Who Wants To Live Forever?. Steve Wilson

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СКАЧАТЬ you. It isn't as if I can just pop in and see you every night, is it?”

       “Hey, I don’t need looking after to that extent. I’m quite capable of doing something about it myself.”

       “Then go on and do it. Why don’t you book on one of those evening classes? It’ll give you something to think about, and you might meet somebody nice there.”

       “Oh, so you’re the matchmaker now, are you?”

       “We’re just concerned, that’s all.”

       “We? So you discuss me with your friends, do you?”

       “Very funny, Dad. I was talking with Gary last night and he feels the same as I do. He was even talking about cutting his volunteering trip short and coming back home.”

       “Tell your brother he’s not to do that. He’ll regret it forever if he does. I’m really proud of what he’s doing out there, so, next time you speak, tell him he must keep at it.”

       “I wish you’d talk to him. Skype is so easy to use.”

       “Now, Jules, you know that I’m a bit of a technophobe. I just can’t seem to get the hang of computers, so, much as I’d love to, it just isn't me, I’m afraid.”

       “Then why not look for a beginners’ course in computing? That would solve both problems.”

       “It just doesn’t sound interesting enough, and if I wasn’t interested I’d stop going.”

       “Okay then, why not follow one of your interests? You’re always saying you could do better than those detectives you watch on the TV. There must be something in that area you could enrol on.”

       “Oh, I tried, but ‘How to catch a murderer in ten easy lessons’ was all booked up.”

       “Ha ha, very funny. You should be on the stage. But, seriously, you know I’m right, don’t you? You love your puzzles, so even if there isn't a course for prospective Inspector Morses, there must be something that will stretch your brain.”

       “Okay, you win. I’ll look, I promise.”

       “Good. And I know you. Don’t think you can get away with making something up and telling me about it during our phone calls. I’ll expect you to show me some solid proof when I next visit.”

       “Will do. When is that again, late November?”

       “Yes, that’s right. I’m coming up for a work conference, so Dave won’t be with me. I’m presenting my first advertising campaign, so it’s a big chance for me.”

       “That’s good, isn’t it?”

       “Yes. But it’s a lot of pressure.”

       “Are all the junior staff involved?”

       “No, I’m the only one.”

       “That must be really good, then. So let’s get together afterwards, and I promise I’ll have something to tell you about my reintegration into society by then.”

      Promise made, I knew I couldn’t let my daughter down. Most of the courses on offer didn’t appeal to me, and I was beginning to think that I’d have to take something I wouldn’t enjoy just to placate Julie when I saw one that caught my attention:

       Local History — Learn about life in Lancashire during the last hundred years. Your experienced course presenter, Louise James, will take you on a ten-week journey through the county’s many towns and cities and you will experience life as it was for the inhabitants in those times.

      I had lived on the Fylde all my life, yet knew very little about the rest of the county. This course sounded as if it would be interesting and so I decided to enrol. It had taken everything I could muster to venture to the enrolment day, but at first a small amount of self-assurance had returned, and when I saw a few women enrolling on the courses I even began to look forward to this evening with an anticipation I hadn’t felt for over thirty years. Although I wasn’t used to interacting at a social level with the opposite sex, I found the prospect to be far from unattractive.

      When I mentioned what I’d done to her, Julie was a little surprised to hear that I’d be studying history. “I hope you’re not the only one on the course,” she joked. I laughed; I was looking forward to the course with a confidence I hadn’t felt in a long time.

      But now, standing looking at the imposing college entrance, that confidence dissipated. I might have turned away if I hadn’t remembered the money; granted, a hundred pounds wasn’t a lot to spend on a ten-week course, but I’d paid it and I wasn’t going to let it go that easily. Taking a deep breath, I pushed through the doors and entered the foyer. Nobody was about, but a laminated sign on the noticeboard directed me to follow the purple line to room M6 for “A course in Lancashire history” and I followed the purple footsteps pasted on the floor — intersecting at times with yellow for “Photography” and red for “Life Drawing” — until I came to the designated classroom.

      As I opened the door it was like stepping back in time to my first day at senior school. The classroom was big enough for thirty or so pupils, containing five large circular tables and a front teacher’s desk. The two tables towards the rear of the room and the one in the centre all had chairs stacked on top of them, leaving just the two at the front for me to sit at. One of those was empty, the other had half a dozen people already sitting around it, and a dozen eyes focused on me as I entered.

      I headed for the far, unoccupied, table, but a woman who looked to be in her thirties rose from her seat and directed me towards the seventh chair around the nearest table. As I sat I took a closer look at the other occupants. The three women, who I judged to be in their thirties, forties and fifties, included two who I had seen at enrolment six days earlier; I noticed now that only one of them wore a wedding ring. The woman who had directed me to my seat hadn’t been there at enrolment — at least, not while I was there — and the other two were a man and woman barely out of their teens.

      All seven of us sat there, some of us fidgeting nervously, all of us trying to avoid eye contact, as we wondered what was going to happen next. The three women were to my right, the two youngsters to my left, with the woman who had directed me to my seat almost opposite me. I looked at my watch — two minutes past seven — and unwittingly caught her eye.

      “Yes,” she said, “I think it’s about time we started. I had hoped that we might have a few more late enrollers, but it looks like half a dozen is all we’re going to have on the course.” She looked round at the six of us. “I recognise a couple of you from last week, but not all,” she added, looking in my direction as she spoke.

      “Just in case any of you have come to the wrong room, this is the Local History course, where we’ll be taking a closer look at some of the events that have taken place across Lancashire over the last hundred years.” She looked to see if anybody had come to the wrong location — again, I noticed her glance more at me than anybody else — and then continued. СКАЧАТЬ