throat. Claire listened to the deep vowels of Jennifer’s words, heard the glottal stop she had caught from new friends. She shivered.
Alan didn’t ask Claire to come with him. He didn’t even tell her that he had been called for an interview. He didn’t think that she deserved to know, quite frankly. It was a rush job, anyway. He had to work on the thesis right up to the last minute, and he would, he knew, have to start preparing for the viva on the way home. It was only on the long and devious bus journey from Oxford to Stranraer that he had a chance to organise himself for the interview. He sat two rows from the back of the bus, muttering his presentation to himself and eating sour-cream-and-chive Pringles, four at a time.
The interview was in the central teaching block. They haddone it up since he was a student. The corridors were clean and echoed as he walked along them. The room was on the third floor. There was an empty seat outside. Alan could hear low voices from behind the door. He sat down, glad for the chance to catch his breath, and waited to be called. After ten minutes had passed and he was beginning seriously to wonder if he was in the wrong place, the door opened and a young, tired-looking woman came out, a leather folder clutched under her arm. “Good luck,” she said. Alan smiled at her.
There were five people on the panel, three of whom he didn’t recognise. Professor Hughes was there, and Dr. McIlveen, but they seemed to be pretending that they didn’t remember him. Professional distance, Alan thought, persuading himself not to be offended. Only appropriate in the circumstances. He settled down into his plastic chair, crossed his legs, listened attentively to their questions. He described his thesis, his articles, and the imminence of their publication. As he spoke, his eyes flickered from face to face, to the cream-painted wall, to the blue squares of carpet on the floor, back to the faces.
The interview passed quickly. He enjoyed it, on the whole. It was good to flex his new-won qualifications in front of his former tutors. He hadn’t quite forgiven them his 2.1. If he had got the results he’d deserved back then, he would have almost certainly been awarded full funding for the Ph.D., if not for the B.Phil. He wouldn’t have had to scrape by all these years on his parents’ meagre allowance.
It was a bit of a rush to catch the bus back. He didn’t have time to visit his mum, so he didn’t call her. It would only complicate things. And things were complicated enough already. Claire was preying on his mind. Whenever he thoughtof her, he found himself gritting his teeth. It had started to give him headaches. He had been good to her, he thought, so she should, in return, be good to him. And she most certainly wasn’t being, not at the moment. He was going to have to put her straight. She couldn’t go on neglecting him like this. But that row would have to wait. Right now, he had to get straight back to Oxford. He had to knuckle down and concentrate on the viva. That had to be his priority. He could deal with the Claire thing afterwards.
He bought refreshments at the Spar on Bradbury Place. Striding down into town, towards the docks, a green-red-and-white carrier bag swinging from his hand, he smiled to himself, smiled at the women that passed by him. Travelling light, Claire-less, he felt cool and confident and sexy. He passed new cafés, new bars that had opened since he’d left for Oxford. He noticed the customers: affluent, chic, besuited, and he thought to himself, Belfast, at last, is catching up with me. Belfast is getting ready. It is almost time to come back. In the low autumn light the city looked, he thought, almost beautiful.
During the crossing, he munched Tayto cheese-and-onion crisps and swigged brown lemonade from a two-litre bottle, oblivious to the rock and swell of the boat. He ate and drank as a salute, a communion. He found himself feeling tearful, and even a
Alan didn’t ask Claire to come with him. He didn’t even tell her that he had been called for an interview. He didn’t think that she deserved to know, quite frankly. It was a rush job, anyway. He had to work on the thesis right up to the last minute, and he would, he knew, have to start preparing for the viva on the way home. It was only on the long and devious bus journey from Oxford to Stranraer that he had a chance to organise himself for the interview. He sat two rows from the back of the bus, muttering his presentation to himself and eating sour-cream-and-chive Pringles, four at a time.
The interview was in the central teaching block. They haddone it up since he was a student. The corridors were clean and echoed as he walked along them. The room was on the third floor. There was an empty seat outside. Alan could hear low voices from behind the door. He sat down, glad for the chance to catch his breath, and waited to be called. After ten minutes had passed and he was beginning seriously to wonder if he was in the wrong place, the door opened and a young, tired-looking woman came out, a leather folder clutched under her arm. “Good luck,” she said. Alan smiled at her.
There were five people on the panel, three of whom he didn’t recognise. Professor Hughes was there, and Dr. McIlveen, but they seemed to be pretending that they didn’t remember him. Professional distance, Alan thought, persuading himself not to be offended. Only appropriate in the circumstances. He settled down into his plastic chair, crossed his legs, listened attentively to their questions. He described his thesis, his articles, and the imminence of their publication. As he spoke, his eyes flickered from face to face, to the cream-painted wall, to the blue squares of carpet on the floor, back to the faces.
The interview passed quickly. He enjoyed it, on the whole. It was good to flex his new-won qualifications in front of his former tutors. He hadn’t quite forgiven them his 2.1. If he had got the results he’d deserved back then, he would have almost certainly been awarded full funding for the Ph.D., if not for the B.Phil. He wouldn’t have had to scrape by all these years on his parents’ meagre allowance.
It was a bit of a rush to catch the bus back. He didn’t have time to visit his mum, so he didn’t call her. It would only complicate things. And things were complicated enough already. Claire was preying on his mind. Whenever he thoughtof her, he found himself gritting his teeth. It had started to give him headaches. He had been good to her, he thought, so she should, in return, be good to him. And she most certainly wasn’t being, not at the moment. He was going to have to put her straight. She couldn’t go on neglecting him like this. But that row would have to wait. Right now, he had to get straight back to Oxford. He had to knuckle down and concentrate on the viva. That had to be his priority. He could deal with the Claire thing afterwards.
He bought refreshments at the Spar on Bradbury Place. Striding down into town, towards the docks, a green-red-and-white carrier bag swinging from his hand, he smiled to himself, smiled at the women that passed by him. Travelling light, Claire-less, he felt cool and confident and sexy. He passed new cafés, new bars that had opened since he’d left for Oxford. He noticed the customers: affluent, chic, besuited, and he thought to himself, Belfast, at last, is catching up with me. Belfast is getting ready. It is almost time to come back. In the low autumn light the city looked, he thought, almost beautiful.
During the crossing, he munched Tayto cheese-and-onion crisps and swigged brown lemonade from a two-litre bottle, oblivious to the rock and swell of the boat. He ate and drank as a salute, a communion. He found himself feeling tearful, and even a
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