habit.”
“Once won’t matter. She’s only six.”
“If we go, will you come? It would be lovely if we could all go.”
“I can’t,” I said. “The University …”
“… would disapprove.”
“To put it mildly. I’d be breaking my contract. Sorry.”
“I kind of figured that. Would you mind very much if we went without you?”
“Yes,” I said, “but I’ll get by. It’ll be good for Alice. She should see your folks more often. And they’ll love you both being there for Thanksgiving.”
“We’ll only be gone a week,” Emily said. “And we’ll be together here at Christmas, just the three of us.”
“I can hardly wait,” I said, and I meant it, not a trace of irony in there.
Before the sweeter, kinder dreams came the one from which, for a long time, I thought I would never escape, the dream that toppled my world, that stifled the born-again Alan and left the dead me in his place. It was my dream, but it was about Alan.
He was in his office at the University, with a stack of essays waiting to be read. A long evening lay ahead. The weather was grey and drizzly. He drank black coffee from a flask, marked a couple of essays. Outside it grew dark. He drank more coffee, looked at his watch. Six o’clock. They’d flown to London from Edinburgh that afternoon. He thought of them queuing at the gate, boarding the plane, waiting for take-off. He marked a few more essays. Some rain splatted on the window. He looked at his watch again. Just after seven. They would be airborne. He thought of them up there above therain. Then what, in this dream? A jolt, a strange rearrangement of the air, some paranormal flicker? He poured the last of the coffee, turned to the next essay. Very bad handwriting (I can see it still): good student, bad writing. He began to decipher it. The phone rang. He reached across the desk and picked it up.
“Alan? It’s Jim.” Jim Collins, his Welsh realist colleague, analyst of male anger and angst in post-war working-class fiction, Barstow, Sillitoe, Storey, Hines, all that. Jim was Alan’s senior by a few years, not that they noticed the difference. He had a daughter, Lisa, the same age as Alice; they were at the same school. He had two sons as well, older, and an ex-wife on the other side of town, and they all seemed to get on fine between the two households. Jim had a cool, commanding way of speaking. He said, “Alan, didn’t you tell me the other day that Emily and Alice were going to be flying to the States?”
“Yes,” he said. “They’ve gone already.”
“They’ve gone? Good. Thank God for that.”
“Actually, they should be in the air right now. They were flying this evening from Heathrow.”
In the dream the words “they should be in the air right now” repeated several times, the emphasis shifting along the line like a crow hopping along a wall. The crow bounced up and down on “right now.”
“Heathrow?” Jim’s voice had suddenly lost its authority. “Shit.”
“What?” Alan said. In the dream he wasn’t perturbed. Why would he have been? “Shit” was such a small, unimportantword. “Shit happens,” and similar phrases. He said, “What’s up?”
“There’s been a report on the radio. A plane crash in the Borders. They’re saying it’s a transatlantic flight from Heathrow. I don’t know if that’s right, but that’s what they’re saying.”
“On the radio?” Alan said. “Where are you?”
“I’m at home. I’m going to put the TV on. I’ll phone you back.”
In the dream Jim Collins hung up. In the dream Alan Tealing paused, wondering what to do. Even then he wasn’t really worried. A plane crash in the Borders had nothing to do with him. Emily and Alice had
left
Scotland, to go to America. There was no radio or TV in his office. He was half an hour from home if he walked, ten minutes by bus if there was a bus. He wasn’t thinking of taxis, not yet. He looked at the essay again, deciphered a few more lines of the
“Once won’t matter. She’s only six.”
“If we go, will you come? It would be lovely if we could all go.”
“I can’t,” I said. “The University …”
“… would disapprove.”
“To put it mildly. I’d be breaking my contract. Sorry.”
“I kind of figured that. Would you mind very much if we went without you?”
“Yes,” I said, “but I’ll get by. It’ll be good for Alice. She should see your folks more often. And they’ll love you both being there for Thanksgiving.”
“We’ll only be gone a week,” Emily said. “And we’ll be together here at Christmas, just the three of us.”
“I can hardly wait,” I said, and I meant it, not a trace of irony in there.
Before the sweeter, kinder dreams came the one from which, for a long time, I thought I would never escape, the dream that toppled my world, that stifled the born-again Alan and left the dead me in his place. It was my dream, but it was about Alan.
He was in his office at the University, with a stack of essays waiting to be read. A long evening lay ahead. The weather was grey and drizzly. He drank black coffee from a flask, marked a couple of essays. Outside it grew dark. He drank more coffee, looked at his watch. Six o’clock. They’d flown to London from Edinburgh that afternoon. He thought of them queuing at the gate, boarding the plane, waiting for take-off. He marked a few more essays. Some rain splatted on the window. He looked at his watch again. Just after seven. They would be airborne. He thought of them up there above therain. Then what, in this dream? A jolt, a strange rearrangement of the air, some paranormal flicker? He poured the last of the coffee, turned to the next essay. Very bad handwriting (I can see it still): good student, bad writing. He began to decipher it. The phone rang. He reached across the desk and picked it up.
“Alan? It’s Jim.” Jim Collins, his Welsh realist colleague, analyst of male anger and angst in post-war working-class fiction, Barstow, Sillitoe, Storey, Hines, all that. Jim was Alan’s senior by a few years, not that they noticed the difference. He had a daughter, Lisa, the same age as Alice; they were at the same school. He had two sons as well, older, and an ex-wife on the other side of town, and they all seemed to get on fine between the two households. Jim had a cool, commanding way of speaking. He said, “Alan, didn’t you tell me the other day that Emily and Alice were going to be flying to the States?”
“Yes,” he said. “They’ve gone already.”
“They’ve gone? Good. Thank God for that.”
“Actually, they should be in the air right now. They were flying this evening from Heathrow.”
In the dream the words “they should be in the air right now” repeated several times, the emphasis shifting along the line like a crow hopping along a wall. The crow bounced up and down on “right now.”
“Heathrow?” Jim’s voice had suddenly lost its authority. “Shit.”
“What?” Alan said. In the dream he wasn’t perturbed. Why would he have been? “Shit” was such a small, unimportantword. “Shit happens,” and similar phrases. He said, “What’s up?”
“There’s been a report on the radio. A plane crash in the Borders. They’re saying it’s a transatlantic flight from Heathrow. I don’t know if that’s right, but that’s what they’re saying.”
“On the radio?” Alan said. “Where are you?”
“I’m at home. I’m going to put the TV on. I’ll phone you back.”
In the dream Jim Collins hung up. In the dream Alan Tealing paused, wondering what to do. Even then he wasn’t really worried. A plane crash in the Borders had nothing to do with him. Emily and Alice had
left
Scotland, to go to America. There was no radio or TV in his office. He was half an hour from home if he walked, ten minutes by bus if there was a bus. He wasn’t thinking of taxis, not yet. He looked at the essay again, deciphered a few more lines of the
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