We're delighted to present an extract from Slipping, the latest novel from John Toomey, author of Sleepwalker and Huddleston Road.
About Slipping: Glimpsing his own cosmic insignifigance, Albert Jackson sets out to reclaim a life unlived, and in so doing commits an unspeakable crime. Incarcerated, and in correspondence with a local novelist, he struggles to maintain control of his story.
Dressed, I turned my shoulder to the audience of the mirror. Nice, I thought. Lean legs, the shoeshined glint of my black shoes.
I patted my stomach, taut and spare, and permitted my reflection a satisfied smile. Tidy enough. Well-preserved. And that’s none too shabby at forty-nine. I have not fallen to slovenliness, as most men do. At ten and a half stone and half an inch below six foot, there are worse than me. Evading repulsiveness is in itself a success, at a certain age.
I shuffled the loose sheets of notes I’d prepared into a neatly symmetrical block and slid them between a history and an English textbook; held secure and protected from fraying and rumpling. With two exterior buckles I then secured the bag and left the house. One stride became two, then three, and so on, until my feet had grown full and purposeful.
For twenty-five years I have followed the same route, each morning of each weekday of term-time. There were periods when I drove, and another when I cycled, and then—recently—I began walking. But the route that I walk, daily, is the same route travelled all my working life; winding in and around the estate, a mile down the coast road into town, through it and beyond, to the school complex at the far side.
I had been walking months before Val wondered what had come over me. What strange impulse was this, she asked, to begin walking to work at the age of forty-nine? It wasn’t what a man of my vintage ought to be doing. ‘Or if you’re to insist on it, you should invest in a smart overcoat and briefcase,’ she said. ‘That god-awful leather satchel of yours is spilling over with books and papers, Al. Have you no pride?’
The weight of the satchel causes me to heave and creak, ‘Like some lamed farmhand from an awful Steinbeck novel,’ Val enjoys saying. And I like the literary reference. It is her tiny acknowledgment of who I am. Of my passions, and talents, and taste. That I’m not too pushed on Steinbeck either hardly matters.
What worsens the folly of my walking is that on a couple of evenings I have arrived home soaked through, with dense globules of rain gathered and congealed at the cuffs of my woollen suit; dangling and plummeting to the doormat, as I step inside the porch, beaming like the child who has spent the afternoon jumping in mud.
‘Sweet mother of our lord, Albert, whatever has you walking to work again? Take the car, would you? Or buy a bloody umbrella,’ she said on one of those evenings.
‘An umbrella, yes,’ I responded.
‘Why the walking anyway, Al? Having an affair or something? Should I be checking your drawers for new underwear? Some young belle on staff, maybe, fawning over your aloof angularity?’
She was irritable that evening.
‘An affair, Val? Now that would be something,’ I said, engaged, back in regular time again. An affair. An affair? We both laughed...
The walking began because I could not think. From the moment I got out of bed there were voices and demands rapping on the Lucite coating of my secluded mind; damp thuds and scratchings of other people in my ear. I had believed that when the second of our children, for whom I have an incurable soft spot, it is true, had departed for college that a utopian tranquillity would automatically descend upon us. Upon our house. Our life. I believed that the noise would end when the children did. When they ceased to be children, when they went off about their own lives and left us to rediscover ours.
What actually happened was that Val’s need to fill the silences became more pronounced, and inane. And when she failed to illicit conversation from me, the volume on her morning radio jumped a decibel or four. And not even adult radio but trivial breakfast shows with skits and prizes and too much music and too many sponsors, and all the gravitas of obnoxious adolescence.
It was for silence and fresh air, which is good for the mind, that I began walking to work.
By the time I set foot in the staffroom that first morning of walking, I was so rejuvenated by the experience that I resolved to sell my car immediately. So immediately, in fact, that I offered it to the first person I met.
Aimée Quinn. Our French-Irish English teacher, recently made permanent. She is a delicate (which would be the French in her, I suppose) and decent flower, with a long career ahead of her; only interrupted for maternity leave, a few years in the future, no doubt, after she marries some ego-laden fellow teacher, plucked from among our colleagues on staff here, most likely, or from another school in the area. I’ve seen this sort of thing so often before. It’s inevitable. But she’ll return to teaching out of a desire to be remembered fondly. They all do.
‘Any interest in buying my car, Aimée?’ I asked her, straight out.
‘Sorry, Al?’ she said, taken aback. ‘What’s that you said?’
She’d hardly noticed me in the small kitchen, a Teflon sweat glistening upon my forehead and neck, as she finished the last pages of some Ibsen play, head down, while waiting on coffee and polishing off a banana.
‘Any interest in buying my car? I’m selling it. Knock-down price of... very little. It’s a fine car. Good in all weather. Two years old. I don’t want it. I don’t need it. I’m walking from now on. Walking everywhere,’ I declared, buoyantly.
‘I’m good for a car, thanks,’ she said. ‘How come you’re walking everywhere then?’
‘Well, I walked in this morning. First time since... since a long time. It was refreshing. Peaceful. Invigorating.’
‘Peaceful and invigorating ? Seems almost paradoxical, Al.’
‘It does, doesn’t it? So you’re sure you don’t want it?’
‘Yeah, Al. Thanks,’ she said, smiling up at me as she took her breakfast through to the inner staffroom. ‘But listen, I’ll put the word out for you.’
Her face, caressed on both sides by silken blonde drapes of hair, and lit up from within by that slightly skewed smile, projected itself, uninterrupted, above the slow bustle of the room. I watched her walk away, shimmering in a way only the truly sentient can appreciate. She hung there like a projected simulacrum of perfection, for what seemed a longer duration than was plausible...
About The Author: John Toomey is the author of three novels, Sleepwalker, Huddleston Road and Slipping. He grew up in Dublin but went to university in London, where he then lived for five years. He now lives in Dublin where he teaches at Clonkeen College. Slipping (published by Dalkey Archive Press) will be launched in Hodges Figgis, Dublin on March 22nd at 18:00 - details here.