Sweet Dreams

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A man sits in his car at the traffic-lights, waiting for them to go green.

He is thirty-seven years old, with a high forehead, and thin hair that stands on end in the slightest breeze. His eyes are a little protuberant, and his lips are set in a faint smile, so that as he leans forward against the wheel, gazing straight ahead through the windshield, he seems to be waiting for the green light with eagerness.

In fact the light has been green for some time already.

Howard Baker (this is his name) is sitting in front of a green light waiting for a green light because he is thinking. He is wondering:

— whether he is adequately insured;

— whether it’s Hornsey Lane he is about to enter on the other side of Highgate Hill, or whether he has confused Highgate Hill with Highgate West Hill once again;

— whether life might really be coming to an end, as ecologists say;

— whether he should kiss Rose, the wife of the man he is on his way to see, when she opens the front door to him;

— whether, conceptually, it would be helpful to try regarding the house as an extension of the car, rather than the other way about, and experimenting with an internal trim based upon black simulated leather, with built-in ashtrays;

— whether he will be invited to lunch with Rose and Phil, and if not, whether to get a sandwich in a pub, or go straight back to the office, send out for sandwiches, and catch up on the plans for the Manchester Marina scheme; and if so, whether to order egg and tomato sandwiches, or cheese and chutney, or some of each;

— whether the girl standing on the opposite side of Highgate Hill (or Highgate West Hill) with the long dark hair blowing forward over her shoulder will turn so that he can see her face; and if so, whether the face will be the revelation that the long dark hair promises; and what a face would have to be like to be the revelation that one always expects …

Another car pulls up behind him, and hoots discreetly — pup-pup. He does not hear it.

The lights go yellow.

The girl is just about to turn. She is gazing up Highgate Hill (or Highgate West Hill), waiting for someone. At any moment she will turn round and check that her friend is not coming from the opposite direction.

The lights go red.

Howard Baker now recalls an unanalysed sound waiting in his memory for attention — a pup-pup, a sound of hooting. He looks quickly in his mirror, and sees the head of the man in the car behind move from side to side with sardonic patience. Smiling foolishly, he puts the car into gear, and violently accelerates away, taking one last look at the girl, just in case she turns.

And she does. She turns to look at him. Her face is astonished — blank with astonishment. An attractive face, with dark eyes and dark eyebrows, but no revelation. Just amazed, with the mouth a little open, as if preparing to formulate some cry.

So that’s one thing settled. The problem of lunch he doesn’t resolve, or whether to kiss Rose, or the question of internal trim in public housing. But he does find out whether it’s Hornsey Lane on the other side of Highgate Hill (or Highgate West Hill).

It’s not. It’s a ten-lane expressway, on a warm midsummer evening, with the sky clearing after a day of rain.

The expressway! Of course! How obvious everything is when once it’s happened.