This was a surprise to Laura.
‘Are you, Nick? I didn’t know.’
‘Haven’t you ever heard Nick sing Elvis?’
Nick was grinning and shaking his head, but now all the party set up a clamour.
‘Elvis! Elvis! Elvis!’
Laura thought he didn’t like it and was about to stop the chant when she caught an apologetic smile flashed at her and realized he was going to do it.
‘I’ll get you later for this, Franco, you traitor.’
He rose to his feet and adopted a mock opera-singer pose, holding out his hands towards Laura. Then he started to sing. To Laura’s utter amazement his voice was deep and true, not quite Elvis, but not at all comical. She realized she was not going to be able to stop herself crying.
‘Love me tender, love me sweet,
Never let me go.
You have made my life complete
And I love you so.
Love me tender, love me true,
All my dreams fulfil.
For my darling I love you
And I always will.’
She took him in her arms and kissed him, pressing her wet cheeks to his, and all their friends cheered. He had said to her in song words he had never said before, words she had longed for him to say.
He gave her his birthday present. It was a walnut tied up with a slender red ribbon. Inside the hollowed-out nut was a pair of silver and agate earrings.
‘Oh, Nick. They’re so beautiful.’
And he had chosen them. He had searched the shelves of jewellers’ shops with her in his mind, looking for the adornment that would become her.
She put the earrings on then and there, attaching to herself as she did so his publicly-declared love. She was still crying tears of happiness.
Later that day Nick and Laura went to the photobooth on the station concourse and took pictures of each other. In Nick’s strip of four pictures he looked smiling, then solemn, then he turned his head in profile and looked sideways at the camera, then he had his eyes shut. In Laura’s four pictures she wore her new earrings and looked this way and that, and smiled, and wanted to be as lovely as possible. His pictures were for her, and her pictures were for him. But then, everything was for him. Her radiant beauty, her happiness, her body, her soul.
That night he told her he might go to New York. There was a possible job in a small art gallery there from September. Laura wondered to herself how they would manage things but trusted they would find a way. September seemed very far off.
23
In the small hours of Thursday morning the last of the moonlight finds Alan Strachan at his desk, lit by the lesser moon of his computer screen, in the very moment of completion; which is also the very moment at which euphoria turns to despair. All night long, buoyed up by a raging flaming conviction that he has found the answer, that he has only to keep pace with the demon of invention and chase the words from keyboard to screen, he has breathed fierce new life into his failed play. Now, the task done, the night almost over, the adrenalin that has flooded his nervous system is draining away, and his sleep-deprived body is turning on him to take its revenge.
Don’t listen don’t believe only because I’m tired. Sleep now.
He runs from the room, not stopping to close down the computer, and throws himself fully dressed onto his bed, pleading for oblivion to save him. Tormented by tiredness but wide awake, he lies on the bed, thrashing from side to side, helpless to resist the sucking away of his precious store of conviction.
Why did I think how could I believe why can’t I see but I see too much and too clearly. My poor man’s wisdom made infantile by my sad man’s comedy. Cruel to let me hope so much for so long. And what now? What other life to live? What other dream to dream? No, no more dreams. Only dull plodding reality. Build on the ugly concrete foundation of truth. The play is a failure, always will be. The years of struggle the product of vanity and self-delusion. But cruel to let it last so long. Cruel to leave me with so little, and so tired. Cruel to deny me sleep.
So he sleeps.
When he wakes, it’s full daylight, and checking his watch he finds he’s missed most of morning assembly. Fortunately he’s already dressed, though neither having slept properly nor breakfasted at all he feels like shit and looks the same way. There’ll be coffee in the staff room.
As he shambles blinking through the school’s front hall to the sanctuary he seeks, a parent looms up before him.
‘I’m told you’re Mr Strachan,’ he says.
‘The rumour is correct.’
But the parent does not smile.
‘Is there somewhere we can talk for a moment?’
They go into the school office, currently empty, and there stupid as a doll he stands nodding and grinning when all he wants is a mug of coffee and an armchair.
‘It’s about my son Jack. He wrote a composition for you, about a dream.’
Alan Strachan struggles to remember. Nothing whatsoever comes to mind.
‘Oh. Right.’
‘You criticized his punctuation. I’m not saying you were wrong to do that. But punctuation! I mean, it’s not such a big deal, surely?’
The man seems to be angry.
‘I’m sorry. I don’t quite follow you.’
‘A child brings you his dream. There’s more there than punctuation. He’s offering you, well, his soul, really. Doesn’t that deserve more from you than “Could do better”? Look, I’m trying not to sound like a pushy parent. Forget he’s my son. He could be anyone’s child. He could be Shakespeare. He could be Milton. You have the power to make him feel that. And what do you tell him? “Could do better.” He’s eleven years old! He’s not some tired old hack slogging along for a pay cheque like the rest of us. He’s a child. Let him have his dreams.’
The words pay cheque hold Alan Strachan’s attention.
‘If I’ve let your son down,’ he says, ‘I’m sorry. I’m sure you expect and deserve better service for your money.’
