held the post for longer than a year, she might have been tempted to use the term ‘long suffering’, and she did need the income to pay her rent. She was still struggling to find stability in life some four years and three boyfriends after graduating from what she at eighteen and in her first year had thought was a prestigious university with a degree in history.

John Mitchell’s rise to the top has not been meteoric. He was neither incisive nor inspired, neither dynamic nor dominant, but he was efficient, bureaucratic and careful. If his degree had been taken in the age-old subject of ‘covering ones back’, he would surely have taken a doublefirst. He generally admitted responsibility for nothing, ascribed all decisions to an ever unidentifiable, unlocatable commonality of feeling, and ruled by a claimed consensus that he personally not only perceived but also usually defined. A tall man, rakishly thin and usually stooped, he displayed a tendency to straighten his back when questioned so he could deliver his defence from above. He had, however, proved an effective self-promoter, despite his apparently apologetic manner. He had taken a first degree from Leicester, worked in banking for several years and then taken a lectureship in business and management at Hackney Metro in his early thirties, largely out of a desire to distance himself from the highly competitive workplaces of the private sector, only soon to discover that the utilitarian corridors of academic life were, in fact, at least as competitive as the multinational he had left. He was a head of department inside five years, head of faculty in ten and then had become vice-chancellor of the university some ten years ago at an interview where the panel judged him the safest, though perhaps the most boring pair of hands on offer.

Professor Larry Wiseman, a mercurial, small individual from new England with a voice like an automatic weapon is head of the Humanities Faculty, a term that took him years to accommodate, since for an American it meant the teachers, themselves. Openly and almost aggressively gay, he supported a pair of trainers at the base of his business suit, whose jacket advertised a veritable billboard of pins and badges, all expressing some degree of support for a cause, a campaign, an issue, or, in one case, a people. He had spoken to the vice-chancellor just half an hour before this meeting convened at eleven to restate his disquiet about archaeology’s continued inclusion in the Humanities Faculty, given that in most institutions nowadays it is described as a science. Mitchell had correctly concluded that Wiseman was merely expressing his reluctance to associate himself with the delivery of unpopular bad news and had privately concluded that if he was going to have to shovel shit, then the appropriate head of faculty was damned well going to help.

The fourth person at the table, of course, was Professor Edward Pitcairn, whom we know already. All four wore facemasks, in three cases the simple light and dark blue with white elastic behind the ears. The other mask type in evidence adorned Professor Wiseman’s face. It was white, secured by tapes that not only passed around the ears, but also tied high up on the crown of the head. It protruded a good three inches beyond his mouth and had not one but two latticed vents, one to the left of the nose, one below lip level, that seemed to hide valves that clicked a little when its wearer spoke, thus accentuating the usual staccato of his delivery with audible attack grace notes. The tightly tied tapes caused his hair to ruffle, causing Professor Wiseman rather resembled a bleached Darth Vader, his badged jacket mimicking decorated military uniform.

The tone, throughout, was one of managed informality, the general chitchat of greeting having subsided as each attendee sought to assemble papers on the desktop before them. “OK, Edward, everyone, shall we start?” It was Mitchell who began proceedings, rightfully claiming the chair. Debbie took notes, but she had also turned on the record function on her phone.

“Well, first we must formally welcome you back, Edward. It’s been another year and we are eager to hear your updates on progress. Indeed, it’s been two years since we met in the flesh. I believe last year was Zoomed.” Mitchell cast a glance at Pitcairn who nodded, silently. “So, Edward…”

“Certainly. My pleasure.” Pitcairn cleared his throat, took up a single sheet from the folder before him and read.

“Edward Pitcairn, Emeritus Professor of Archaeology, Hackney Metro University. Progress update on Sawu excavation, 2020 to 2021. Dated fourth of May 2021

“We have witnessed another exciting year at the dig. Further to finds announced in the previous two annual reports, we have uncovered another twenty-five significant objects, mostly stone tools but also some human bone fragments. All of these finds have been catalogued by the department in Yogyakarta and a detailed description alongside a photograph of each item is supplied in the annexe to this summary.”

