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Summary
Summary
In his first novel since The Light of Day, the Booker Prize-winning author pens a luminous tale about the closest of human bonds. Brilliantly distilling 50 years into one suspenseful night, this novel is an exploration of couples, parenthood, and a unique meditation on the mystery of happiness.
Author Notes
British novelist Graham Swift was born in London on May 4, 1949. He attended Cambridge University and York University.
Swift has written five novels, including Waterland.
(Bowker Author Biography)
Reviews (5)
Publisher's Weekly Review
This splendid novel by Booker Prize-winner Smith (for Last Orders) has its roots in the 1960s sexual awakening and takes place over the course of a sleepless night in June 1995. Paula Campbell Hook lies awake beside her sleeping husband, Mike, and worries about the shocking revelation that she and Mike will make to their 16-year-old twins tomorrow. Paula recalls her meeting with Mike at university in 1966, when sex was free and easy ("a glut of it"), the immediate consummation of their sexual passion, their marriage and successful careers, and the birth of the twins after almost a decade together. Mainly, Swift explores the ways in which secrets are created to ensure happiness, and the potential for emotional damage when the truth is revealed. Swift has channeled the tenderness in Paula's voice with uncanny exactitude, granting her a mother's sentimental observations about pregnancy and raising children. He drops a few clever red herrings, so the narrative retains the vibrato of suspense until the secret is revealed. But the novel's remaining pages, which convey the exaggerated "doomsday" fears of middle-of-the night wakefulness, seem padded. In essence, this moving exploration of marriage and parenthood is a ringing affirmation of modern life. (Sept.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
New York Review of Books Review
GRAHAM SWIFT'S new novel opens in the middle of a summer night in 1995. Lying in bed in her comfortable house in the London suburb of Putney, Paula Hook, an art dealer on the brink of turning 50, addresses an interior monologue to her 16-year-old twins, Kate and Nick, presumably asleep in their rooms down the corridor. Paula's husband, Mike, lies asleep beside her. We soon learn that in the morning the couple will be sharing with their children a long-held secret, one they agreed to keep until the twins turned 16. That secret, revealed to the reader two-thirds of the way through the novel, is the fulcrum on which "Tomorrow" turns. Swift, a writer of great range, vigor and acuity, is fascinated by modes of first-person address. "Waterland," the 1983 novel that established his reputation, takes the form of a lecture from a retiring teacher to his students, while "Last Orders," the superb 1996 novel for which he won the Booker Prize, weaves together the voices of four men driving from Bermondsey to Margate to scatter the ashes of a dead man who has been close to all of them. In "Last Orders," this journey across England provides a counterpoint to the recollections of the central characters. Likewise, in "Tomorrow," Paula Hook's night of reverie reviews the major events of her life and contemplates the times (the 1960s and '70s) and the places (Brighton, London) in which she came of age. Where "Tomorrow" differs from "Last Orders" is that it builds suspense through the strategy of withholding and foreshadowing. As the novel moves forward, the revelation that lies at its heart is perpetually - even tiresomely - deferred, starting on Page 5, when Paula imagines a conversation with her children: "Mike will do the talking. He knows, he accepts that it's up to him. On a Saturday, knowing you both, the morning will be half gone before you even appear for breakfast, and you'll need your breakfast. Then Mike will say that we need to talk to you. He'll say it in an odd, uncasual way, and you'll think twice about answering back." This sort of rehearsal on Paula's part recurs throughout the novel, which evokes perfectly the circularities of a sleepless night, as well as Paula's maternal anxiety as she spins variations on the dangerous theme of how the twins are going to react. And what is this secret that Mike and Paula feel compelled to impart? Here I find myself in a dilemma. If I tell you, I betray the author's trust. But if I don't tell you, I put myself in the awkward position of having to convey the novel's preoccupations without giving away the game - a tricky situation, made trickier by the fact that the revelation, once it comes, seems so disappointingly banal. Paradoxically, it's Swift's decision to frame "Tomorrow" as a monologue centering on a secret - kept both from the reader and from the "you" to whom it's addressed - that derails this otherwise fine novel. At its core, "Tomorrow" describes one couple's efforts to find a place for themselves in a world where long-held assumptions about class, gender and propriety are collapsing. Paula and Mike come from radically different backgrounds. She is the daughter of a thrice-married High Court judge, while