‘I don’t want service. Jesus, money! It rots everything it touches. Listen, all I’m saying is believe in him. Don’t let his dreams perish.’
Alan Strachan becomes aware that the children are streaming into the hall. Assembly is over, and the noise is indescribable as always. For once the babel of unbroken voices is welcome. Too much reality too early in the day.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Yes, of course you’re right.’
‘Well, that’s all I wanted to say. Who was it who wrote, “Tread softly, you tread on my dreams”?’
He holds out his hand.
‘Yeats.’
Alan Strachan allows his hand to be shaken. Passing children stare and giggle. The parent strides out through the swinging doors, scattering blue-blazered infants as he goes. Alan Strachan is about to continue on his interrupted way to the staff room when the Headmaster’s voice snags him.
‘Oh, Alan. Did I see you in assembly?’
‘Sorry, Alastair. Running a little late this morning.’
‘There’s a parent looking for you.’
‘Yes. I know.’
The staff room already a jostle of colleagues. He moves in a trance towards the trolley. Jimmy Hall is pouring from the coffee jug, holding it at a dismayingly acute angle.
‘Morning Alan.’
The last of the coffee trickles from the spout. Jimmy Hall beams over his brimming mug.
‘Have you seen the local rag?’
‘No.’
‘I’ve started doing the odd bit for them. Local items, uncredited, nothing to set the Thames on fire. Thought it might interest my Year Threes.’
‘Right.’
‘How daily life turns into news. What’s newsworthy and what’s not. I’m learning a lot myself, to tell you the truth.’
Alan Strachan leaves the staff room, feeling giddy and a little nauseous. Barely ten minutes to go before his first class. He heads across the lawn towards the tennis courts, wanting only to be alone.
I coul
d have been Shakespeare. I could have been Milton. Don’t let my dreams perish.
It seems to him now that the parent was a product of his imagination, an accusing voice conjured up by himself from his own nightmares. No sleep, no toast, no coffee, and he’s hallucinating in the school hall. The angry father is himself, and the child whose dreams he seeks to protect, that child too is himself.
I bring myself my dream. I offer my soul. I could do better.
As if I didn’t know.
‘Alan!’
Fucking Alastair. Is there nowhere I can be alone?
‘Alan! That parent who wants a word with you is still waiting.’
‘I’ve seen him.’
‘Her. She’s in the library.’
‘Oh.’
I am bound upon a wheel of fire. What are the chances that this new female rebuker has a Thermos of hot black coffee? Not great, pal. Not great.
He pushes his unruly hair into token order, and tries but fails to lift his shoulders out of their defeated slouch. He feels as he makes his way to the library as if his skeleton no longer has enough rigidity to support him. His eyes sting.
She’s standing in the bay window, looking out at the Downs. He remembers her, she’s the single parent. He retrieves the name. Dickinson.
‘Mr Strachan.’
‘Yes.’
‘I know it’s not a good time. But I really would like a word about Alice.’
‘Right. Right.’
‘How do you find her this term? Do you think she’s coping all right?’
‘Well, I don’t see – yes, as far as that goes – I mean, you know, everyone has their ups and downs.’
He sits down on one of the child-sized chairs, a little more suddenly than he intended. Alice’s mother seems surprised. She does not sit, even though there are plenty of other child-sized chairs. She looks down at him, frowning.
‘How do you think she’s getting on with the other girls in her class?’
‘The other girls? Oh, not too badly, I think. They’re not a bad crowd.’
‘So she has friends?’
‘Oh, yes. Yes.’
‘Who?’
‘Who?’
‘I mean, which of the girls in the class would you describe as Alice’s friends?’
He closes his eyes. They sting when he looks at her, because behind her is the bright glare of the bay window.
‘You know how girls are. They change friends daily. God only knows who it is today. Ask Alice.’
‘I have asked Alice.’
Her voice sounds odd. He knows he should open his eyes but he can’t. He wants to lay his head on the table.
‘You don’t have the first idea, do you?’
Oh, please. Take me away. Bury me.
‘You’ve been her form teacher for almost three terms and you don’t even know how unhappy she is.’
So much unhappiness. The blind leading the blind. Bury my heart at Portland Place.
‘She’s unhappy?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’re all unhappy.’
Did I say that aloud?
‘What did you say?’
He opens his eyes. His eyes sting so much. He can’t stop them watering. What might look to an outsider like tears start rolling down his cheeks.
I could have been Shakespeare. I could have been Milton.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry.’
She’s sitting down on a child-sized chair. No longer silhouetted by bright distance.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I’m so sorry. I’ll stop in a minute.’
‘Would you rather talk about this later?’
Her voice is changed. She’s become hesitant, gentle. Unfortunately this has a loosening effect on the remains of his self-control. He bows his head and weeps freely.
‘This isn’t about Alice.’
He gives a small shake of his bowed head.
‘You’re unhappy.’
A small nod.
‘I’m sorry. I’ve chosen the wrong moment.’
She gives him a cotton handkerchief. He wipes away his tears. Humiliating, to cry in front of a parent. Pull yourself together.
He looks up, tries a smile. Now that she’s on his level he can see her face. A friendly face.
