Engleby. Part 27

It's teatime on Friday in November. The road is lit by the lamps of bicycles; cars pa.s.s at their peril, slowly, because the pedalling girls, some frizzy and stout, some slight and eager, the girls with their lights front and rear, are the queens of the highway.

Back from games, the girls are flushed; their faces are red from the Ural wind. Red Russian wind from communist mountains, from the giant Soviet factories. Jennifer is running down the corridor, lively with the sense of her good fortune. They're having tea now in Anne's room, which has a gas ring. Molly comes in with cake she bought in town: a sponge cake with cherries. They sit on chairs and floors and beds. There isn't much room, but there's music on Anne's cheap record player: a balladeer, a minstrel, shock-haired with a guitar afternoon songs for girls in jeans with coloured silk scarves knotted or held with silver woggles from Morocco.

There's a tortoisesh.e.l.l cat who lives opposite and he's half adopted us. I pull back the curtain and see him on the roof, stretching in the thin early sun. I love the jumble of small slate roofs on the brick terraced cottages. I lie watching for a few minutes while an 'inane disc jockey' (Dad) babbles on the radio. Then I put on socks, slippers, sweater and coat and go down to the kitchen, and, while the kettle's on, open the back door to the cat and call him in. He tumbles off the roof of the shed and comes shyly to the step where (if lucky) he gets a saucer of milk and a stroke. There's a tortoisesh.e.l.l cat who lives opposite and he's half adopted us. I pull back the curtain and see him on the roof, stretching in the thin early sun. I love the jumble of small slate roofs on the brick terraced cottages. I lie watching for a few minutes while an 'inane disc jockey' (Dad) babbles on the radio. Then I put on socks, slippers, sweater and coat and go down to the kitchen, and, while the kettle's on, open the back door to the cat and call him in. He tumbles off the roof of the shed and comes shyly to the step where (if lucky) he gets a saucer of milk and a stroke.

Jennifer sat back against the wooden settle in a slightly defensive posture; she wore a floral print skirt. I could see her bare legs. She had a sharp patella that gave a fetching inverted-triangle shape to the knee. She was smoking a cigarette and trying not to laugh, but her eyes looked concerned and vulnerable as Robin's low voice went urgently on.

She is alive, G.o.d d.a.m.n it, she is alive. She looks so poised, with that womanly concern beginning to override the girlish humour. I will always remember that balanced woman/girl expression in her face. She was twenty-one.

They left. She was so absorbed by what Robin was saying that she forgot to say goodbye either to me or to her friend Malini who was at the other end of the room. She went through the door, hoisting her brown leather shoulder bag up, the hem of the skirt fluttering for a second as she tripped down the step onto the cobbles.

I cut down Pembroke Street and Silver Street and over the river and I think of all the people who've gone before me the men in the Cavendish Labs and the n.o.bel prize-winners and Milton and Darwin and Wordsworth, of course, but mostly of the generations of young men and women who weren't famous but were so relieved to be here at last and meet people like themselves, and didn't mind the freezing cold and no money for the meter and the greasy college breakfast. I think of the men in their tweed jackets with the elbow patches and the bluestockinged women in their clunky shoes and I feel glad for them still. Feel v lucky and I cut down Pembroke Street and Silver Street and over the river and I think of all the people who've gone before me the men in the Cavendish Labs and the n.o.bel prize-winners and Milton and Darwin and Wordsworth, of course, but mostly of the generations of young men and women who weren't famous but were so relieved to be here at last and meet people like themselves, and didn't mind the freezing cold and no money for the meter and the greasy college breakfast. I think of the men in their tweed jackets with the elbow patches and the bluestockinged women in their clunky shoes and I feel glad for them still. Feel v lucky and not that cold not that cold. Goodnight, Dad. Thank you for everything. Sleep well back in Lym. x As Hannah came into the sodium light of the street lamp, I recognised the navy blue coat, a replica of Jen's own that had presumably vanished with her. She also wore a grey sweater, the polo neck that wasn't quite, blue flared jeans and boots.

She walked down the grey pavement, going away from us; her step was light and confident, and you felt all that Jenniferish excitement about being alive and it was was her in all but fact: it was her again, you could smell her hair, her skin, and sense how much she was looking forward to the b.u.mp of the lit gas fire and the ski socks, as she quickened slightly in the cold, thinking of the cat tumbling from the roof in the morning and the day ahead. her in all but fact: it was her again, you could smell her hair, her skin, and sense how much she was looking forward to the b.u.mp of the lit gas fire and the ski socks, as she quickened slightly in the cold, thinking of the cat tumbling from the roof in the morning and the day ahead.

She walked, this girl, with that slow stride suppressing gaiety, her love of living, the slight sway of her narrow hips as she moved onwards, away from us, turned right at the end of the street and vanished in the Fenland mist.

