Engleby

by Sebastian Faulks

  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 Nobel 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. 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 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 bump 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 meaning in any teleological sense, it does have practical 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 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 institutions 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.

  All people I know resolute that they will do 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.

  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 has no weight 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 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.

  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 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 . . .)

  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. Bloody hell.

  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 Bryter Later 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.

  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.

  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.

  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. Pissing with rain. Couldn’t face bikeless trek to Sidgwick. Then remembered: Saturday anyway.

  Closed curtains again. Finished tea. Put J. Mitchell 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.

  For some reason dreamed of sparkling Greek sea, Aegean blue, with wooden boats, their white sails filled with love.

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