That morning, my wife announced we were expecting our fourth child. She added, We havent got the money to buy a flat, so youll need to sort out a council one. Since youre hopeless at getting anything out of our local council, Ill just keep having babies every year if we cant impress with the quality of the father, well have to do it with the quantity of children!
Later, when I reached the university, I timidly opened the door marked Administration. The room was packed. The head, Mr. Blakemore, and his deputy, Mr. Cartwright, were in the middle of a meeting.
Our reputation is on the line here, ladies and gents. We must outdo other universities in every athletic discipline Ah! Heres our shining hope! That was Blakemore, spotting me.
I felt awkward. Im not exactly hope material Actually, its about the flat
The new estates finished in a week, Cartwright declared, beaming. Youre first in line, old chap. Once youve jumped, youll be moving in right away.
Jumped where? I asked, grinning in relief.
With a parachute. Theres a competition tomorrow.
The grin dropped from my face. Jump to where, exactly?
To the ground, he replied with mock seriousness.
Er why?
What, dont you watch the telly? the head looked at me, incredulous. Its all the rage these days: actors on ice, pop singers on circus swings And now, a fresh trend academics setting records! Professor Byers was in the boxing ring yesterday, he said, gesturing at poor Byers on the sofa, nose swollen, three plasters on his face. Dr. Clayton went for wrestling Saturday hes recovering in hospital now Youre next. The remaining sports were drawn, and you got parachuting.
The word drawn made my knees feel weak.
When is the jump? I managed to ask.
Tomorrow. Bird Day, Cartwright announced.
Seeking mercy, I turned to Blakemore. Why would the birds want me dead?
He strolled over and put a hand on my shoulder. As a father of many, youll get a flat no matter what. But there are some with balconies and park views, and some overlooking the concrete factory. Well take into account those most publicly spirited.
A silence fell. I chewed a peppermint and asked, If I dont make it down or miss the drop zone altogether does my family still get one overlooking the park?
Cartwright smiled warmly. You know our policy: widows and orphans go top of the list! And dont fret youll have an experienced partner! He nodded at a pale, bespectacled lad cowering in the corner.
Hes a postgrad, Cartwright explained. Hes being made redundant anyway.
Ive been petrified of heights since I was a boy dizzy even up a step-ladder. The word aeroplane used to bring on motion sickness. So that night at home, I tried to prepare: several times I leapt from the sofa onto the carpet.
Next day, I and my fellow dead man walking were bundled into a black, long minibus that looked suspiciously like a hearse. Mr. Blakemore followed in a car. Behind him, about thirty staff and professors gave their support. When we got there, Cartwright was waiting with the brass band hed ordered blasting out a farewell march. Trouble was, it was a funeral band, so the mood was downright deadly, even the pilot looked misty-eyed. Three musicians were loaded into the plane with us to pipe a cheery tune as we “fell” out.
The instructor, a gentle soul, looked at us both with weary sympathy. Noting my expanding belly, he ordered an extra parachute for me. I ended up with another pack strapped on, and where my partner looked like a one-humped camel, I was shaped like a dromedary.
Up in the air, the instructor reviewed all the ways parachutes can fail, then kissed us both on each cheek for luck. He popped open the hatch, caught my eye and whispered, Time.
I silently handed him an envelope. For my wife. If its a boy, name him after me.
He tried to reassure me, The fear only lasts a moment after that, you cant feel a thing.
Come on, kamikaze! the pilot shouted for encouragement.
The musicians struck up Rule, Britannia! I squeezed my eyes shut and jumped. When I opened them, I was still half in the plane my top half the rest dangling outside; I was stuck in the hatch. The instructor and the postgrad tried shoving me out, but nothing doing.
We need to grease him up, the postgrad suggested helpfully.
The usually calm instructor started to lose his cool.
Get out the way! Youre blocking the competition! he shouted.
How? I gasped back.
Breathe out!
I gave a wheezy groan and, lungs empty, slipped into space. Id already yanked the ripcord in the plane, so the chute snagged on the undercarriage and I was left hanging under the belly of the plane.
The pilot tried all sorts of stunts to shake me loose, but I clung on tight.
Stop mucking about and let go! yelled the instructor. Release the plane at once!
But I wasnt budging.
The instructor scrambled halfway out. The postgrad held him by the legs. The instructor nearly grabbed my harness, but just then, the plane jolted and out he popped, dragging the postgrad with him. Somehow, the instructor managed to catch my jacket. The postgrad flew just below, clutching the instructors feet.
Now things got more lively. We looked like some acrobatic family act flying through the air.
The musicians played Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines.
The instructor was yelling that the postgrad was cutting off his circulation and he was bound to get gangrene.
To give him a breather, I offered the postgrad my legs they weren’t busy but he preferred the instructors, finding them easier to grip.
Of course, it was impossible to land a plane with three bodies trailing below. The pilot circled, gradually dropping, trying to give us a soft landing. But we had to detach in order, starting with the postgrad. He was already brushing the grass, but still clinging on, and at the edge of the airfield, the plane took us skywards again.
The instructor cursed his own legs and wished them gone along with the postgrad.
The orchestra launched into Come Fly with Me.
We were nearly out of petrol. Someone poked out a stick from the hatch, looped it round the postgrads ankles, and reeled him in, then hoisted us up in reverse: first postgrad, then instructor, then me. I was dragged halfway in, and stuck once again: head inside the plane, legs waving out. But I wasnt scared this time; we were already landing. I simply had to run half a kilometre alongside the plane down the landing strip.
No-one died, everyone was delighted.
The band gave us their jolliest of funeral marches.
Only the instructor was too stiff to move: the postgrad still had his legs in a vice grip. They had to pry his fingers off with pliers.
Once freed, the instructor tried to stand. Thats when everyone saw that his trousers had got so short in the air, they looked like knee-length shorts. But it turned out it wasnt the trousers his legs had stretched under the strain, and he now looked rather like an ostrich.
Repeat performance tomorrow, announced Cartwright.
At these words, the instructor turned whiter than my poor, unopened parachute, and on his new-found ostrich legs, hobbled to the phone. Ive no idea whom he rang or what he said. But I was credited with a victory, not only in this event, but the next, and every one for the following decade. Also, my footrace was counted a record, since I ran at the speed of an aeroplane. Granted, only my bottom half was running, my top half was flying so they split the result in two.
Still, it was a record nonetheless!