Pitcairn paused momentarily to pat the cover of his folder with the palm of his hand. Debbie interjected with, “You have a copy for me?” She was leaning to the side slightly towards Pitcairn. Mitchell and Wiseman’s eyes focused on the widening gap between her loose top and armpit as Pitcairn confirmed, “This is in fact for you. I will give it to you at the end.” Debbie smiled and made a note.

Pitcairn continued. “The year has not produced any wholly new avenues of enquiry. It has been very much a year of consolidation and evidence building, with a focus on analysis rather than increased excavation. Professor Sanu has opened a new site, still inside the Mabala complex, close to the other trenches, but not contiguous. As yet, results from there are still inconclusive. In my opinion this change of focus for the dig will not uncover any new or changed evidence, and that it will merely add weight to what we already know.

“This year’s focus on analysis has allowed me to formulate a position, however, and I intend to publish this as an hypothesis…”

“Hypothesis?” Wiseman’s brisk interruption sought clarification, clearly judging that after nearly a decade and a half of work, the project might have already progressed beyond the hypothesis stage.

Pitcairn diverged from his notes momentarily. “It has to be offered with that status. I cannot yet claim that our evidence is extensive enough or clear enough to make any definitive claim. I choose the term hypothesis, also, as a way of challenging alternative positions that I anticipate may appear in the near future.”

“From Professor Sarnu…,” said Mitchell. Pitcairn nodded. Mitchell’s waved open hand gestured that Pitcairn should continue.

“My proposed paper will postulate…”

“Speculate or suggest. It’s only an hypothesis,” Wiseman suggested. Mitchell’s sidelong glance towards his colleague asked for no further interruption and at the same time expressed surprise that one so reluctant to attend these proceedings seemed so keen to exert his presence.

“On the contrary,” said Pitcairn. “Postulate,” he repeated assertively, “My proposed paper will postulate that evidence of early hominid presence on Sawu is entirely consistent with similar finds in Indonesia, notably on Flores and also further afield, particularly on Sulawesi and in the Philippines. I will suggest that the finds on Sawu have been instrumental in encouraging a reassessment of previous work and a re-evaluation of the significance of already documented finds. That reassessment will conclude, in my judgment, that there existed a single species of early human who lived throughout the region, continuing into the era beyond the existence of a land bridge to facilitate migration on foot.”

“I am no archaeologist…”

“Indeed.” Pitcairn’s interrupted confirmation of Wiseman status was gently sharp.

“…but it seems to me that if a land bridge existed, the migration could have been completed before it disappeared.”

“If you would allow me to continue…” Pitcairn started to read again. “Finds throughout the region have been dated according to various schema. Our work on Sawu, however, has uncovered no object that definitely predates the era of the land bridge. Equally, we have material that definitely is more recent than the era of the bridge. This recent material, in my opinion, does not exhibit any evolutionary divergence from the earlier material. Now dating of the Sawu material has proved problematic because the island’s climate has for thousands of years interfered with the process of sedimentation. Also, the relative paucity of finds on Sawu means that our evidence cannot be described in anyway as conclusive. But the fact remains that we now have sufficient evidence to postulate that early, dwarf hominids…” Wiseman winced at the word dwarf.” “…were present on Sawu only after the land bridge disappeared.”

“So how did they migrate?” It was Mitchell who interjected prematurely as it happens.

Pitcairn grunted and continued reading. “This leads me to a rather revolutionary…”

“Rather revolutionary…,” repeated Wiseman, with a hint of a giggle and a glance, in turn, at each of the others, as if he might be seeking a reaction from his audience. “Wonderful British understatement.”

Pitcairn grunted again and repeated. “This leads me to a rather revolutionary conclusion that these early hominids migrated by sea.”

“Even from Sulawesi and the Philippines?” Mitchells’ interjection was informed. Pitcairn nodded.

“Across the Wallace line?” Mitchell again was specific. Pitcairn cast a sidelong glance towards the vice-chancellor. The pause he inserted suggested he believed that the insight in Mitchell’s comments proved he had been briefed.

Pitcairn continued. “Indeed. This would necessarily redefine our understanding of the intellectual capabilities of early hominids, in that it would place the development of navigation capability several millennia earlier than previously thought.”

