She made her way to the sixth-year common room where she helped herself to a coffee then joined the group of pupils discussing the question paper. She forced a smile as Kevin, a tall dark haired young man who lived near her, cornered her and again tried to persuade her to come to the sixth-year dance with him.
“I’ve something on that night Kevin,” she told him.
“You still haven’t forgiven me for last time?” he smiled showing his even white teeth. She smiled condescendingly, remembering when he’d tried to go too far, and she’d had to threaten to use her nails on his face. “It won’t happen again, I’ll be the perfect gentleman,” he continued.
Kirsty’s smile faded. Now he was grovelling. She started to turn away.
Kevin clutched her arm. “Kirsty …” he began. She turned back to stare at his hand on her arm, raised her head and glared at him, her eyes almost smoking. He stepped back muttering. She felt his eyes on her back and wiggled her hips to tease him, as she approached her friend Marylin
“How did you do?” Marylin asked, eyeing her.
“It was easy.”
They were silent for a moment. “Don’t ask about me!” Marylin reproved.
“Sorry Marylin, Kevin was trying to proposition me. How did you do?”
“Bloody awful.”
“You’ve already got an unconditional.”
“Yeah,” Marylin agreed. She peered over Kirsty’s shoulder, “Look at them!.” Kirsty turned to see Kevin coming on to Helen Bremner.
“The tart! She has had the hots for him since the third year!” Marylin sneered.
Kirsty turned back to grin at her. “You sound as if you’ve the hots for him yourself.”
“Well I wouldn’t immediately turn him down flat if he asked me.” Marylin retorted, “At least I would consider it.” Kirsty suppressed a giggle. Marylin was short and tubby with curly blonde hair, chatty, effervescent and mad about boys.
They set off for home, for since it was exam time they were on study leave. They caught the same bus and when they reached their stop, jumped off and ambled up the road. Before they parted they arranged to meet in three days’ time when they both had exams.
Kirsty reached her house and sauntered down the path, inspecting the rose bushes planted on either side. As she touched a bud she felt her senses heighten and knew that if she looked a certain way out of the sides of her eyes she would see its pattern. The iridescent aura of the rose bud came into focus and her eyes sparkled with amusement.
She murmured. “You’re just like me.” She wagged her finger at the bud. “Don’t open your petals till you’re good and ready.”
She grimaced. The boys in her year were so juvenile and coarse and boring, constantly talking about sex as if it was the be-all of existence. And the way they looked at her! Her eyes sparkled again, She, liked kissing, but why did they think it was an invitation to anything more? She’d tried sex out of curiosity in fourth year and hadn’t been impressed.
She mentally touched the secret place inside her where she could sense things that other people didn’t know about. She knew she would find someone to share her life with someday when she was good and ready, but this secret place would always be hers alone.
She gave a start. She felt … she examined the feeling. She’d felt this way a long time ago. For an instant she remembered a pair of grey eyes and a sense of exhilaration. She probed, but the memory squirmed away and was gone. But something was going to happen, she was sure of it. She felt its approach tantalising and exciting. She looked around her, puzzled.
She unlocked the door of the bungalow and entered and as it always did, the silence depressed her. She remembered when she was little and came home from primary school. The door was always unlocked and there was usually some noise, for mum had always been there asking what she’d done at school and chiding her for not hanging her blazer up. She remembered the feel of her mother’s arms around her. She shook her head as if to shake the memory away.
She glanced around the lounge, at the nondescript cream wallpaper which was probably older than herself, the old settee, the television, the old-fashioned mirror hanging by a chain on the wall, the tiled fireplace, redundant since the gas central heating had been installed, the sideboard, where she knew the contents of every drawer. The familiarity was comforting and yet … sighing, she dropped her schoolbag, took off her blazer, made herself a coffee then settled onto the settee with her books to prepare for her next exam.
A tawny half Persian cat purred into the room, padded to Kirsty’s feet and rubbed its arched back against her ankles. Kirsty moved her book and patted her lap.
“Here Bonny,” she murmured.
The cat jumped up and she absently stroked its back. The purring became a deep bass rumble. She felt the cat push its head into her hand, trying to get her full attention. She looked down into the cat’s eyes and smiled. She scratched behind its ears.
“Am I neglecting you?” she asked. She touched the tip of her finger to her tongue to wet it then touched it to the cat’s dry nose. The cat’s pink tongue arched upwards. She giggled
Chapter 26
As Kathleen became frailer, I had her admitted to a private nursing home for a while, where I was surprised to learn, Claire Gillespie was the charge nurse, and her sister Kirsty, who had grown into a beautiful seventeen-year old, often visited the old folk. After a while I permanently booked a room with twin beds for when Kathleen was too frail for me to look after at home. I could tell from her pattern she had not long to live and that she knew it herself, although she never complained.
I woke in the early morning to some inner sense and padded to her bed. She was looking at something beyond me, her eyes wide in wonder. She turned her eyes to me and I got the strangest feeling there were two people looking out at me.
She smiled and murmured, “Kiss me William”, and as our lips touched, it was as if I felt her soul in her lips. She whispered, “We will both always love you,” then she left, and I watched her pattern gradually disappear.
Chapter 27
“You two!” the charge barked into the sluice room. The two young nurses jumped. “If you haven’t got enough work to do I’ll soon find you some.”