Well, maybe the love generated between people who behave well and kindly adds somehow to the available pool of existing good feeling in the world, and lives on after them. (Now sound like drippy hippy, but actually it's true and easy to prove.) Without good example such as preserved in literature, there would be nothing to live up to, no sense of transcendence or of our lives beyond the Hobbesian. So these feelings do endure and I believe they also survive through memory, orally and in families as much as in written word. So while living may have no Well, maybe the love generated between people who behave well and kindly adds somehow to the available pool of existing good feeling in the world, and lives on after them. (Now sound like drippy hippy, but actually it's true and easy to prove.) Without good example such as preserved in literature, there would be nothing to live up to, no sense of transcendence or of our lives beyond the Hobbesian. So these feelings do endure and I believe they also survive through memory, orally and in families as much as in written word. So while living may have no meaning meaning in any teleological sense, it does have practical in any teleological sense, it does have practical purpose purpose in the way that how we live can improve the experience of others alive and yet to be born; and thus, a bit more contentiously (because harder to define scale on which it's measured), it also has in the way that how we live can improve the experience of others alive and yet to be born; and thus, a bit more contentiously (because harder to define scale on which it's measured), it also has value value. This seems so obvious to me as to be almost axiomatic.

We knew nothing of drugs. I wondered how many of the bright-eyed boys their parents' treasures, the comets of their hope were now in Fulbourn and Park Prewett, fat and trembling on the side effects of chlorpromazine: an entire life, fifty indistinguishable years, in the airless urine wards of mental inst.i.tutions because one fine May morning in the high spirits and skinny health of their twentieth year they'd taken a pill they didn't understand, for fun.

What will happen to all these people? Previous generations did great things in politics, diplomacy, medicine, industry, 'the arts' became great and good as though by natural progression, birthright. What will happen to all these people? Previous generations did great things in politics, diplomacy, medicine, industry, 'the arts' became great and good as though by natural progression, birthright. All people I know resolute that they will do All people I know resolute that they will do no such thing no such thing. No one will have 'nine to five' job. Can't imagine anyone I know here appearing on television in twenty years' time to offer expert view on anything. Just not cut out for it. I wonder why. Drugs? Partly, but we're not all out of it all the time. A generation thing, I suppose. We are a lost gen. (Rather than lost Jen, ha, ha.) Before us, the hippies; after us, perhaps keen people in suit and tie who will go straight to work in Con Party research and American banks. Poor us, lost souls. I wonder why. Drugs? Partly, but we're not all out of it all the time. A generation thing, I suppose. We are a lost gen. (Rather than lost Jen, ha, ha.) Before us, the hippies; after us, perhaps keen people in suit and tie who will go straight to work in Con Party research and American banks. Poor us, lost souls.

She walked, this girl, with that slow stride suppressing gaiety, her love of living, the slight sway of her narrow hips as she moved onwards, away from us, turned right at the end of the street and vanished in the Fenland mist...

There are some things in the past that may have happened and some that may not have happened. But the reality of their happening or not happening then then has no weight has no weight now now.

Until we can navigate in time, I'm not sure we can prove that what happened is real.

Yes, up here in the spotlight, I can do anything. Anything at all. Listen.

