Lessons by Ian McEwan

Author:Ian McEwan [McEwan, Ian]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2022-09-13T00:00:00+00:00

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A little before 5 a.m. on a Saturday in mid-February, Lawrence brought two stuffed toys into his father’s bed and, eager for the day, sitting upright in the cold bedroom, began to recite the stream of his thoughts, some of it spoken, some chanted—recent events, story fragments, rhymes, and a run-through of names, the entire cast of his busy life, which included his friends, teachers, four grandparents, Roland’s friends, certain soft toys, Daphne, the neighbour’s dog, Daddy and Mummy. Roland lay listening, not charmed, waiting, hoping for Lawrence’s energies to run down. Demanding it was pointless. After half an hour the boy subsided and, with no school, they slept until well after seven thirty. At breakfast Lawrence sat on Roland’s knee working away at a piece of a building set that had fascinated him this week—a plastic bolt, nut and washer. He screwed the nut onto the bolt until the washer locked in place with a satisfying snap. He unscrewed the nut, turned it over, screwed it down against the washer—in place with a different click. What engaged him was that there were two ways of getting it right. Roland was opening a letter from his old school. The secretary was responding to his query of a month ago. The typing was neat. A word processor. Nearly everyone he knew had one now but he and they complained about them, about printer “interfaces,” and having to learn coded instructions. People, Roland included, urged the laggards to get one. It would save time, they said. Then they complained about lost work, wasted hours, bitter frustration. It might have made sense to resist. Sometimes he thought he might look out his old portable typewriter. It was in its case, somewhere under a pile of books.

The school secretary had looked through the files and regretted that she could be of little help. Miss Cornell had left the school in 1965, twenty-five years ago. The forwarding address was Erwarton. The bursar, who had lived in the village all his life, thought Miss Cornell had moved to Ireland but was not sure of the date. She left no address with the neighbours. The secretary closed by wondering if Roland was aware that the school would be shutting down for good in July.

Their Saturday was like many others. Ritual tidying up the house, for which Lawrence gave willing token assistance. Scooting on Clapham Common, lunch at the Windmill pub with friends who had children Lawrence’s age. In the afternoon, a play at the children’s puppet theatre in Brixton, tea at the house of Lawrence’s current best friend, Ahmed, then home. Supper, bath, a thrilling game of snap, stories, bed.

That evening Roland copied out a couple of translated Arabic poems in celebration of wine and love for Epithalamium Cards. He suspected from Oliver Morgan’s evasive attitude lately that the enterprise was coming to an end or was about to change. That would be fine. He was tiring of it. He reread the letter from school. It had been on his mind during the day.

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