by Naoise Dolan
She could be typing anything. And she’d caught me, too.
The prospect should have horrified me. The texts I’d drafted in our thread were only some of the total, and all the drafts together only showed a fraction of how frequently I thought about her, and I’d composed a few a day. Edith might have caught me every time for all I knew.
But if she saw the dots, it meant she was watching.
Also, I wanted her to know.
I mouthed it and laughed, properly this time, free of the polo neck. I love Edith and I want her to know.
I rang. The dial tone beeped like dots put to music.
50
In my last week at the flat, I rang to get the tap fixed. The landlord’s agent listed spurious damages to take from the deposit. I signed. From Julian’s instructions I learned the cleaning lady’s name was Lea and that I was to buy her flowers. ‘Maybe see you again,’ she said, and I said: ‘Maybe.’ Packing went quickly. Most of what Julian owned had fitted in his suitcase, and I’d cleared out Edith’s things some time ago.
I brought the new teacher, Sadie, around to meet the kids. Unlike Madison, she was actually from Madison. Refreshingly, she said nothing at all about Ireland. The students said we looked alike. When Sadie had left the room, Katie Cheung told me conspiratorially that I was prettier. Since haiku-gate, she’d been my favourite. Many brought cards, including the ones whose names I forgot. One way of seeing this was that their parents were deluded about my working conditions and thought I had a lot more time and mental energy to bond with their child than I did. Another was that they were kind people and I’d affected their lives more than I knew. Both things, I decided, were true at once. I couldn’t quite well up at leaving a workplace that only hired white people and then wouldn’t let us piss, but I was glad the kids liked me.
Julian had sent me pictures of his Frankfurt apartment. It didn’t look like anyone lived there yet, but nor had the place in Mid-Levels. ‘It’s strange without you,’ he’d said on the phone. Later I’d texted: are you missing the marxist invective or. He’d replied: Home is where there’s a small Irish person calling for you to be guillotined.
I went to the agency to hand back the keys. ‘Did you have a nice stay?’ the man asked.
I said I had.
Then I started the real journey. It was after morning rush hour, so the outdoor escalator was going up. Instead, I walked fifteen minutes to Sai Ying Pun station. The turnstiles beeped tautologically. I checked the map to make sure it was Island Line. Cantonese, Mandarin, canned British voice: the train to Chai Wan is arriving. Please let passengers exit first.
My bag was light. I’d given away most of my clothes. On the phone to Mam about the move, I’d mooted throwing them down the garbage chute. She’d said that would be a waste. ‘I know,’ I’d said, ‘but so was buying them.’ Then I decided they’d lose their history faster if I donated them. Soon they’d stretch around other people and crease where their knees and elbows bent. If I’d dumped them, they’d have gone on fitting me.
Cantonese, Mandarin, British: next station, Central. I alighted, as did roughly half of Hong Kong. The suits had all looked black to me until Julian said: that’s too formal for work. In fact, they were craven greys and blues. Children carried schoolbags the size of their torsos, and their nannies carried instruments the size of the children. One ahead dropped their stuffed Hello Kitty and blocked my path. I refrained from forcing my way around them. It would indicate I was in a hurry. I did seem, though, to be tapping my foot.
On the first escalator up to the concourse, I stood to the right and searched for my Octopus. If I had it ready, she wouldn’t see me fumbling at the turnstile.
They ate octopus, too, in Hong Kong. It was versatile. My second month there, one of Julian’s friends had described the Octopus card, an item I owned, by comparing it to the Oyster, one I didn’t. Then Julian said most Londoners had switched to debit now. They’d had a long conversation about England to which I could add nothing, sparked by a public transport card I used every day and hadn’t needed explained. And that was British men.
I had no single anecdote which said: and that was Edith. But my foot was tapping again.
Leaving Central Station felt like going up into the clouds. Really you were just tunnelling back out from underground, but I could never quite believe that. I looked up at the escalators, the longest I’d ever seen, and thought the sky was next.
One more to the concourse.
Edith had said Exit A, just beside Bank of China. I’d typed it in my notes, found it on Maps, and screenshotted it in case my data didn’t work. She’d be waiting when I got there. I’d considered coming earlier – but whenever I planned to show up, she’d know, and she’d arrive just a little beforehand. That way I’d be walking and she’d be standing still.
The black brush of hair just up. And her bag.
I saw her.
Of course – up the escalator. She’d reach the top soon and march on. I’d do so, too, check my hair in my phone camera, and then go to the exit. She’d be standing there at A off Connaught Road and would look up with a surprised half-smile as I approached. Our coats were both beige. It was as though we’d planned it, mainly because we had. Brushes to paint with, brushes to write with: composed.
I cut into the climbing commuters on my left. The man below me protested, not in English and not in Cantonese either. Edith stood there half a staircase up.
My calves burnt, the man ahead was fast, the one below was gaining on me, and I climbed. I laughed at how close I was. A little faster and I’d reach her step. What would I say? I didn’t know. I’d see her and see. She’d ask what I was doing and I’d say – I didn’t know.
I overtook the man above, then the next one, and then there was space to run. So I did. It was somewhat ironic to sprint up an escalator that had been built to spare me that very exertion. Somewhat – but I didn’t care.
Acknowledgements
I would be nowhere without my agent, Harriet Moore. Thank you to Lettice Franklin and Megan Lynch, as well as the teams they work with at W&N and Ecco. I’ve had a lot of opportunities along the way, but I’d especially like to thank Deirdre Madden, Sally Rooney, and Ailbhe Malone.
Once you add up the stages of production, hundreds of people have helped to create and distribute this book. I’m grateful to them all. Thank you especially to the booksellers, who work harder than anyone to get books into the hands of readers.
I had a full-time teaching job when I wrote Exciting Times, but I earned enough money to pay rent, and I didn’t have any caregiving responsibilities. It’s much harder to write without those conditions in place. Everyone deserves to write books if they want to. That will never be possible in a world where billionaires exist, but it’s possible in a humane one; thank you to everyone who’s working and organising to get us there.
Above all, thank you to my friends and family.
About The Author
Naoise Dolan is an Irish writer born in Dublin. She studied English Literature at Trinity College Dublin and Oxford University, and now lives in London. Exciting Times is her debut novel, an excerpt from which was published in The Stinging Fly.
Copyright
First published in Great Britain in 2020 by Weidenfeld & Nicolson
an imprint of The Orion Publishing Group Ltd
Carmelite House, 50 Victoria Embankment
London ec4y 0dz
An Hachette UK Company
Copyright © Naoise Dolan 2020
The moral right of Naoise Dolan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without th
e prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (eBook) 978 1 4746 1347 7
Typeset by Input Data Services Ltd, Somerset
www.weidenfeldandnicolson.co.uk
www.orionbooks.co.uk