16 F 16 FEBRUARY, 1974 Last night went to party at Pete and Vicky's in Malcolm Street. Typical student bash, though in unusually nice house. Charlie from Emma there, a bit freaked out. Last night went to party at Pete and Vicky's in Malcolm Street. Typical student bash, though in unusually nice house. Charlie from Emma there, a bit freaked out. Danced a lot to good selection of records, mostly Tamla, and drank perhaps rather too freely of Pete's Algerian red. Irish Mike turned up with two bottles, also v welcome. Danced a lot to good selection of records, mostly Tamla, and drank perhaps rather too freely of Pete's Algerian red. Irish Mike turned up with two bottles, also v welcome. Had intense conversation with Philippa from Newnham about historical perspectives and whether historiography Had intense conversation with Philippa from Newnham about historical perspectives and whether historiography necessarily necessarily political, naive to pretend otherwise etc. Slight sense that she trying to get things clear in her own mind before finals, esp re Foucault (And I'd always thought F was a physicist rotation of earth etc...) political, naive to pretend otherwise etc. Slight sense that she trying to get things clear in her own mind before finals, esp re Foucault (And I'd always thought F was a physicist rotation of earth etc...) Also v amusing talk with Charlie about why men look so good in mascara! He amused that I find this annoying. 'But, Jen, since women have abandoned make-up, why shouldn't we use it? Someone has to.' Did not let on that I was actually wearing pan-stick (nasty small spot on side of chin; 'Harold' due shortly) as well as artfully applied eyeshadow... Also v amusing talk with Charlie about why men look so good in mascara! He amused that I find this annoying. 'But, Jen, since women have abandoned make-up, why shouldn't we use it? Someone has to.' Did not let on that I was actually wearing pan-stick (nasty small spot on side of chin; 'Harold' due shortly) as well as artfully applied eyeshadow... V good fun, though. Smoked some of Vicky's Afghan black and felt pretty good though somewhat heavy in the feet and rather indiscriminately affectionate. Thought better to leave while still on top (if I was) and went out into b. freezing night, dreading long walk home sans bike. b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l. V good fun, though. Smoked some of Vicky's Afghan black and felt pretty good though somewhat heavy in the feet and rather indiscriminately affectionate. Thought better to leave while still on top (if I was) and went out into b. freezing night, dreading long walk home sans bike. b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l. Then on Jesus Lane got lift from Mike. What piece of luck. Up Vic Rd, round one-way system and down to our house. Then on Jesus Lane got lift from Mike. What piece of luck. Up Vic Rd, round one-way system and down to our house. Felt I had to ask him in as it was still not very late and least I could do was offer him tea. Lit gas fire in sitting room and put on Felt I had to ask him in as it was still not very late and least I could do was offer him tea. Lit gas fire in sitting room and put on Bryter Later Bryter Later by Nick Drake. by Nick Drake. Sat on floor by fire and let amazing melancholy music flood room. Mike visibly moved and rather poured out his heart to me about his home and family and so on. Sat on floor by fire and let amazing melancholy music flood room. Mike visibly moved and rather poured out his heart to me about his home and family and so on. I got more dope from my room and made some more tea. Nick was at Hannah's, Molly had gone to her parents' and no sign of Anne. I got more dope from my room and made some more tea. Nick was at Hannah's, Molly had gone to her parents' and no sign of Anne. On doubtless very ill-advised whim, put my arm round Mike in sisterly way and he rested head on my bosom. Music played. All very innocent. Eventually wanted to go to bed. He said he now incapable of driving because stoned, and could he stay. I felt so full of warmth and dope that said all right, but no funny business and he swore not. On doubtless very ill-advised whim, put my arm round Mike in sisterly way and he rested head on my bosom. Music played. All very innocent. Eventually wanted to go to bed. He said he now incapable of driving because stoned, and could he stay. I felt so full of warmth and dope that said all right, but no funny business and he swore not. Kept on knickers and ski socks as well as old-lady nightie so hardly much of a lure, I imagine. Lent him tee shirt and after kiss on cheek, turned away for night. Duvet cover and sheet clean that morning. Fell asleep at once. Kept on knickers and ski socks as well as old-lady nightie so hardly much of a lure, I imagine. Lent him tee shirt and after kiss on cheek, turned away for night. Duvet cover and sheet clean that morning. Fell asleep at once. Somehow in course of night found 'things' happening. He v sweet and pleading. V cold outside. What could I do? Relented in magnanimous hippie way. Silly girl, but surely no harm done. Somehow in course of night found 'things' happening. He v sweet and pleading. V cold outside. What could I do? Relented in magnanimous hippie way. Silly girl, but surely no harm done. Woke up appalled. No hangover, but just appalled. Went down and made tea, brought it back to room. Mike asleep and snoring slightly with half-smile on his face. I felt an utter fool but couldn't help laughing a little bit. Pulled back curtains. p.i.s.sing with rain. Couldn't face bikeless trek to Sidgwick. Then remembered: Sat.u.r.day anyway. Woke up appalled. No hangover, but just appalled. Went down and made tea, brought it back to room. Mike asleep and snoring slightly with half-smile on his face. I felt an utter fool but couldn't help laughing a little bit. Pulled back curtains. p.i.s.sing with rain. Couldn't face bikeless trek to Sidgwick. Then remembered: Sat.u.r.day anyway. Closed curtains again. Finished tea. Put J. Mitch.e.l.l Closed curtains again. Finished tea. Put J. Mitch.e.l.l Ladies of the Canyon Ladies of the Canyon very softly on my small record player, got into bed, put arm round Mike and fell asleep again at once, hearing the rain beat down outside. very softly on my small record player, got into bed, put arm round Mike and fell asleep again at once, hearing the rain beat down outside. For some reason dreamed of sparkling Greek sea, Aegean blue, with wooden boats, their white sails filled with love. For some reason dreamed of sparkling Greek sea, Aegean blue, with wooden boats, their white sails filled with love.

ALSO BY SEBASTIAN FAULKS.

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The Girl at the Lion d'Or

A Fool's Alphabet

Birdsong

The Fatal Englishman

Charlotte Gray

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Human Traces

Pistache