The Professor's Party
by Rachael Charlotte
The date had been circled on the calendar, in thick red marker, well before the new year had commenced and the calendar been put to use. It had been slid into academic and personal diaries, and etched upon my own mind, for months prior to its arrival.
9th April 1995 (Sunday)
My wife, Anne, had been busy in the kitchen since 7:00 AM preparing; the whole extended family were coming, many of my academic colleagues (including the Dean), and all our closest friends. Anne had been on edge for the previous two or three months, spending most of her waking hours anxiously consumed with the planning and preparation, and had drafted in Rosalind and Penelope, our two daughters, to help. It was the largest ‘event’ we’d ever hosted, and it was all in celebration of my national television premier, a BBC2 six-part-documentary series examining the life and works of John Milton, co-presented by myself, and two of my similarly esteemed colleagues. I had already seen the first episode in private and my skin tingled with pride as I saw: DR DOUGLAS BRADWELL, LEADING EXPERT ON MILTON, UNIVERSITY OF HUMBERSIDE, flash up in the bottom right-hand corner as I appeared on screen. My mother had been brought up from London by my sister Caro. Even my lesser-spotted son, Francis, had agreed to emerge from the bedroom he voluntarily imprisoned himself in by day and was making agreeable conversation with Roz and Penny’s respective husbands. Our dining room, large as it was and opening out into an even larger living space, still struggled to accommodate the swell of colleagues, friends, and family who had turned out to offer their support.
The television had been set up so it could be viewed from any of the seats around the room, although there were not enough for everyone, and many had to stand. The documentary was to air at 4:00 PM, the guests had started to make an appearance at 2:30 PM, the canapes served (thanks to Anne) at 3:00 PM.
“This is great Dad,” the ever disappointing, twenty-two-year-old Francis mouthed, whilst digesting three sausage rolls at once.
“Wonderful,” gushed Roz (the pretty one), and “I’m so proud of you Dad,” said Penny (the intelligent one).
“An untarnished career,” Gary, Rosalind’s mechanic husband said, and I still don’t know what he meant, but I thanked him anyway.
At 3:35 PM (I was checking my watch every five minutes by that point, to make sure I didn’t inadvertently miss the start), I excused myself from the wine and mini quiches to go to the bathroom. On my way downstairs the doorbell rang, I was only a foot away, so I answered it.
“Hello,” a tall, spindly, blonde boy of around seventeen or eighteen years old, who I had never seen before, stood on my doorstep. Perhaps he was one of my undergraduates who hardly ever turned up for seminars.
“Can I help you?” I asked, trying to be polite, but also anxious with regards to the time.
“Yes, I think so…” he began nervously, and I noticed that he was a strikingly handsome young man, with blue eyes so sharp I was convinced they could sting a person, if a person wasn’t being careful. He stammered and stuttered on, verbosity clearly a talent, but struggled in finding his way to the point.
“What’s your name then, boy?” I asked, in a rather irritated, school-masterly voice.
“Richard,” he blurted, “Richard Fitch.” I’d never heard of him.
“I’m sorry, look, we’re having a party, what did you want?”
“Er, well, it’s just…” I noticed his hands were shaking, I sighed inwardly, “the thing is sir, Mr. Bra––no, Dr Bradwell, I think you knew my mother. She was one of your students. Alice Fitch.”
Fuck.
My chest constricted and felt as though someone had placed a blood-pressure monitor around it, tighter, tighter; was I having a heart-attack? I couldn’t breathe. Faint and dizzy, wobbling on my two usually steady feet, I felt for the doorframe, pressed my shoulder into it to gain some respite, at least, from the force of gravity. This was the kind of clichéd thing mainstream writers for prime-time soap operas liked to regularly pull out of the bag. I’d seen it enough in television programmes and films and would often chortle at the poor sod who had fatherhood thrust upon him with such immediacy. And now, the day I had thought I would remember fondly forever for one reason, was about to be imprinted for such another.
Alice Fitch––my pretty favourite, and as I looked at Richard, formed from her physical image, I was reminded why.
“I remember,” I told him, feeling as though I had been silent for far longer than acceptable. I could see Alice, twenty-one years old, a master’s degree student, long blonde hair tossed over a naked shoulder whilst she smoked a cigarette out of the hotel room window. Her breasts were small and pert, her body perfect, pristine like fresh-fallen snow covering a mountainside. I can try and excuse myself by saying we had small children, three of them, Anne was always tired, and we never had sex, but I won’t bother. I’ll just say that I loved Alice, in a way.