‘I’ll keep an eye on her today,’ he says. ‘I’ll let you know.’
‘Right.’
She stands.
‘My number’s on the school list. I’m usually out, but there’s an answering machine that has my mobile number.’
Now she’s leaving, and he hasn’t even stood up.
‘You’re right, Mr Strachan. We’re all unhappy.’
24
The satisfaction of driving a car on the public roads is that you know where you are. There’s the geography of it, to start with; you can say, without any ambiguity, that you’re proceeding west on the long straight of the A27, and therefore that you will arrive in a few short minutes at the Edenfield roundabout. This is a prediction that will come true. Roads are reliable, they behave as advertised. Important not to overlook the solace of this simple fact. After all, how many ventures in life promise one outcome and deliver another?
Then there’s the social justice of it. Those who drive on public roads submit themselves to the absolute authority of a set of laws. These laws admit no exception. They control the actions of rich and poor alike. They establish, in any situation of conflict, who is right and who is wrong. The driver who finds his road crossed by a broken white line as he approaches a junction must give way to the driver who has clear tarmac before him. The lesser road gives way to the greater. This means that even a mighty Range Rover, if on a minor road, must wait humbly for the passing of a puttering three-wheeler or groaning cyclist. On a roundabout, each line of traffic waits its turn to enter the system in an order understood by all. Where there are traffic lights, the red light has a power that approaches the divine. It has only to glare from beneath its beetling brow and everything that moves towards it ceases to move. No barrier descends. No policeman raises a white-cuffed arm. Simply a red light, and a body of collective knowledge. In our envious strife-torn world, this is a source of wonder; or would be, if we ever stopped to consider.
So thinks Henry Broad, who has put his foot down with Jack’s teacher, touching sixty as he passes the Glynde turning. The tension generated in him by the encounter is fading, soothed by the orderly justice of the highway. Not that it was much of an encounter. The fellow looked totally out of his depth. Though God knows, teaching English to well-spoken eleven-year-olds has to be classed as the shallow end if anything is. Laura would have handled it all differently. She would have asked his opinion, discussed Jack’s progress, slipped in a gentle criticism at the right moment. He had meant to do something of the sort himself. It was the waiting that screwed it. He hates to be kept waiting. Can’t help, childish though it is, feeling that the one keeping him waiting is exerting power over him. Saying in effect, my time is more valuable than yours. And then this pale-faced youth appeared, clearly just out of bed.
Oh, well. At least it did me some good.
The car in front is going slowly, for no obvious reason. A small red Honda, driven by a small man with big ears. Why do slow drivers always have big ears? He has a stretch of open road before him, and he’s idling along at forty.
Henry checks his mirror: the line of cars is bunching up behind him. He looks ahead. Just enough room to get past if he goes now, and goes fast.
Tick-tick-tick goes the indicator. Growl of the engine as he drops two gears. Kick down on the accelerator for the gratifying surge of power. Exactly as he pulls out he sees a white van hurtling towards him, out of nowhere. Too late to get back in. Strain the Golf to eighty, ninety, hug the white line, force the wheel at the first opportunity, cut back into his own lane. The white van flashes past. The red Honda brakes hard. Henry doesn’t look in his rear-view mirror, choosing not to witness the anger of Big Ears. Instead, to just
ify his rash overtaking, to escape that accusing glare, he accelerates again, and speeds away down the open road.
Heart hammering, aware he’s driving badly, Henry slows right down at the approach to the Edenfield roundabout, under the brow of Mount Caburn. A long line of container lorries is winding its way round the island, across his road, down through Edenfield village to the ferry port at Newhaven. They drive nose to tail, no doubt all hurrying to catch the same sailing. He sits tense, almost crouching, riding the clutch, hopping forward in little surges, probing for a gap. The truck drivers high above him pay no attention, heaving their great sixteen-axled rigs round the curves.
He glances in his mirror and sees, as he knew he would, the red Honda pulling up behind him. He avoids eye contact with the driver, or any other details that will give him human form. He feels the skin on the back of his neck prickle under the scrutiny of the small man with the big ears. Naturally Big Ears hates him. He will pursue him with the relentless tenacity of the wronged, and will attempt to corner him and shame him in a public place. Henry imagines but does not meet those baleful eyes. Then at last he sees a gap open up between the lorries, a small gap, but enough. He thrusts the Golf onto the roundabout, earning a loud blast from an offended truck horn, but what does he care? The truck is going to France. Let him carry his disapprobation across the sea to a foreign land.
Ahead, of course, how predictable, the red lights of the railway crossing are flicking from side to side, and the striped barriers are starting their descent. Enraged by the unfairness of it, Henry causes the Golf to give one savage leap forward, and judders the car over the railway lines at seventy miles an hour, bare seconds ahead of the dropping barriers.
As he hurtles up onto the dual carriageway he hears the train go by, and knows that his nemesis is barred from following him by the beeping barrier and the noisy train. He imagines the small angry man spitting his rage onto the plastic fascia of his Japanese dashboard. Let him spit. He has no name, no face, and now he’s dwindling in the rear-view mirror, and now he’s gone from sight.