if you wanted to, or not if you didn’t want to. And you could be dating Rafie Molina. Don’t shout.”
I don’t shout, but I rumble.
“Rafie and I didn’t click. Ask him. And I couldn’t stay because if I’d stayed in your funny little country any longer, I’d pretty much have had to stay there forever! Have you heard about that job at Leicester?”
“The permanent, full-time position you should have applied for and didn’t? Oliver Hobart-Kelly got it.”
“Okay. He’s done heaps of stuff. And he’s got a double-barreled name. I couldn’t compete with that.”
“Whatever lets you sleep, dear. Right, let’s see—” I hear her typing into her computer keyboard. “Ardrossan. University. English. Staff.”
“Faculty. But, Debbie, don’t—please—”
“Right, faculty. Let’s see whether I know any of the lucky sods who are going to work with you…”
I hold my breath.
“Hm…Joseph J. Banks—I know the name, he edited The Cambridge Guide to African-American Poetry. Nancy Benning, Timothy R. Blundell, Erin Gallagher, Mary-Kay Chang, no, I don’t know any of these people. Giles Cleveland—hang on, isn’t that—yes, Giles Cleveland. He wrote that biography of Raleigh, didn’t he? Dave read it during the holidays. Dave?” she shouts upstairs. “Dave, remember you were reading that biography of Sir Walter Raleigh when we were in Devon—the author is one of Anna’s new colleagues!”
“He is?” The line crackles. “Hello, Anna, you’re on speaker! Well done on the job!”
“Thanks, Dave!”
“Wanna phone!” a muffled young voice cries in the background.
“Jonah, Daddy will be on the phone for five minutes—see if you can build that tower all the way up to the doorknob, all right? Listen, this Cleveland fellow is really good! Tracy Evans told me he’s been shortlisted for the James Tait Black Memorial prize for this one, the biography on Raleigh; the prize-giving ceremony in Edinburgh is at the end of the month. Have you read the book?”
“No.”
“You should. He’s probably a git, though. These people always are. Have you met him yet?”
“Don’t prejudice her against her new colleagues, darling!”
“I met him today. Um…”
“What’s that sigh, Anna? He is a git, am I right?”
“Yes, actually—he is! He made me feel like an utter incompetent!” Talking to friends about my day is almost counter-productive, because I suddenly realize how shaken I still am.
“See?” Dave is triumphant. “He’s brilliant but a bastard. Brilliant people in the Arts and Humanities invariably are. Brilliant people in the Sciences are invariably very nice. Sense of humor, good-looking—”
“Modest,” Debbie cuts in wryly. “Go away. I want to talk to Anna woman to woman about this.”
“Bye, Anna, all the best! Yes, Jonah, I’m coming!”
Another click in the line, and Debbie settles into her interrogation.
“So tell me again. Cleveland was horrid to you? Why? He could be useful.”
“Thanks, Debbie, I know! Dave is probably right and he’s just an arrogant ass. Maybe he expected me to gush about his wonderful book and was peeved because I didn’t.”
“Attractive, though. Judging by the photo. Anna?”
“Yes, I’m here. Oh, well, all right, he’s not unattractive. But soooo…English.”
“Since when has that been a problem for you?”
“Frightfully English, don’t you know, in that way. Oxbridge. Lethally polite! I hate that smooth English politeness! If he thinks that’s going to camouflage the fact that he’s an arrogant, stiff-necked, condescending git, he has another think coming!”
“It’s early days yet. Perhaps he just had a headache, or a quarrel with his wife.”
“Well, I hope whatever it was, she won’t sleep with him for a month!”
“Talking of sleeping—are you?”
“Sleeping with anyone? Now look here, young Deborah…”
“Sleeping!” she protests. “Sleeping, eating!”
“I’m going to hang up if you don’t stop that.”
“All right—give me a number out of ten on your scale of well-being, and I’ll stop. Promise.”
Something started today. My office is a mess, and I hope Elizabeth Mayfield won’t decide I’m some sort of shlub who should never have been hired, and I’m worried about how I’ll get on with my students and my colleagues. But there is something else, something instinctive, feral—something primeval to do with the roots of the trees among which I lay earlier. Those roots, thick as a man’s arms, intertwined with the earth in which they rest.
“A wobbly seven and a half.”
“Seven and a half is good. I’ll stop worrying about you for a bit, if you’re a seven and a half.”
“Just stop it. I’m fine.”
Chapter 5
AS FAR AS MY SENIOR COLLEAGUES at Ardrossan are concerned, England has prepared me well. Take your time, have patience, and trust in yourself. Sooner or later you will connect with people. Tenured folk have no reason to