he is the love child, conceived during World War II, of a middle-class factory owner. Paula and Mike meet as students at Sussex University, where they almost immediately go to bed together (this is the '60s, after all) and fall inexorably and permanently in love: "It's possible," Paula assures her children, "for the two things to happen at once." After that, the only stumbling block to their marriage is familial hesitancy, if not hostility: an obstacle they overcome by establishing close relationships with both sets of parents. FROM that point on, Paula and Mike's ascent into bourgeois comfort proceeds unimpeded. Educated as an art historian, she goes to work for a highbrow auction firm, while Mike abandons a career as a scientific researcher to work for a magazine called The Living World, which becomes hugely successful. Along the way, they move from Earl's Court to Herne Hill to Putney (much of the novel concerns their houses), their love never flagging even as they begin to wonder why Paula can't seem to get pregnant. As always, Swift's prose is elegant and economical, displaying a broad familiarity with a huge range of subjects - from the science of conchology to the geography of coastal Scotland. Appropriately, his storytelling is never less than swift. Nor does he refrain from his signature wordplay with names. "I was hooked," Paula explains, "or I was the lucky girl who hooked a Hook," a digression that recalls the undertaker Vic Tucker's meditation in "Last Orders": "We're Tuckers, we fix up dead people. It's what we do for a living. We tuck 'em up." Unfortunately, no quantity of intelligence, empathy or verbal felicity can quite save the novel from its central conceit. In telling her story in a nighttime whisper, Paula reveals facets of herself and her experience the reader might otherwise never glean. Yet by directing her monologue to her children - the narrative's insistent, sometimes even intrusive "you" - Swift emphasizes the privateness of the story in a way that can leave the reader feeling excluded. More crucially, the postponement of the crucial revelation irritates even as it compels. Had Swift chosen to come out with it at the beginning, the novel might have been more of a pleasure to read, allowing us to focus on the question of why Paula and Mike made a very particular (and in some ways very dubious) decision. Instead the drum-roll promise, constantly alluded to, of a Big Twist to Come manages to be a distraction even as it keeps us turning the pages. Given this degree of buildup, practically any revelation would come as a disappointment, leaving readers wondering whether it was worth all the fuss - and whether the true object of our frustration should be Paula and Mike or their creator. There's one other problem with "Tomorrow." Where much of "Last Orders" focuses on the characters' adventures as they make their way to Margate, the present action of "Tomorrow" consists entirely of a woman tossing and turning in bed. By the end of the novel, it's dawn, and although Paula has shared everything with the reader, she and Mike still haven't had their talk with the twins. Since that scene never comes, you close this otherwise estimable novel feeling oddly cheated. While anticipating the future, Paula has given us a vivid account of the past. What "Tomorrow" lacks is a today. Swift's new novel describes one couple's efforts to find a place for themselves in a changing world. David Leavitt's latest novel is "The Indian Clerk." He is the editor of the literary journal Subtropics.
Guardian Review
"You're asleep, my angels, I assume." Paula lies awake in the hours before dawn and silently addresses her twin children, who have recently turned 16. It is the night before they are to hear some vital family news, and Paula is full of all the things that mothers never do tell their children - important things about the lovemaking that did, or did not, make them. Not that there is anything too shameful to relate. "Your father got into bed with me one night in Brighton nearly 30 years ago and, though the place and the room and the bed have changed from time to time, he's never got out." He sleeps beside her now, not like a husband or a lover, but like a man "on the eve of his execution". What secret could be so terrible? Paula and Mike met in Brighton in 1966, though "when I say 'met' I really mean 'went to bed with'". And because it is Brighton in 1966, Mike has already been through both of her flatmates: this, the kind of detail that might make any 16-year-old say, "Eeeuuw", is part of the quiet comedy of the novel, the fact that the real story of who you are is always a little taboo. Also slightly taboo is the presence of the children's grandfathers in that first sexual encounter: Grandpa Pete, who was once a prisoner of war, and Grandpa Dougie, who was a high court judge. The reader sifts through this information looking for clues - are the flatmates part of the secret? Is it something to do with the war? Perhaps there is some trick to the geography of their lives: Paula from Kensington, Mike from Orpington; we follow them from a flat in Earl's Court, to a terrace in Herne