version of Scotland.
Grant Watson always wore a Harris tweed jacket and came from somewhere remote that either began with ‘Inver’ or ended in ‘ness’ and was strangely asexual, like a mole, although he did have a wife and two children tucked away in Fife somewhere. He was a keen hill-walker, sometimes even turning up to teach in his clumpy leather walking-boots, still caked in Monro mud, as if there was something virtuous about climbing a hill when you didn’t need to.
Professor Cousins contributed to Watson Grant’s usual air of nervousness by shooing him away with a good-natured smile and an absurd attempt at a Scottish accent, ‘Ochhhh,’ he said, as if trying to cough up a gobbet of phlegm, ‘awa’ ye gae, ma guid man.’ Grant Watson hovered uncertainly on the threshold of Archie’s room, not wanting to stay but not wanting to go either – in case Professor Cousins’ presence there signalled an inclination towards bequeathing Archie his regalia. His little jog of indecisiveness was halted abruptly by Archie saying, ‘The toilet’s down the other end of the corridor.’ He was saved from finding a reply by the bell which rang to signal the end of the hour.
Archie ignored the bell and continued talking but everyone stopped listening and started worming their way free of the hard plastic chairs. For a deluded second I thought I saw the flimsy form of The Boy With No Name spiralling like smoke out of his chair. I blinked and there was nothing there but the greasy soot of the guttering candle at the window.
Archie suddenly loomed over me, his bloated Zeppelin figure blocking out what little light there was. I thought for sure he was going to say something about the whereabouts of my dissertation but he just frowned vaguely at the garbled notes I’d been taking and said, ‘Can you babysit for us tonight?’ I agreed in a half-hearted kind of way; the non-existent Man or Maze put me in a difficult position vis-à-vis Archie. I just hoped he wouldn’t start wanting to barter sexual favours instead of babysitting ones.
I helped Professor Cousins extricate himself from his chair. Everyone was slightly stir-crazy by this time and heading for the door like passengers evacuating an aircraft on fire. I had to reach out and grab at the worn brown corduroy of Professor Cousins’ jacket to prevent him being swept away by the stream of students leaving the room in full spate.
Working his way upstream I spotted Martha’s husband, Jay Sewell. He was a tall man with a big jaw and a shock of silver hair which Martha thought ‘leonine’ but which no lion in its right mind would envy. Jay had the manners and demeanour of a southern plantation owner and did indeed originate in the deep south, a fact that Martha seemed to find both politically challenging and sexually attractive.
Jay Sewell greeted Professor Cousins but ignored the students as if they were a lesser life form. He greeted Martha with a cool kiss on the cheek and said that he had Buddy in the car and that he’d been sick all morning.
‘Oh, poor baby,’ Martha said. I was eager to hear more about Buddy (A dog? A child? A friend? A dead rock and roll legend?), but Jay closed the door and Professor Cousins and I were shut out in the murky corridor.
‘Where now?’ he asked me cheerfully.
‘Well, I have to go and write an essay about George Eliot,’ I said, the very idea making me feel as weary as an inhabitant of Hades, ‘but you don’t. You’re not a student,’ I reminded him. ‘You can do what you want.’
Professor Cousins frowned and said, ‘Well, only within certain social, physical and ethical parameters,’ a surprisingly coherent statement, only slightly undermined by a sudden lunatic outbreak of tap dancing from his feet. ‘I dreamt of going on the stage once,’ he said, looking crestfallen.
‘It’s never too late,’ I said vaguely. A lie, of course, as often, unfortunately, it is much too late.
We navigated the Stygian
Grant Watson always wore a Harris tweed jacket and came from somewhere remote that either began with ‘Inver’ or ended in ‘ness’ and was strangely asexual, like a mole, although he did have a wife and two children tucked away in Fife somewhere. He was a keen hill-walker, sometimes even turning up to teach in his clumpy leather walking-boots, still caked in Monro mud, as if there was something virtuous about climbing a hill when you didn’t need to.
Professor Cousins contributed to Watson Grant’s usual air of nervousness by shooing him away with a good-natured smile and an absurd attempt at a Scottish accent, ‘Ochhhh,’ he said, as if trying to cough up a gobbet of phlegm, ‘awa’ ye gae, ma guid man.’ Grant Watson hovered uncertainly on the threshold of Archie’s room, not wanting to stay but not wanting to go either – in case Professor Cousins’ presence there signalled an inclination towards bequeathing Archie his regalia. His little jog of indecisiveness was halted abruptly by Archie saying, ‘The toilet’s down the other end of the corridor.’ He was saved from finding a reply by the bell which rang to signal the end of the hour.
Archie ignored the bell and continued talking but everyone stopped listening and started worming their way free of the hard plastic chairs. For a deluded second I thought I saw the flimsy form of The Boy With No Name spiralling like smoke out of his chair. I blinked and there was nothing there but the greasy soot of the guttering candle at the window.
Archie suddenly loomed over me, his bloated Zeppelin figure blocking out what little light there was. I thought for sure he was going to say something about the whereabouts of my dissertation but he just frowned vaguely at the garbled notes I’d been taking and said, ‘Can you babysit for us tonight?’ I agreed in a half-hearted kind of way; the non-existent Man or Maze put me in a difficult position vis-à-vis Archie. I just hoped he wouldn’t start wanting to barter sexual favours instead of babysitting ones.
I helped Professor Cousins extricate himself from his chair. Everyone was slightly stir-crazy by this time and heading for the door like passengers evacuating an aircraft on fire. I had to reach out and grab at the worn brown corduroy of Professor Cousins’ jacket to prevent him being swept away by the stream of students leaving the room in full spate.
Working his way upstream I spotted Martha’s husband, Jay Sewell. He was a tall man with a big jaw and a shock of silver hair which Martha thought ‘leonine’ but which no lion in its right mind would envy. Jay had the manners and demeanour of a southern plantation owner and did indeed originate in the deep south, a fact that Martha seemed to find both politically challenging and sexually attractive.
Jay Sewell greeted Professor Cousins but ignored the students as if they were a lesser life form. He greeted Martha with a cool kiss on the cheek and said that he had Buddy in the car and that he’d been sick all morning.
‘Oh, poor baby,’ Martha said. I was eager to hear more about Buddy (A dog? A child? A friend? A dead rock and roll legend?), but Jay closed the door and Professor Cousins and I were shut out in the murky corridor.
‘Where now?’ he asked me cheerfully.
‘Well, I have to go and write an essay about George Eliot,’ I said, the very idea making me feel as weary as an inhabitant of Hades, ‘but you don’t. You’re not a student,’ I reminded him. ‘You can do what you want.’
Professor Cousins frowned and said, ‘Well, only within certain social, physical and ethical parameters,’ a surprisingly coherent statement, only slightly undermined by a sudden lunatic outbreak of tap dancing from his feet. ‘I dreamt of going on the stage once,’ he said, looking crestfallen.
‘It’s never too late,’ I said vaguely. A lie, of course, as often, unfortunately, it is much too late.
We navigated the Stygian
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