“I suppose you’re here because…” I trailed off as he burst into a pre-prepared speech, forgotten when I’d first opened the door, but now the words were kicked and shoved forward, and I couldn’t ignore them. As he spoke, I realised everything made sense. Alice had been going to apply for a Ph.D., we’d discussed her proposal at length on one of our sojourns, and I had been eagerly awaiting her application. She went home for the summer and no application ever arrived. I never heard from her again, I assumed she had moved on, forgotten about me.
It’s funny the things you think about in life-changing moments; my thoughts then were not immediately for Anne, or Francis, or the girls, no, I wondered why Alice had called him Richard. Why not Douglas or Dougie? Was it one of his middle-names perhaps? Or had she chosen something like William, for my father? Did she even know my father’s name? Did she even know Richard was here? I wondered what he’d been like at school, if he was studious or spent his days smoking pot and staring at a computer screen like his half-brother. Did he want to come in? He didn’t. He could see it wasn’t convenient. He apologised for timing his visit so poorly, he’d been planning it for months, but anxiety had always got the better of him. He said he was sorry to bother me and sorry that I hadn’t known about him, as though it were his fault. It transpired that his grandparents had wanted their daughter to stay away from my ‘corrupting influence’, and she clung to them, dependent on their support and unable to trust me. I would have lived up to that untrustworthiness, I think. Richard thanked me for my time, apologised again, and said he was pleased to have met me.
“Come on Dougie, it’s about to start,” Anne’s voice hammered away my reverie, as I watched Alice’s son stroll off into the afternoon. I scuttled back inside and told them there had been a very dogged conservatory salesman. Anne had saved me a place on the sofa, where I sat, exhausted; I wondered if she would ever forgive me. Alice Fitch had by no means been my only affair, but she had been the only one of any real meaning.
I felt a fraud as I received tumultuous applause for the resounding success of my debut television appearance, pats on the back, a clamouring to shake my hand, the celebration we had hoped for.
I watched Anne from across the room in her blue dress with its elaborate shoulder-pads, then Rosalind, Penelope, and Francis, and then the room filled with people. If I could have chosen to remain there on that 9th of April moment, I would have done so. I’d had dreams of a retirement to our villa in Portugal, fishing and golf in the Algarve, grandchildren to stay in the holidays. I stood on the precipice in that moment, about to be flung forward into a complex unknown.
9th April 1995 (Sunday)
My wife, Anne, had been busy in the kitchen since 7:00 AM preparing; the whole extended family were coming, many of my academic colleagues (including the Dean), and all our closest friends. Anne had been on edge for the previous two or three months, spending most of her waking hours anxiously consumed with the planning and preparation, and had drafted in Rosalind and Penelope, our two daughters, to help. It was the largest ‘event’ we’d ever hosted, and it was all in celebration of my national television premier, a BBC2 six-part-documentary series examining the life and works of John Milton, co-presented by myself, and two of my similarly esteemed colleagues. I had already seen the first episode in private and my skin tingled with pride as I saw: DR DOUGLAS BRADWELL, LEADING EXPERT ON MILTON, UNIVERSITY OF HUMBERSIDE, flash up in the bottom right-hand corner as I appeared on screen. My mother had been brought up from London by my sister Caro. Even my lesser-spotted son, Francis, had agreed to emerge from the bedroom he voluntarily imprisoned himself in by day and was making agreeable conversation with Roz and Penny’s respective husbands. Our dining room, large as it was and opening out into an even larger living space, still struggled to accommodate the swell of colleagues, friends, and family who had turned out to offer their support.
The television had been set up so it could be viewed from any of the seats around the room, although there were not enough for everyone, and many had to stand. The documentary was to air at 4:00 PM, the guests had started to make an appearance at 2:30 PM, the canapes served (thanks to Anne) at 3:00 PM.
“This is great Dad,” the ever disappointing, twenty-two-year-old Francis mouthed, whilst digesting three sausage rolls at once.
“Wonderful,” gushed Roz (the pretty one), and “I’m so proud of you Dad,” said Penny (the intelligent one).
“An untarnished career,” Gary, Rosalind’s mechanic husband said, and I still don’t know what he meant, but I thanked him anyway.
At 3:35 PM (I was checking my watch every five minutes by that point, to make sure I didn’t inadvertently miss the start), I excused myself from the wine and mini quiches to go to the bathroom. On my way downstairs the doorbell rang, I was only a foot away, so I answered it.
“Hello,” a tall, spindly, blonde boy of around seventeen or eighteen years old, who I had never seen before, stood on my doorstep. Perhaps he was one of my undergraduates who hardly ever turned up for seminars.
“Can I help you?” I asked, trying to be polite, but also anxious with regards to the time.
