The Daydreamer by Ian McEwan Page A

as peculiar and as difficult to under- stand, as all grown-ups seemed to him now. And with these sad thoughts he drifted into sleep.
    The following morning Peter Fortune woke from troubled dreams to find himself transformed into a giant person, an adult. He tried to move his arms and legs, but they were heavy and the effort was too much for him so early in the day. So he lay still and listened to the birds outside his window and looked about him. His room was much the same, though it did seem a great deal smaller. His mouth was dry, he had a headache and he was feeling a little dizzy. It hurt when he blinked. He had drunk too much wine the night before, he realised. And perhaps he had eaten too much as well, because his stomach felt tight. And he had been talking too much, because his throat was sore.
    He groaned and rolled over on to his back. He made a huge effort and managed to raise his arm and get his hand to his face so that he could rub his eyes. The skin along the line of his jaw rasped under his touch like sandpaper. He would have to get up and shave before he could do anything else. And he would have to make a move because there were things that needed doing, errands to run, jobs to do. But before he could stir, he was startled by the sight of his hand. It was covered in thick black curly hairs! He stared at this great fat thing with its sausage-sized fingers and began to laugh. Even the knuckles sprouted hairs. The more he looked at it, especially when he clenched it, the more it resembled a toilet brush.
    He got himself upright and sat on the edge of the bed. He was naked. His body was hard, bony and hairy all over, with new muscles in his arms and legs. When at last he stood up he almost cracked his head on one of the low beams of his attic room. ‘This is ridic …’ he started to say, but his own voice astonished him. It sounded like a cross between a lawn- mower and a fog horn. I need to brush my teeth and gargle, he thought. As he crossed the room to the hand-basin, the floorboards creaked under his weight. His knee joints felt thicker, stiffer. When he got to the basin, he had to cling to it while he examined his face in the mirror. With its mask of black stubble, it looked like an ape was staring back at him.
    He found he knew just what to do when it came to shaving. He had watched his father often enough. When he had finished, the face looked a little more like his own. In fact rather better, less puffy than his eleven-year-old face, with a proud jaw and a bold stare. Rather handsome, he thought.
    He dressed in the clothes that were lying on a chair and went downstairs. Everyone’s going to get a shock, he thought, when they see I’ve grown ten years older and a foot longer in the night. But of the three adults slouched round the breakfast table, only Gwendoline glanced up at him with a flash of brilliant green eyes, and quickly looked away. His parents simply muttered G’morning, and went on reading their papers. Peter felt strange in his stomach. He poured his coffee and took up the paper that was folded by his plate and scanned the front page. A strike, a scandal about guns, and a meeting of the leaders of several important countries. He found he knew the names of all the presidents and min- isters and he knew their stories and what they were after. His stomach still felt odd. He sipped the coffee. It tasted foul, as if burnt cardboard had been mashed up and boiled in bathwater. He went on sipping anyway because he didn’t want anyone to think that he was really eleven years old.
    Peter finished his toast and stood up. Through the window he could see The Beach Gang running along the shoreline towards the cave. What a waste of energy so early in the day!
    ‘I’m going to phone my work,’ Peter announced importantly to the room, ‘and I’m going to go for a stroll.’ Was there ever anything duller and more grown-up than a stroll? His father grunted. His mother said, ‘Fine,’ and Gwendoline