Hill, to the fine house in Putney where Paula's pre-dawn voice is now curiously suspended. Like all of Swift's narrators, she talks the way that people actually talk - sometimes to no seeming purpose - and our expectations are slowly flattened by this, until something more interesting begins to emerge. This is part of Swift's overwhelming honesty as a writer: he writes the way that life goes. He describes a married couple who are well off, content in their working lives and still ardent in bed. The world must contain many such people, though fiction does not - as though happiness were the most inadmissible secret of all. Still, there is a difference between sex and reproduction. The "news" that the twins will be told is about their con ception, and, once it is revealed to the reader, we are free to stop guessing and start enjoying the novel's more delicate truths. The stories Paula tells about how her children came into the world are the more engaging for being modest. She talks about a cat she and Mike loved, and about a minor infidelity. Nothing rings false, all the emotions are just large enough - adultery, if it is practised for the right reasons, is not very upsetting, or exciting either. Things are as they are, though there is every possibility that they might have been otherwise - a different month, a different pair of sperm, and completely different children would have been born. There is a sort of existential implacability to the book's argument which suits a mother's tone, though Paula wears her motherhood lightly. She is sensible of the way that sentiment runs in channels that are shallow as well as deep - how losing a cat, for example, might make you want a baby. If anything, she suffers from a slight embarrassment when it comes to absolute, biological connection and sees the family as a thing, not just of love, but also of drift and dislike. She does not speak to her own mother, and this doesn't seem to bother her. Love, for Paula, is something earned, chosen. We are not helpless to it. Tomorrow may have a dearth of mothers, but it has a multiplicity of fathers. Mike's father was in a prison camp when he was born, so his first father figure was his Uncle Eddie, and he is heir to an honorary "Uncle" Tim. We draw these connections and lose them as the book weaves and undoes its quiet magic, making and scattering different kinds of "family". The result is both ordinary and radical: questioning the connection between parent and child, whether it is necessary or arbitrary or, somehow, both. "You're asleep, my angels, I assume." With that typically muddled "I assume" Swift manages the mixture of the mythic and the provisional that runs through this book. The use of the vocative "you" turns the children into angels, unknowable and absolute. "You" also addresses the reader, however, and after a while it makes you feel a little specious - like a new in-law at a family gathering, it is as though you are being given a history that is not quite your own. "Anyway," says Paula, "it seemed to me that your Grandpa Pete in his later years got more like Uncle Eddie. Grandpa Pete never smoked a pipe or rode a bicycle and Uncle Eddie never had a dog, but the differences got less." "Really," you say, by which you mean, "Why are you telling me this? What does it mean?" And then you have children. Anne Enright's novel The Gathering will be published by Cape in May. To order Tomorrow for pounds 15.99 with free UK p&p call Guardian book service on 0870 836 0875 or go to guardian.co.uk/ bookshop Caption: article-enright.1 Also slightly taboo is the presence of the children's grandfathers in that first sexual encounter: Grandpa Pete, who was once a prisoner of war, and Grandpa Dougie, who was a high court judge. The reader sifts through this information looking for clues - are the flatmates part of the secret? Is it something to do with the war? Perhaps there is some trick to the geography of their lives: [Paula] from Kensington, [Mike] from Orpington; we follow them from a flat in Earl's Court, to a terrace in Herne Hill, to the fine house in Putney where Paula's pre-dawn voice is now curiously suspended. Like all of Swift's narrators, she talks the way that people actually talk - sometimes to no seeming purpose - and our expectations are slowly flattened by this, until something more interesting begins to emerge. "You're asleep, my angels, I assume." With that typically muddled "I assume" Swift manages the mixture of the mythic and the provisional that runs through this book. The use of the vocative "you" turns the children into angels, unknowable and absolute. "You" also addresses the reader, however, and after a while it makes you feel a little specious - like a new in-law at a family gathering, it is as though you are being given a history that is not quite your own. "Anyway," says Paula, "it seemed to me that your Grandpa Pete in his later years got more like Uncle Eddie. Grandpa Pete never smoked a pipe or rode a bicycle and Uncle Eddie never had a dog, but the differences got less." "Really," you say, by which you mean, "Why are you telling me this? What does it mean?" - Anne Enright.