Edward Pitcairn paused here. His intention was to let this ground-breaking idea register with his colleagues. Mitchell was speechless, fully appreciating the idea. Wiseman looked confused. Debbie spoke, “So they sailed…”

“Yes. That is the point.”

“Across the Wallace line?” asked Mitchell again.

Pitcairn nodded.

There was a silence for a moment, during which Debbie rearranged her papers and dug out a new pen from her zipped bag to replace the one that had just run out. The eyes of all three men traced her movements. It was Mitchell who spoke.

“But there is another idea, isn’t there?”

“Indeed, there is,” said Pitcairn, placing his single typed sheet back in his folder.

“…that the Sawu hominids are a separate species…”

“Homo sarnuensis, indeed,” said Pitcairn in a voice that communicated that he had heard it all before. “No evidence at all…”

But I understand that Professor Sarnu will publish this in the near future...” Mitchell had clearly sniffed the perfume of difference, or perhaps the stink of dispute. His change of tack revealed his primary concern of maintaining institutional and indeed international peace. “This would not look good. … And Sarnu, after all, is one of our own, as well.”

Pitcairn said nothing for a while. Then he patted the cover of his folder again, saying, “It’s all in here. The documentation is detailed. But as I have indicated, the paucity of material from the site does not allow anyone, and I stress anyone to make definitive claims of any sort.”

Again, there was a silence. The normally verbose Wiseman, realising he was out of his technical depth, was now clearly consciously deferring to authority. “And when are the conflicting papers to be published? Have you written yours yet?”

Pitcairn smiled a little at Mitchell. “As far as Sarnu is concerned, I don’t know. The last thing he said to me was that he intended to work on it during the dig’s off-season.”

“Meaning now.”

“Yes. As to my own…” Pitcairn again paused.

“There is a problem, isn’t there?” Mitchell was clearly well informed. Pitcairn nodded. “Edward… It seems so… How can I put this…? I’m so sorry…”

Pitcairn did shed a tear or two behind his stoical expression. “You got the report from Khan, no doubt.” His voice quivered.

Mitchell nodded. “Edward… I am so sorry… What can one say?”

“Very little, actually,” said Pitcairn, almost completing Mitchell’s phrase. “The results are clear. The prognosis is beyond reasonable doubt.” There followed a prolonged silence. Pitcairn cast a glance toward Wiseman, who clearly had been briefed, as, also clearly, had Debbie. They both maintained a calculated and advised silence.

“How long…”

“A week… Two… Three… A month… Two… Three… A year…”

The shrug was one of powerlessness, not ignorance. He turned immediately towards Wiseman, who was looking uncharacteristically confused, so much so that Pitcairn clearly believed it to be a calculated front. But it was Mitchell who spoke.

“Larry has been briefed,” he said, as Wiseman nodded, gently and silently, his expression now admitting prior knowledge.

“But it is my intention to finish the paper and publish…”

Mitchell allowed the pause to change the subject, despite his incongruous and wholly inappropriate use of a conjunction to effect his aim. “And I understand there has been a problem at the site…”

“Sarnu and I have fallen out. We are at rock bottom.” Wiseman actually smiled, possibly recalling his recent consultations with dictionaries of contemporary gay slang, which might just have offered an alternative interpretation of the phrase.

Mitchell by contrast was totally serious. It was his turn to open the folder he had brought to the meeting and extend the single sheet that he had previously placed on top of the other documents inside, knowing that, when it was required, ease of access and speedy delivery would be essential. It was a typed sheet on pre-printed, multicoloured headed note paper that sported shields, emblems in red and white with decorative outlines in green.

Pitcairn obviously recognized immediately the large print letters at the head as the Bahasa Indonesia name of a government ministry. “I have received this from the Ministry of Culture. It is self-explanatory.” He passed the letter across to Pitcairn who scanned the text, focusing on the foot of the page.

“It says here there is a cc to me. I have not received it.”

“Perhaps it is back in Yogyakarta. It seems you had set off on your leave by the time it was posted to you.”

Pitcairn read the letter, which was surprisingly in English. It was couched in that stilted utterly prolix, formal language that Bahasa-speaking bureaucrats adopt to enhance the status of their pronouncements.