“Yes, I think so…” he began nervously, and I noticed that he was a strikingly handsome young man, with blue eyes so sharp I was convinced they could sting a person, if a person wasn’t being careful. He stammered and stuttered on, verbosity clearly a talent, but struggled in finding his way to the point.
“What’s your name then, boy?” I asked, in a rather irritated, school-masterly voice.
“Richard,” he blurted, “Richard Fitch.” I’d never heard of him.
“I’m sorry, look, we’re having a party, what did you want?”
“Er, well, it’s just…” I noticed his hands were shaking, I sighed inwardly, “the thing is sir, Mr. Bra––no, Dr Bradwell, I think you knew my mother. She was one of your students. Alice Fitch.”
Fuck.
My chest constricted and felt as though someone had placed a blood-pressure monitor around it, tighter, tighter; was I having a heart-attack? I couldn’t breathe. Faint and dizzy, wobbling on my two usually steady feet, I felt for the doorframe, pressed my shoulder into it to gain some respite, at least, from the force of gravity. This was the kind of clichéd thing mainstream writers for prime-time soap operas liked to regularly pull out of the bag. I’d seen it enough in television programmes and films and would often chortle at the poor sod who had fatherhood thrust upon him with such immediacy. And now, the day I had thought I would remember fondly forever for one reason, was about to be imprinted for such another.
Alice Fitch––my pretty favourite, and as I looked at Richard, formed from her physical image, I was reminded why.
“I remember,” I told him, feeling as though I had been silent for far longer than acceptable. I could see Alice, twenty-one years old, a master’s degree student, long blonde hair tossed over a naked shoulder whilst she smoked a cigarette out of the hotel room window. Her breasts were small and pert, her body perfect, pristine like fresh-fallen snow covering a mountainside. I can try and excuse myself by saying we had small children, three of them, Anne was always tired, and we never had sex, but I won’t bother. I’ll just say that I loved Alice, in a way.
“I suppose you’re here because…” I trailed off as he burst into a pre-prepared speech, forgotten when I’d first opened the door, but now the words were kicked and shoved forward, and I couldn’t ignore them. As he spoke, I realised everything made sense. Alice had been going to apply for a Ph.D., we’d discussed her proposal at length on one of our sojourns, and I had been eagerly awaiting her application. She went home for the summer and no application ever arrived. I never heard from her again, I assumed she had moved on, forgotten about me.
It’s funny the things you think about in life-changing moments; my thoughts then were not immediately for Anne, or Francis, or the girls, no, I wondered why Alice had called him Richard. Why not Douglas or Dougie? Was it one of his middle-names perhaps? Or had she chosen something like William, for my father? Did she even know my father’s name? Did she even know Richard was here? I wondered what he’d been like at school, if he was studious or spent his days smoking pot and staring at a computer screen like his half-brother. Did he want to come in? He didn’t. He could see it wasn’t convenient. He apologised for timing his visit so poorly, he’d been planning it for months, but anxiety had always got the better of him. He said he was sorry to bother me and sorry that I hadn’t known about him, as though it were his fault. It transpired that his grandparents had wanted their daughter to stay away from my ‘corrupting influence’, and she clung to them, dependent on their support and unable to trust me. I would have lived up to that untrustworthiness, I think. Richard thanked me for my time, apologised again, and said he was pleased to have met me.
“Come on Dougie, it’s about to start,” Anne’s voice hammered away my reverie, as I watched Alice’s son stroll off into the afternoon. I scuttled back inside and told them there had been a very dogged conservatory salesman. Anne had saved me a place on the sofa, where I sat, exhausted; I wondered if she would ever forgive me. Alice Fitch had by no means been my only affair, but she had been the only one of any real meaning.
I felt a fraud as I received tumultuous applause for the resounding success of my debut television appearance, pats on the back, a clamouring to shake my hand, the celebration we had hoped for.
I watched Anne from across the room in her blue dress with its elaborate shoulder-pads, then Rosalind, Penelope, and Francis, and then the room filled with people. If I could have chosen to remain there on that 9th of April moment, I would have done so. I’d had dreams of a retirement to our villa in Portugal, fishing and golf in the Algarve, grandchildren to stay in the holidays. I stood on the precipice in that moment, about to be flung forward into a complex unknown.
Rachael Charlotte is a fiction writer and poet based in Lincolnshire, UK. She holds an M.A. in Creative Writing from the University of Lincoln, and she has work published or forthcoming in Truffle, can we have our ball back?, Burning House Press, and Streetcake Magazine, among others. Her microfiction has been nominated for the anthology Best Microfiction 2020. Follow her on Instagram @rachaelcharlottewriter.