Kirkus Review
A marvelous character study with minimal plot. One of Britain's foremost novelists, Swift (Light of Day, 2003, etc.) displays his profound empathy in a novel that never leaves the mind of its first-person narrator Paula Hook. It all transpires over a few hours on a June night in 1995 and is told as something of a bedtime story by Paula to her sleeping twin children, Kate and Nick. Tomorrow, she explains, their father will reveal something momentous that will change all of their lives. The timing is significant, because the revelation will occur the week after the twins' 16th birthday and the week before the Hooks' 25th anniversary. Though she keeps talking about tomorrow, most of the narrative takes place after midnight, so it's actually today when the family dynamic will be threatened. And though she addresses her story to her sleeping children, she is plainly talking to herself, revealing intimacies about her own life and her relationship with her husband that no mother would likely inflict on her children. Now a successful art dealer, she explains how she met her husband, biologist Mike Hook, how the two met and fell so rapturously in love, but waited nine years after marrying before having children. What she doesn't explain until well past the novel's midpoint is what Mike could possibly reveal that could undermine the love that the two plainly feel for each other and share with their children. If there's a weakness to the novel, it's that the suspense that Swift takes such pains to sustain makes the climax feel a little anticlimactic. Yet Paula Hook is a character of such heart, soul and intelligence that the reader forgives her foreboding repetition of "tomorrow." No novelist is better than Swift at celebrating, as Paula explains, "how sweet and treasurable even the most unambitious moments of life can be." A richly satisfying novel of blood ties, the interplay of nature and nurture and the secrets that even the closest families keep from each other. Copyright ©Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Library Journal Review
Paula Hook and her husband, Mike, have been together for 25 years, after meeting as college students in 1966. Over that time they have prospered, Mike as the publisher of Living World Books, Paula as director of an upscale art gallery. Now Mike is about to turn 50, and Paula lies in bed thinking of the bombshell revelation that he intends to drop on his children in the morning. Surely they have wondered why their parents are so much older than their friends' parents. Paula's interior monolog fills the entire novel; Mike, the children, and the various relatives are all seen exclusively through her eyes. As a result, the characters don't have much substance. We never see the real Mike at all, only Paula's image of him. A second problem is that Mike's big revelation doesn't seem very earthshaking. While Swift would probably argue that the point is to show that Paula's fears are exaggerated, Paula's insistence that something momentous is about to occur guarantees that the reader will feel shortchanged. Libraries that own Swift's Waterland (1983) or Last Orders (1996) can skip this one. For public and academic libraries. [See Prepub Alert, LJ 5/1/07.]-Edward B. St. John, Loyola Law Sch. Lib., Los Angeles (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Excerpts
Excerpts
Chapter One You're asleep, my angels, I assume. So, to my amazement and relief, is your father, like a man finding it in him to sleep on the eve of his execution. He'll need all he can muster tomorrow. I'm the only one awake in this house on this night before the day that will change all our lives. Though it's already that day: the little luminous hands on my alarm clock (which I haven't set) show just gone one in the morning. And the nights are short. It's almost midsummer, 1995. It's a week past your sixteenth birthday. By a fluke that's become something of an embarrassment and that some people will say wasn't a fluke at all, you were born in Gemini. I'm not an especially superstitious woman. I married a scientist. But one little thing I'll do tomorrow--today, I mean, but for a little while still I can keep up the illusion--is cross my fingers. Everything's quiet, the house is still. Mike and I have anticipated this moment, we've talked about it and rehearsed it in our heads so many times that recently it's sometimes seemed like a relief: it's actually come. On the other hand, it's monstrous, it's outrageous--and it's in our power to postpone it. But "after their sixteenth birthday," we said, and let's be strict about it. Perhaps you may even appreciate our discipline and tact. Let's be strict, but let's not be cruel. Give them a week. Let them have their birthday, their last birthday of that old life. You're sleeping the deep sleep of teenagers. I just about remember it. I wonder how you'll sleep tomorrow. Sixteen was old enough, sixteen was about right. You're not kids any more, you'd be the first to endorse that. And even in the last sixteen years, you could say, sixteen's become older. Sixteen now is like eighteen was, sixteen years ago. There's an acceleration, an upgrading to things that scare me, but seem hardly to touch you. 1995--already. I'll be fifty in August, I'll have done my annual catching up with your father. What a year of big numbers. Fifty, of course, is nothing now, it's last season's forty. Life's getting longer, more elastic. But that doesn't stop the years getting quicker, this feeling that the world is hurtling. Perhaps you don't feel it, in your becalmed teenage sleep. Perhaps you want the world to hurtle. Come on, can't it go any faster ? Perhaps