“I thought this might be coming…”

“Basically, Edward…” Mitchell’s resort to the forename was a calculated act of simultaneous solidarity and distance, a separation from the former professional relationship between the men which, as a result of the letter, clearly no longer existed and a simultaneous offer of solidarity via familiarity, which in other circumstances might be confused with friendship. “…they want you out. It says clearly that the ministry will offer no further support to your presence there. And without that support…”

“They will cut off the funding to you.”

“And to you.”

“And Sarnu?”

Mitchell shrugged. “That’s between them and him. Nothing to do with us. It seems there was an inspection…”

Pitcairn laughed. “A bureaucratic fart with all the imagination of a dead ant.”

Mitchell smiled. “Be that as it may… The report detailed ‘irregularities’ according to the letter, irregularities that called into question the competence of the foreign management and its willingness to uphold national rules.” Mitchell read from his own monochrome copy.

“Bullshit.”

It was Wiseman who spoke. “Professor Pitcairn, we live in a postcolonial world. We can no longer visit former colonies and expect to impose our values on local inhabitants. It is our duty always to respect local cultures, local traditions, local religions, and not discriminate against anyone on the basis of social class, race, gender or sexuality.”

“Frankly, they would like to chop the balls of gays… Nothing personal, of course. It’s all bullshit. Sarnu set this up. I know it. He wants me out.”

“Professor Pitcairn,” said Wiseman, adopting a tone that announced its intention to patronise, “it is the right of the people of Indonesia to make…”

“Oh, shut up. Don’t you dare claim you have the voice of the people of Indonesia! I’ve lived there a dozen years! Have you even visited the place you seem to claim as your own? Hmm? Hmm?” Pitcairn was incandescent with rage. Wiseman, wisely, did not react. “This has nothing to do with ‘people’ other than Onggo Sarnu. He wants me out so he can stick his name onto a new species, a new species which ought to bear the label specious, because there is no evidence for it. And that’s all! And it looks like he has succeeded. It seems I am on my way out in more ways than one!”

There was another long silence, this one uncomfortable for everyone present. Mitchell and Wiseman eyed one another, silently agreeing that the lull in proceedings had lasted too long. Both men looked at Debbie, who was twiddling her pen to pass the time, as if it were a marching band baton in miniature.

“Would you like me to get you some water, Professor Pitcairn?” Debbie asked.

Edward shook his head, but it was not a response to her question. He opened his file and began to search through the papers inside, without actually looking at any of the contents. It was Mitchell who spoke, quietly, not without sympathy for his colleague. “Do you intend to go back?”

Again, Edward Pitcairn shook his head. This time it was an answer. He was fighting tears. “No,” he said, eventually, his single word seeming to ring through the silence. He paused again for what seemed like an age and then continued. “There’s no time. I have to be here. I have… things to arrange…Gemma…the house…”

“Unfortunately, Edward,” said Mitchell, “Dr. Wiseman has something to say.”

Larry Wiseman took the hospital pass in his stride and began to issue what was clearly a rehearsed pitch. “Professor Pitcairn, you will be aware that the status of your former department has been…shall we say…precarious. Student numbers have fallen, as has demand for the course. We have been unable to appoint…”

“That’s because you have advertised teaching-only contracts for a discipline where anyone with the slightest competence is only interested in research! What do you expect? It wasn’t an advert for a job. It was a dagger to kill off a discipline!”

“We have not been able to fund archaeological research for some time… other than, of course, your own project, which has largely been covered by the Ministry of Culture in Indonesia and the department in Yogyakarta.”

“So, with me out of the way, there’s no department left at Hackney Metro.”

“What I was about to explain…”

“…was that archaeology will no longer be offered in any form at this university. My department is finished. You’re closing it down.”

“Your Emeritus status will be preserved,” said Mitchell.

“Unlike the Emeritus, himself.” Edward Pitcairn’s expression looked suddenly tired, worn out, though still impatient. “I’ll leave this with you,” he said passing his now closed file over to Debbie. “And I suppose you’ll be in touch.”

Mitchell nodded and, in just a few short seconds, Edward Pitcairn had stood and walked as far as the door. “I know my way out,” he said, as he left both the room and the institution where he had worked for forty years, never now to return.