This morning, my wife broke the news that were expecting our fourth child. She added, rather matter-of-factly:
We cant afford to buy a house, so well need to get a council flat. Youre hopeless at chasing these things, so heres what Ill do: Ill have a baby every year. If you cant impress them by being father of the year, well just win them over with sheer numbers!
A bit shell-shocked, I went into work at the Institute and timidly opened the door marked Management Office. The room was bustling. Mr. Troubridge, the Director, and his deputy, Mr. Grimshaw, were holding a staff meeting.
Its all about our reputation, Troubridge was saying, We need to outshine other institutes in every way, especially in sports Oh! Theres our star player now! Hed noticed me.
I felt myself blush.
Im not really a star player. I wanted to ask about the housing list
The new flats are available next week, Grimshaw announced grandly. Youre first on the list. Just need to hop through a few hoops and the place is yours.
Hop through hoops? I beamed, relieved.
Parachuting. Theres a competition tomorrow.
The smile froze on my face.
Parachuting? Where?
Down to earth, of course.
But why?
Dont you watch telly? Troubridge asked, surprised. These days its all the rage: actors figure-skating, singers swinging from circus trapezes Now, scientists are setting records. Only yesterday, Professor Bullock boxed in the ring he pointed to Bullock, who was perched miserably on the sofa with a swollen nose clumsily patched with three plasters. Dr. Hatherleigh wrestled on Saturday and is currently convalescing in intensive care. Your turn now. Weve divvied up the remaining sports you got parachuting.
At the word divvied, my knees buckled.
Whens the jump? I stammered.
Tomorrow. On National Bird Day, Grimshaw announced with a grin.
In a last attempt for mercy, I looked at the Director.
Why would birds want me to plummet to my doom?
Troubridge placed a comforting hand on my shoulder.
As a father of many, youll have your council flat either way. However some have balconies, some look onto the park, and others, unfortunately, face the cement works When we allocate, we do look kindly on those who show team spirit!
There was a silent pause. I popped a heart tablet and asked:
What if I dont make it to the ground? Or, heaven forbid, miss it altogether? Will my family still get the flat with the park view?
Grimshaw grinned genially.
You know the rules: widows and orphans top of the list! And not to worry, he clapped me on the back, you wont be alone! Youll have a seasoned partner! He jabbed a finger at a pale, bespectacled lad cowering in the corner.
Thats our postgrad, Grimshaw explained, Hes being made redundant anyway.
Ive always been terrified of heights. I go weak even on a stool banging in a nail, and the word aeroplane gives me seasickness. That evening, I tried to practice: I repeatedly leapt off the sofa onto the carpet, to steel myself.
Next morning, the postgrad and I were driven out in a long black minibus that looked uncannily like a hearse. Troubridge followed in a separate car, behind him a tram packed with our support team: thirty of our colleagues all doctors, researchers, and professors.
We arrived to meet Grimshaw, whod organised a brass band to see us off they launched heartily into a funeral march. Being a funeral band, though, the music turned mournful: even the pilot wiped away tears. Three of the musicians were loaded into our plane, too, so they could play something cheery for us mid-leap.
Our instructor, a gentle, melancholy man, eyed us with a mixture of sorrow and pity. Noting my expanding waistline, he ordered me a backup parachute. I was loaded with an extra backpack: if the postgrad resembled a camel, then I was the classic two-humped variety.
Up in the air, the instructor reviewed all the ways a parachute might fail and then, with a dramatic flourish, kissed each of us three times. Next, he lifted the hatch, glanced at me apologetically, and whispered, Its time.
Silently, I handed him an envelope.
For my wife. If its a boy, tell her to name him after me.
The instructor tried to comfort me:
The fear is only bad at first; afterwards, you wont feel a thing.
Off you go, kamikaze! the pilot urged.
The band struck up Rule, Britannia! I closed my eyes and leapt. When I opened them, my top half was still in the plane, but my legs dangled outside; Id got thoroughly wedged in the hatch. The instructor and postgrad heaved on my head, but I was stuck fast.
Needs a good soaping, the postgrad suggested.
The gentle instructor began to get flustered:
Clear the exit! he shouted. Youre blocking the whole competition!
How on earth do I clear it?! I yelled back.
Breathe out!
I groaned a long Ooooo, emptied my lungs, and whoosh slipped straight out. Id pulled the parachute cord so early it snagged on the wheelbase, leaving me swinging beneath the plane.
The pilot started banking and looping to shake me off, but I clung on for dear life.
Stop messing about! the instructor howled. Let go of the plane immediately!
But I wouldnt. The instructor dangled half out of the hatch, trying to unhook me, with the postgrad clutching his ankles to stop him from tumbling out as well. The instructor nearly grabbed the strap then the plane jolted, and he toppled out, postgrad still attached to his legs. By some miracle, the instructor latched onto my blazer. The postgrad dangled lower, holding onto the instructors legs like a set of swing ropes.
Now it was more like a family circus act on the flying trapeze. The band switched to Those Magnificent Men in their Flying Machines.
The instructor barked that the postgrad was cutting off his circulation and his legs would go numb!
To lend a hand, I offered the postgrad my own legs they werent doing much except dangle but the instructors were slimmer and easier to grip, so the postgrad wouldnt swap.
Obviously, the plane couldnt land with a human wind chime of bodies underneath, so it began circling low, giving us a chance to drop onto the grass. But wed have to unhook one by one, starting with the postgrad. The plane swooped so low the postgrads shoes skimmed the grass, but he clung on stubbornly and the plane soared up again, all of us trailing behind.
The instructor cursed his legs and wished them gone, preferably taking the postgrad with them.
The band gamely played Up, Up and Away!
Petrol was running low. Someone in the cabin produced a pole with a noose, lassoed the postgrad by the ankles, and hauled him in, pulling us up in reverse order: postgrad (feet first), then the instructor, then me. I got halfway in before getting stuck again: my head in the plane, legs out in the sky. But by now, the plane was landing, so I just had to jog along the runway for half a mile astride the fuselage.
No one was injured; spirits soared.
The band belted out their most cheerful funeral tune.
Only the instructor couldnt move: the postgrad still wouldnt let go of his legs, gripping them so tightly it took pliers to pry away his fingers.
Once free, the instructor stood up revealing that his trousers had crept up to just below the knee, becoming stretched shorts. As it turned out, his legs had been yanked so long by all the dangling that he now resembled an ostrich.
Round two is tomorrow, Grimshaw announced.
At this, the instructor blanched as pale as my unopened parachute, and galloped to the nearest phone on his new ostrich legs. No one knows who he called or what he said, but I was still credited with the win not just for this event, but for every event over the next decade! For good measure, they gave me the running record too: after all, Id sprinted at the speed of an aeroplane, albeit with only my lower half so, naturally, they split the result in two.
Even so, it was a record!