what all parents want from their children is to feel again that deep, long, almost stationary slowness of time. Another sweet taste of it, please. But sixteen years have passed and sixteen's like eighteen once was, maybe. But that doesn't matter. To me, tonight, you're still little kids, you're tiny babies, as if you might be sleeping now, not in your separate dens of rooms, but together as you once did in a single cot at Davenport Road. Our Nick and Kate. And what I'm feeling now is simply the most awful thing: that we might be wrenching you for ever from your childhood, in the same way as if you might have been wrenched once prematurely and dangerously from my womb. But you were right on time: the tenth of June 1979. And at two, as it happens, in the morning. Mike will do the talking. He knows, he accepts that it's up to him. On a Saturday, knowing you both, the morning will be half gone before you even appear for breakfast, and you'll need your breakfast. Then Mike will say that we need to talk to you. He'll say it in an odd, uncasual way, and you'll think twice about answering back. No, right now, please. Whatever other plans you had, drop them. There'll be something in his voice. He'll ask you to sit in the living room. I'll make some fresh coffee. You'll wonder what the hell is going on. You'll think your father's looking rather strange. But then you might have noticed that already, you might have noticed it all this week. What's up with Dad? What's up with the pair of them? As he asks you to sit, side by side, on the sofa (we've even discussed such minor details), you'll do a quick run-through in your minds of all those stories that friends at school have shared with you: inside stories, little bulletins on domestic crisis. It's your turn now, perhaps. It has the feeling of catastrophe. He's about to tell you (despite, I hope, your strongest suppositions) that he and I are splitting up . Something's been going on now for a little while. He's been having an affair with one of those (young and picked by him) women at his office. An Emma or a Charlotte. God forbid. Or I've been having an affair (God forbid indeed) with Simon at Walker's, or with one of our esteemed but importunate clients. Married life here in Rutherford Road is not all it seems. Success and money, they do funny things. So does being fifty. You're in tune with such under-the-surface stuff from your between-lessons gossip. It's part of your education: the hidden life of Putney. But then--you're sixteen. Do you notice, these days, that much about us at all? Do you pick up on our moods and secrecies? We've had a few rows in recent weeks, have you actually noticed? And we don't often row. But then, so have you. You're at a stage--don't think I haven't noticed--when that cord, that invisible rope that runs between you has been stretched to its limit. It's been yanked and tugged this way and that. You have your own worlds to deal with. And you've only just finished your exams. Ordeal enough. This should have been a weekend of recuperation. And if you'd still had more exams to go we'd have stretched our timetable to accommodate them. Let's not ruin their chances, let's not spoil their concentration. Bad enough that your birthday, last weekend, should have been subject to your last bouts of revision. As it is, we've been tempted. Let's wait--till after the results perhaps, till after one more precious summer. But we came back to our firm ruling: one week's cushion only. And since your birthday fell this year, handily, on a Saturday . . . Forgive us, there's more revision. Exams can affect your life. So can this. Mike will do the talking. I'll add my bits. And, of course, when he's finished he'll make himself open to questions, as many as you wish. To cross-examination, might be the better expression. It all just might, conceivably, go to plan, though I'm not sure what the "plan" really is, apart from our rigorous timing. It might all be like some meeting that smoothly and efficiently accomplishes its purpose, but it can hardly be like one of your dad's board meetings or one of our cursory get-togethers at Walker's: "That was all dealt with at the meeting . . ." I think, anyway, you'll want to know everything, the full, complete and intricate story. And you deserve it, as a matter of record. Your father is gently snoring. I remember once you said to me, Kate: "Tell me about before I was born." Such simply uttered and innocent words: they sent a shiver through me. I should have been delighted, charmed, even a little flattered. You actually had a concept of a time before you were around, a dawning interest in it. You saw it had some magic connection with you, if you still thought of it, maybe, like life on another planet. How old were you then--eight? We were on the beach in Cornwall, at Carrack Cove, we had those three summers there, this must have been the second. I'd wrapped you in the big faded-blue beach towel and was rubbing you gently dry, and I remember thinking that the towel was no longer like something inside which you could get lost and smothered, you were so much bigger now. And a whole year had passed since the time when, off that same beach, you both quite suddenly learnt to swim. First you, then Nick almost immediately afterwards, like clockwork. One of those first-time and once-only moments of life. But I'd suddenly called you "a pair of shrimps." Why not "fish?" Or "heroes?" I suppose it was the pinkness and littleness. I suppose it was the way you just jerked and scudded around furiously but ecstatically in the shallows, hardly fish-like at all. I didn't want to think of you yet swimming out to sea. Shrimps. Did