value, not even to himself; and if the chain of circumstances which we have been following had obliged him to perform a premature and involuntary suicide, that would have been fine by him. As he stood on that window ledge, poised between Amanda in the bedroom behind him, and Paul and two watchful policemen in the garden beneath, he was half inclined to jump. He could easily have jumped.
What, then, prevented him? Well, he was prevented, as it happened, by the bursting of a water-pipe the previous evening in a house four miles away on the other side of Sheffield. The explanation, had Lawrence ever heard it, would doubtless have pleased him. The house in question was the property of one Norman Lunt, who made his living by teaching maths at the secondary school which stood in the street just opposite the front garden of Paul’s home. As a consequence of having had to spend the whole evening mopping up water from his kitchen floor, Mr Lunt was now behind with his marking, and had no less than thirty-four sets of homework to get through during his lunch hour. Finding himself distracted from this task by an extremely noisy and foul-mouthed game of football which was taking place in the playground just outside the staffroom window, he had told the players, in no uncertain terms, to go away and continue their game elsewhere. Thus it was that these six children went to finish off the match at the very edge of the playground, near the road, where they never normally would have thought of playing; so that when one of their number, a promising young inside-right called Peter, took a flying shot at goal from well within his opponents’ half (which means that he would probably in any case have been offside), the ball soared straight over the fence, gathering speed and height, and hit Lawrence in the pit of the stomach just as he was about to jump. He was sent reeling backwards and had crashed down onto the bed before he even knew what was happening.
‘Are you all right?’ Amanda said. ‘Are you safe?’
She took him in her arms and held him tight. And Lawrence was shocked, more shocked than he had ever been in his life, by the fervour in her voice, by the depth of feeling which it betrayed, by the warmth and firmness of her arms as they clasped him and rocked him gently. He looked at her face, which was tearful, and wondered who she was and why she seemed to care so much for him. And he wondered, too, how this unexpected development would fit into his theory. He thought and he thought, as she rocked him back and forth, but still he could not decide whether everything he believed had, at a stroke, been disproved, or whether all that it meant was that another decision, perhaps the most important yet, had just been made on his behalf.
Emma’s first impulse on finishing the story was to telephone Robin. She was quite convinced that it could not be used against him, but she would like to have had certain questions clarified, there and then: there was something about it which left her uncomfortable, something about its intention, its position, which she did not understand. She could either go to the nearest call box, or she could wait until she got home; the problem with the second of these options, of course, was that Mark would probably listen in to the conversation. In a more lucid, or calmer moment, she would have stopped to consider how odd it was that she felt embarrassed at the thought of her husband listening to her as she made a business call to a client. But now, she did not even pause to reflect on the assumption which must have lain behind this embarrassment: the assumption that her husband would not have liked Robin, would not have liked him at all, had they met.
And so she attempted to phone Robin from a call box on her way back to Coventry; but there was no answer.
Two streets away from home, she parked the car for about ten minutes and sat in the dark, rehearsing her lines in the forthcoming argument. Where have you
What, then, prevented him? Well, he was prevented, as it happened, by the bursting of a water-pipe the previous evening in a house four miles away on the other side of Sheffield. The explanation, had Lawrence ever heard it, would doubtless have pleased him. The house in question was the property of one Norman Lunt, who made his living by teaching maths at the secondary school which stood in the street just opposite the front garden of Paul’s home. As a consequence of having had to spend the whole evening mopping up water from his kitchen floor, Mr Lunt was now behind with his marking, and had no less than thirty-four sets of homework to get through during his lunch hour. Finding himself distracted from this task by an extremely noisy and foul-mouthed game of football which was taking place in the playground just outside the staffroom window, he had told the players, in no uncertain terms, to go away and continue their game elsewhere. Thus it was that these six children went to finish off the match at the very edge of the playground, near the road, where they never normally would have thought of playing; so that when one of their number, a promising young inside-right called Peter, took a flying shot at goal from well within his opponents’ half (which means that he would probably in any case have been offside), the ball soared straight over the fence, gathering speed and height, and hit Lawrence in the pit of the stomach just as he was about to jump. He was sent reeling backwards and had crashed down onto the bed before he even knew what was happening.
‘Are you all right?’ Amanda said. ‘Are you safe?’
She took him in her arms and held him tight. And Lawrence was shocked, more shocked than he had ever been in his life, by the fervour in her voice, by the depth of feeling which it betrayed, by the warmth and firmness of her arms as they clasped him and rocked him gently. He looked at her face, which was tearful, and wondered who she was and why she seemed to care so much for him. And he wondered, too, how this unexpected development would fit into his theory. He thought and he thought, as she rocked him back and forth, but still he could not decide whether everything he believed had, at a stroke, been disproved, or whether all that it meant was that another decision, perhaps the most important yet, had just been made on his behalf.
Emma’s first impulse on finishing the story was to telephone Robin. She was quite convinced that it could not be used against him, but she would like to have had certain questions clarified, there and then: there was something about it which left her uncomfortable, something about its intention, its position, which she did not understand. She could either go to the nearest call box, or she could wait until she got home; the problem with the second of these options, of course, was that Mark would probably listen in to the conversation. In a more lucid, or calmer moment, she would have stopped to consider how odd it was that she felt embarrassed at the thought of her husband listening to her as she made a business call to a client. But now, she did not even pause to reflect on the assumption which must have lain behind this embarrassment: the assumption that her husband would not have liked Robin, would not have liked him at all, had they met.
And so she attempted to phone Robin from a call box on her way back to Coventry; but there was no answer.
Two streets away from home, she parked the car for about ten minutes and sat in the dark, rehearsing her lines in the forthcoming argument. Where have you
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