to in Literacy, or opposite in Numeracy, or on the same table with at lunchtime.
Even so, just meeting a person who said hello at the supermarket made Guy feel, at least temporarily, that he had a footing in the real world, and was perhaps a real person. He didnât get the same feeling from dealings with his students at all. He could barely remember their names. They were all getting younger and they all looked the same. It was lucky that Erica, his PhD student, was taking on some of the teaching. She was very friendly to Felix too, whenever he was hanging around in the garden or the lab. She would chat to him and sometimes play a game of boxes or hangman. Guy had seen them fishing in the stream with bits of bamboo.
The other day Guy had seen Erica walking across the campus, her tall figure, like a young poplar, striding along,talking animatedly with some young fellow who was even taller than she was. They were both carrying motorbike helmets, swinging them as they walked. Perhaps she had other reasons for staying around. No, he thought, sheâs far too sensible to be swayed by anything like that. Watching them walk away made him remember a damp holiday he and Susannah had once taken. Why on earth had they wanted to go to Herefordshire? All he could remember about it now was the chill of the mattress and the line of poplars that marked the boundary of the farm. Had they been happy? He had thought so. Perhaps he had been too preoccupied, his thoughts as usual elsewhere, to notice. And had Susannah been happy? She had seemed it. He had never been in the habit of asking her. Did that mean that she was? Was that a sign of a good marriage, or of happiness, not having to ask these things?
Professor Judy Lovage sat in her office looking through some of the yearâs applications for undergraduate places. Of all the extra duties one had to undertake, this was one of those she minded the least. There were so many dreadful committees and sub-committees that one might be manoeuvred onto instead.
Each year she was surprised at how recently her potential students had been born. It was interesting to see how names came into and then fell out of fashion. She always found some of the forms touching. Unfortunately plenty of others would be irritating. Surely somebody at each candidateâs school could take it upon themselves to check their studentsâ grammar and spelling? Talk aboutnot putting your best foot forward. At the moment the department received far more applications than there were places. She had to be scrupulously fair. Here was one from a Madeleine Jones. So many of the students came from Sussex and Surrey â¦
Madeleine Jones tried to imagine Gatwick as being glamorous. There were posters from about a hundred years ago of an aerodrome and people in flying jackets and silk scarves. Her mum had told her how, when sheâd been a teenager, theyâd gone there in the evenings to drink delicious freshly squeezed orange juice and eat ice cream from the new American café that had thirty-six flavours and gave you free tasters on little spoons. Her mum couldnât remember if it had been called something like Dayvilles or Baskin Robbins. Anyway, it had been exciting.
London Gatwick. How could they call it London Gatwick? It was a million miles from London, a halting train ride through sodden Surrey fields. She hated the stupid way that cows didnât stare when a train went by. But Gatwick was all right sometimes.
Sometimes she stayed on the train through Gatwick, all the way to Brighton. Ideal destination, as her mum put it, for a bit of bunking off. (Her mum used to bunk off to Brighton too.) But when Madeleine got there, she wandered the Lanes, and each time she couldnât quite believe that she had found it all, that that was it. She had a feeling that there were a whole lot of other Lanes she couldnât find or was being denied admittance to. She always seemed to get caught in the same loop,
Even so, just meeting a person who said hello at the supermarket made Guy feel, at least temporarily, that he had a footing in the real world, and was perhaps a real person. He didnât get the same feeling from dealings with his students at all. He could barely remember their names. They were all getting younger and they all looked the same. It was lucky that Erica, his PhD student, was taking on some of the teaching. She was very friendly to Felix too, whenever he was hanging around in the garden or the lab. She would chat to him and sometimes play a game of boxes or hangman. Guy had seen them fishing in the stream with bits of bamboo.
The other day Guy had seen Erica walking across the campus, her tall figure, like a young poplar, striding along,talking animatedly with some young fellow who was even taller than she was. They were both carrying motorbike helmets, swinging them as they walked. Perhaps she had other reasons for staying around. No, he thought, sheâs far too sensible to be swayed by anything like that. Watching them walk away made him remember a damp holiday he and Susannah had once taken. Why on earth had they wanted to go to Herefordshire? All he could remember about it now was the chill of the mattress and the line of poplars that marked the boundary of the farm. Had they been happy? He had thought so. Perhaps he had been too preoccupied, his thoughts as usual elsewhere, to notice. And had Susannah been happy? She had seemed it. He had never been in the habit of asking her. Did that mean that she was? Was that a sign of a good marriage, or of happiness, not having to ask these things?
Professor Judy Lovage sat in her office looking through some of the yearâs applications for undergraduate places. Of all the extra duties one had to undertake, this was one of those she minded the least. There were so many dreadful committees and sub-committees that one might be manoeuvred onto instead.
Each year she was surprised at how recently her potential students had been born. It was interesting to see how names came into and then fell out of fashion. She always found some of the forms touching. Unfortunately plenty of others would be irritating. Surely somebody at each candidateâs school could take it upon themselves to check their studentsâ grammar and spelling? Talk aboutnot putting your best foot forward. At the moment the department received far more applications than there were places. She had to be scrupulously fair. Here was one from a Madeleine Jones. So many of the students came from Sussex and Surrey â¦
Madeleine Jones tried to imagine Gatwick as being glamorous. There were posters from about a hundred years ago of an aerodrome and people in flying jackets and silk scarves. Her mum had told her how, when sheâd been a teenager, theyâd gone there in the evenings to drink delicious freshly squeezed orange juice and eat ice cream from the new American café that had thirty-six flavours and gave you free tasters on little spoons. Her mum couldnât remember if it had been called something like Dayvilles or Baskin Robbins. Anyway, it had been exciting.
London Gatwick. How could they call it London Gatwick? It was a million miles from London, a halting train ride through sodden Surrey fields. She hated the stupid way that cows didnât stare when a train went by. But Gatwick was all right sometimes.
Sometimes she stayed on the train through Gatwick, all the way to Brighton. Ideal destination, as her mum put it, for a bit of bunking off. (Her mum used to bunk off to Brighton too.) But when Madeleine got there, she wandered the Lanes, and each time she couldnât quite believe that she had found it all, that that was it. She had a feeling that there were a whole lot of other Lanes she couldnât find or was being denied admittance to. She always seemed to get caught in the same loop,
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