you notice the odd look in my eye? A perfectly innocent question, but there was something strange about it. You said, "Before I was born," not "we." Nick was still down at the water's edge with Mike. He came up so much higher against Mike now, and Mike's always been a good, lean height. Did you notice my little teeter? But I would have quickly smiled, I hope. I would have quickly got all wistful and girl-to-girl, if still motherly. I kept on rubbing you and I told you, you'll remember, about another beach, far away in Scotland, where, I said, your daddy "proposed" to me. In a sand dune, in fact. That was eight years ago. Half your life. I could still dare to wear a bikini. It was one of those many panicky but smoothed-over moments--you'll understand soon what I mean--which have sometimes brought Mike and me to a sort of brink. Why not now ? Oh, we've had our jitters. But we've kept to our schedule. It will be up to you, tomorrow, to judge, to tell us if, in the circumstances, you'd have done the same. But what a stupid idea: if you 'd have done the same! You said you'd like to propose to Nick--to practise proposing to Nick. I said it didn't tend to work that way round, and it was a thing, anyway, that belonged to "those old days." And suppose, I said, Nick should say no? My bikini was dark brown, your little costume was tangerine. It's men, I said, if it happens at all now, who do the proposing. And sometimes the explaining. But I think you both deserve the full story from me, your mother. Mike will give you his story, his version. I mean, it won't be a story, it will be the facts, a story is what you've had so far. All the same, it will be a sort of version of something real. One thing we've learnt in these sixteen years is how hard it can be to tell what's true and what's false, what's real and what's pretend. It's one thing you'll have to decide, unfortunately. Which version is it to be? At two o'clock in the morning. Of course, we let you know that. A charming little gloss on those facts of life that were bound to get raised sooner or later and can sometimes be (or they could be in those "old days") a cause of awkward Saturday mornings. Though hardly when you were barely three and first put the innocent question and were both completely enchanted, it seemed, to learn that you both came out of my tummy, that you'd both once been there together. And that seemed to be the bit--do you even remember?--that really tickled you pink, that you'd been there together . So much so that though you'd moved by then to your first little separate beds, it seemed to reinforce your obstinate habit of ending up nonetheless in the same one. One morning I found you like that, trying to form a positive little single ball of clinging, squirming, not to say giggling flesh. And you said you were practising "not being born yet." And making, if it's possible to say so, a pretty good fist of it. I should have said that it had tickled me pink once that you'd been there together inside me. As to that other, critical question: how did you get there?--it never came up then. A stage before the stage of not being born yet, that was beyond your reckoning. But you should know that it was our first, unsteady, provisional position: that when it did come up it should be our guide, our testing of the way ahead for the other thing we had to tell you. It should even be, perhaps, the one and the same occasion. Except that when it did come up it was all at my rushing instigation, and you, Kate--this you'll surely remember--took the wind clean out of my sails. Another girl-to-girl moment like that one about "proposing," and it can't have been so long after. I was the one, not your dad, who suddenly pushed myself to the fore of doing all the explaining. Though I would have started with the standard biology lesson. "Kate, there are some things you need to know . . . about how babies are really born . . ." God knows what prompted it. Some little look in your eye, which I took as a challenge? Just that speed at which you were growing? What had we been talking about? And you might have let me just stumble on, even topple, still clutching you, over a precipice you were entirely unaware of. And if the truth be known, a sort of gong was banging in my head: Come on, get it over with! But you took the wind from my sails. "You mean periods and stuff, Mum? You mean what boys have to do with their willies? It's all right, I already know all about that stuff. And don't worry, I've told Nick all about it as well." How old were you? You seemed so blithely, safely sure of your ground that I no longer wanted to risk mine. And I'm not sure, to this day, if I ever want to intrude on those early biology lessons you would have given Nick. Your eyes met mine perfectly sunnily. Well, that takes care of that, I thought, that takes care of the facts of life and, until further notice, of the other facts that go with them. It should all, perhaps, have worked the other way round. That happy well-informedness, apparently, of both of you, should only have let Mike and me press on with our full--agenda. But the fact is it was really then that we fell back on our default position: when they are sixteen. You were surely too young, then, for the full agenda. And, on the other hand, if those facts of life really were taken care of and weren't any more like some flashpoint still in store, did we need to hurry towards trouble? Okay, you'll grasp this, I'm sure: it was to protect us, as well as you, to extend our sweet lease as much as yours. Will you be able to sympathise? Excerpted from Tomorrow by Graham Swift All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
