That morning, my wife broke the news that we were having our fourth child. She added, her voice unwavering, We cant afford to buy a new house. So, well need to get one from the council. Youre hopeless at fighting for what we need, so Ill just keep having babies every year. If we cant win them over with your character, well overwhelm them with numbers!
I arrived at my university, feeling small as I hesitantly nudged open the heavy door marked Head of Faculty. The room was crowded. Professor Stirling, the Head, and his deputy, Mr. Hargreaves, were in the middle of a meeting.
Its about our reputation, Stirling declared. We need to outdo every other university in every sport going. Ah! Heres our great hope! He spotted me and gestured, enthusiastic.
I went scarlet, embarrassed. Im not a hope for anything I wanted to talk about my accommodation
The flats are ready next week, Hargreaves announced in grand tones. Youre top of the waiting list. Just one final bit of effort, and youll be moving in.
What effort? I asked, grinning, cautiously optimistic.
With a parachute, Hargreaves said, as if it were the most natural answer in the world. The sports competition is tomorrow.
My smile froze. Where are we jumping?
Down to the ground, Stirling replied, matter-of-fact.
Why why is that? I stammered.
Stirling gave me a disbelieving look. Dont you watch TV? Its all the rage: actors ice-skating, singers on trapezes in the circus Now its academics breaking records. Professor Mason boxed last nighthe gestured to the gaunt Mason, sprawled on the sofa with a battered nose and several plastersand Dr. Rowan did wrestling on Saturdayhes recovering in hospital now Your turn next. We divvied up the remaining eventsyours is parachuting.
The word divvied sent a chill through me.
When is the jump? I croaked.
Tomorrow. For the Festival of Birds, Hargreaves said grandly.
I turned to Professor Stirling, seeking mercy. Why do the birds need me to break my neck?
He walked over and placed a heavy hand on my shoulder. Youll get your family flat, what with all those children, but some flats have balconies, some dont Some have views of the park, some overlook the cement plant When we hand out the keys, well recall who gets stuck in and supports uni life.
There was silence. I popped a heart pill and murmured, Suppose I dont quite make it to the ground or overshoot Will my family still get a park view?
Hargreaves flashed a warm smile. You know our policy: widows and orphans go straight to the top of the list! And dont fret! He clapped my back as if I were a rugby teammate. You wont be alone, youve an expert with you! He jabbed his finger at a pale, bespectacled youth cowering in the corner.
Hes a postgraduate student, Hargreaves explained. Hes being let go anyway.
Id always had a deep fear of heights. My head spun climbing a step-ladder to hang a picture. The word plane made me seasick. So that night, I practiced: I leapt off the sofa onto the carpet over and over.
The next day, they bundled me and the doomed postgraduate into a long, sombre black minibusit looked like a hearse. Professor Stirling followed in a car. Then came our supporters: about thirty university dons, lecturers, and the odd professor, all on the tram.
When we arrived, Hargreaves and the brass band were waiting; they struck up a mournful tune. It was actually a funeral march, so even the pilot wiped away a tear. Three band members climbed into the plane with us to play something peppy as we fell out.
The instructor, a gentle soul, looked at us with sorry eyes. He took one glance at my midsection and demanded I be given an extra parachute. Now, with a parachute on my front and another strapped behind, if the postgraduate looked like a shaggy dog, I was more like a lopsided camel.
In the air, the instructor calmly listed all the ways parachutes might fail, then kissed each of us three times for luck. He opened the hatch, looked apologetically at me and murmured, your turn.
I wordlessly handed him a letter. Give this to my wife. If its a son, name him after me.
He tried to reassure me. The fear goes quickly, once youre falling you wont feel a thing.
To glory, lads! shouted the pilot.
The band struck up Rule, Britannia! I squeezed my eyes shut and jumped. When I opened them, my upper half was still in the planebut my legs jutted into the open air: I was stuck in the hatch. The instructor and the postgraduate heaved on my head, trying to push me through, but nothing worked.
Grease him up! the postgraduate suggested.
The instructor grew tense. Clear the hatch! he shouted. Youre holding everyone up!
How do I do that? I hollered back.
Exhale all your air!
I released a long O-o-oh… emptied my lungs, and finally slipped out. I yanked the ripcord before Id fully left the plane, so the parachute tangled on the landing gear and I dangled from the planes belly.
The pilot performed wild turns to shake me off, but I clung on.
Stop mucking about! the instructor yelled. Let go of the plane, this instant!
But my grip wouldnt loosen.
The instructor clambered half out of the hatch and tried to free me. The postgraduate held his legs. The instructor just managed to grab my collar when the plane jerked, sending him tumbling outand the postgraduate, hanging on, came with him. But the instructor grabbed my jacket in mid-air, and the postgraduate clung to his ankles.
We looked like a family of trapeze artists.
The band inside belted out Those Magnificent Men in Their Flying Machines.
The instructor was shrieking that the postgraduates grip was cutting off his blood and hed need amputation…
To give him a break, I offered the postgraduate my own legsafter all, they werent doing muchbut he preferred the instructors, which were easier to hold.
With three grown men dangling, the plane couldnt land. The pilot kept circling the airfield, dropping lower so we could let go and fall onto the grass. But we had to do it one at a time, starting with the postgraduate. The plane was so low his feet touched earth, but with the instructors legs still gripped, we took off again, bouncing into the air once more.
The instructor cursed his own feet, wishing them to drop off along with the postgraduate.
The musicians played Jerusalem at full volume.
The fuel was nearly done. Someone poked a stick with a loop out of the hatch, snagged the postgraduate by the leg and hauled him inside, then the instructor, and finally me. I managed to get stuck again, this time with my head in the plane and legs flailing out, but the aircraft was coming down to land. I had to jog half a kilometre down the runway with the plane before I was finally inside.
No one died, everyone was delighted. The band gave us a cheerful version of their most funereal march.
Only the instructor couldnt stand unaided: the postgraduate still gripped his shins like a vice. They pried his fingers off with pliers.
Once freed, the instructor stoodand we all saw his trousers now only reached his knees. But it turned out his legs had stretched under all the strain: he looked like a startled ostrich.
Same time tomorrow, fellows, more competitions, announced Hargreaves.
The instructor blanched, whiter than my unopened parachute, and limped to the phone on his ostrich legs. Where he rang and what he said, who could know? But they counted my performance as an outstanding successat this event, and every one for the next ten years. They even gave me the running record, since Id sprinted at the speed of an aeroplane. Only, as it was just my legs running while my head flew, they split the time in half.
But even that was a record!
