“Aye. I’ve seen that thing around. New guy. Been parking in my spot. Kicked his side panels a few times. Buckled like anything. It’s an original. Those old ones are bloody death traps.”
“A windscreen covered with eggs and flour won’t make it any safer.”
McCann took out his pipe and began filling it with tobacco. Donald went back to the paper. “So what’s on the old agenda today anyway?” McCann asked.
“Nothing in the morning. Playing squash at lunchtime and then we’re doing The Miller’s Tale after lunch.”
“The Miller’s Tale? Which one’s that?”
“Do you actually want to know?”
“Well, not really, I suppose,” McCann replied, somewhat shamefaced.
The hours passed by in a haze of tobacco smoke, bad coffee, worse biscuits and dull news from the paper.
At twelve Donald slipped off, only to be intercepted by a student outside the gym.
“Dr Bryant,” the student began in a lilting voice, and Donald remembered that he was a Welshman called Jones or Evans or something.
“Mr Jones, how can I help you today?”
“Uh, actually my name is-”
“Yes, Mr Jones, how I can help you? Come on. Out with it, man. I’m in a hurry.”
“Uhm, Dr Bryant, I’m supposed to do a presentation next week on Jonson…”
“Ben or Sam or, God save us, Denis?”
“Uhhh, the playwright.”
“They all wrote plays, Mr Jones.”
“They did? Uhm, well, it’s Ben. Yeah. And, well, the library doesn’t have the secondary sources… someone took them all and I don’t know what to do really. I tried to borrow them from the University of Ulster library but they’re out too. I’ve read all the primary stuff, but I want the secondary sources to do a good job.”
Donald felt a pinprick of guilt. Mr Jones seemed like a nice, sincere young man. One of the few good students. He was studying engineering but was taking English as an elective. Perhaps that explained his curious dedication. The BAs in English were all perverts and drug fiends. “All right, Mr Jones, come by my office at four today and I’ll lend you my own books, they should be sufficient for a half-decent presentation. You’ll be careful with them, won’t you?”
“Oh, God, yeah, thank you, thank you very much,” the student said.
Donald arrived at the gym feeling unnaturally buoyant – two quite pleasant incidents in one morning.
He showed his ID to Peter Finn, the ancient security guard at the reception desk.
“Afternoon, Dr Bryant,” Peter said in his rough country accent.
“Afternoon,” he replied curtly.
“Going to give the wee muckers another hiding, eh?”
“One tries, Peter, one tries.”
“You still at the top?” Peter asked, knowing full well the answer.
Donald swelled a little. “Still plugging away.”
“Sixteen straight months, Professor Millin says. Yon’s a record, ye know,” Peter said very seriously.
“Is it indeed?” Donald said, and this time it was his turn to pretend.
“Aye.”
“Well, all good things must come to an end sometime. This new crop of lecturers is giving me a run for my money,” Donald said magnanimously.
Peter winked at him as if he didn’t quite believe him.
Donald grinned, went to the basement, found locker 201 and changed quickly into his gear: a casual blue tee-shirt, white shorts, white socks and an old pair of Adidas squash sneakers. He looked at himself in the mirror. He was in the prime of life. His eyes were clear, his cheeks clean-shaved, his hair jet black with only a few strands of invading grey around the ears.
Fenton was late and Donald tried hard not to show his irritation. Fenton was a slightly younger man and he was nimble. He was number three on the squash ladder and by no means an unworthy opponent. Fenton playing above his game and Donald playing beneath his could pretty much even out the field. Fenton changed into his kit: pristine white shorts, Fred Perry top and a brand new racket.
They walked to the court, stretched, warmed up the ball.
Donald won the racquet spin.
He served a high looping ball that died in the corner. Fenton made an attempt to return it but he had no chance. Donald served five more like that before Fenton managed to get one back and by that time it was too late – his confidence was broken. Donald won the match three games to one, Fenton’s sole game coming from Donald’s largesse. When he was in control it was Donald’s policy always to let an opponent win at least one game so that no one would ever know the true picture of his ability.
They showered and had a quick gin and tonic in the bar before Donald went off to his lecture. It was nearly a full house, the students didn’t ask stupid questions and he was in good form when he set off for home at four o’clock. Halfway to the car he remembered about young Jones and went back to his office. Amazingly the undergraduate was on time and he gave him the books without further ado.
“Quite the day,” he said to himself as he walked to his Volvo Estate under a clearing sky. Susan noticed his good mood immediately as he picked her up outside the Ulster Bank on Botanic Avenue. “You’re in a good mood,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “Let’s eat out at the new Italian.”
“What about your aubergine lasagne?”
“We’ll give it to the dog.”
“What dog?”
“Any dog.”
The drive to Carrickfergus was easy, the new Italian was acceptable, the sommelier complimented him on his choice of wine.
He parked the Volvo outside his neat, mock-Tudor detached house near the Marina. After another cheeky bottle of Tuscan red he and Susan had sex only slightly less exciting than that he’d been lecturing about this afternoon in The Miller’s Tale.
As days go, it wasn’t bad and when the university loomed out of the mist next morning, this time he didn’t sigh.
Susan, getting a lift to Belfast for the shopping, smiled at him.
“It’s growing on you,” she said.
“Perhaps,” he agreed.
“You’re playing Fenton today in your silly squash thing, aren’t you?”
“Oh, no, that was yesterday. And it’s not silly. He was the third seed. Psyched him out completely, poor chap. Went to pieces. Had to go easy on him.”
“So you’re still top of the ladder?”
Donald was a little surprised at the question. Of course he was still top. Did she seriously think he could take her out to the expensive new Italian restaurant, get the priciest plonk on the menu and be happy as a clam if he was off the top? My God, what kind of cipher did she think she’d married?
“Oh, yes, I think so,” he said casually.
She started talking about something or other but he was replaying the game in his mind, wondering if his backhand was still quite as strong as his lob. He left her outside the bank.
“So you’ll drive me to the soup kitchen on Saturday?” she asked, getting out of the car.
“I’ll drive you,” he said, and then after a pause added: “What soup kitchen, what are you talking about?”
“Haven’t you been listening? Our reading group. That book really affected us and we’re volunteering at the soup kitchen on Saturday. Christmas is coming, you know.”
He tried to think what the book could be. Something by Orwell perhaps, or Dickens, or some ghastly novel set among the poor of India.
“Of course I’ll drive you. In fact, I think I’ll even go. Help out.”
“You?” she said incredulously.
“Me, yes. Why so shocked? I’m a Labour man through and through. Help the common people, each according to his needs and from, uh, you know…that’s my motto,” he said with only semisarcasm, for she had hurt him a little with her surprise.
The week went by like every other week and on Saturday he did help out in the soup kitchen and it was by no means completely unpleasant. Some of the indigent were witty and grateful fellows fallen on hard times and he felt, if not happy, at least content.