She stood, holding the door open with her back, to let the girls scurry past; scowled after them then bustled along the corridor. Passing Mrs. Munro’s room, she glanced through the small window in the door. Mr. Munro’s thin figure was in its usual position, sitting by the bed holding his wife’s hand. She was about to rush on when some change, some difference she couldn’t define, made her push open the door and enter. One glance was enough. The old lady had died as she had lived, quietly and without fuss. For the record she went through the usual tests and noted the time.
Bill Munro looked at her and sighed, “Well that’s it over Claire.”
The practised words of comfort readied themselves on Claire’s tongue, but he held up his hand and smiled. He focused on her as if looking through her and at something around her and Claire again felt the strangeness in his eyes as if he touched some secret part of her she didn’t know existed; as if he could see her past and future tragedies and joys.
He nodded at the still figure. “Just an old grey-haired lady,” his eyes looked inward, “but I see a young dancing girl with golden hair and eyes that light up when she looks at me.” Claire’s eyes misted. Mr. Munro smiled again, and it was like sunshine. “Death means nothing,” he murmured. He gazed at her, and again, Claire felt the thrill. In a voice that suggested he was imparting one of the secrets of the universe, he affirmed, “Love is its own eternity.” His eyes focused on something in the distance, then he added. “You’ll find that out for yourself Claire.” He rose stiffly. “Well we both have arrangements to make.” He noticed her tears, “No need for that Claire.” He opened his arms and she went to him and cried against his chest.
She looked up. “I’m supposed to comfort you.” She could almost feel his smile, the smile with some great tragedy lurki
ng way below the surface.
He ruffled her hair. “I know that you loved Kathleen and I’m grateful.” He waited until she recovered then offered her his handkerchief. She dried her eyes.
“I’ll have to get doctor Chatterji to look at her,” she explained “but it will just be a formality.”
He nodded. “I’ll sit here for a while.” As she was leaving, he asked, “How is Kirsty? I haven’t seen her for ages.”
“She’s studying for her exams just now.”
He gave her a thoughtful look. “Kathleen loved her visits, but I always seemed to miss her.” Claire just smiled.
Kirsty often visited to chat to the old folk and they enjoyed her visits, but whenever Mr. Munro arrived, she made herself scarce. Claire had asked her about it, but she wouldn’t explain.
He looked at her quizzically. “Well tell her I was asking for
her.”
She smiled again, closed the door gently behind her and stood for a moment, remembering when a beautiful old lady had first arrived holding her husband’s hand. And the way they had looked at each other! One would have thought they were young newly-weds. Bill took his wife home as often as he could, but reserved the nursing home room for when she became too ill for him to take care of her. Claire had loved the old couple and they seemed to sense this. Her parents had a special affection for him but had never told her why. She remembered that he’d come to their funerals. She loved the wise gentle way he viewed the world as if he could see the patterns behind the mystery of life.
He was a well-known romantic novelist and she’d read all his books and thought they were brilliant. She’d been drawn into the stories, sharing the tragedies and joys of the characters. She sighed and bustled off to find the doctor. Later she handed over to the charge nurse of the evening shift, changed, and set off home.
As she turned into the side road to her house her thoughts turned to Kirsty and how she would cope with her exams. She knew she’d really no need to worry. Kirsty was very bright and worked hard, too hard maybe. If only she would get out more and meet some boys of her own age. Not that she was shy or nervous, she seemed happy enough. She remembered at a parent’s evening, one teacher had described her as ‘Self-contained’. She nodded to herself. It was a good school. She could never have afforded the fees but since dad had been a teacher there, Kirsty had been allowed to attend, paying only a nominal amount. Their mother who’d never recovered from the loss of their father in a car crash, had died two years after him when Kirsty was just eleven.
She smiled inwardly at the high points of the last six years. Kirsty had grown into a natural and unaffected beauty and Claire was constantly aware of the attention they both attracted when they were out together, from young and not so young men alike. She felt ambivalent about Kirsty leaving school and starting at the university. In her motherly role she knew she would miss her as she became more independent, but as a sister she looked forward to getting on with her own life. She’d had a few romantic offers but had put serious relationships on hold while Kirsty was growing up. They were very close, and she felt fiercely protective of her young sister.
Her thoughts turned to her date that evening. Alan was doing post graduate work at Dundee University. Mr. Munro, who knew his father had introduced them and she’d taken an immediate liking to him. There was a quiet seriousness about him and he didn’t try to put on an act to impress her. He looked at her as if he was searching for the real Claire, rather than just looking at the outside as many men did, like dogs eyeing a juicy bone. She felt relaxed with him, there was just something about him that put her at ease. They’d been seeing each other for a month now, going out for an occasional drink or coffee. He was an interesting talker and a good listener and he’d a lovely sense of humour. Apart from a couple of not very passionate kisses he seemed to think of her as a friend. She couldn’t say this about any man she’d met, except perhaps one, she pushed this memory to the back of her mind, but she felt there was something, an image of a knight on a white charger came in to her mind.
“You’re a stupid cow!” she chided herself, but the image returned. Maybe she could persuade him to join her in her weekly game of squash? She recalled the looks directed her way from the males in the club. She knew she had a good figure. Maybe the sight of her in her shorts would kindle his interest?
She stopped short. She’d almost walked past her house. She dallied on the path, smelling the roses and frowning at the weeds among the bushes. Her mother had planted the rose bushes and she’d probably stood in this spot admiring them. It gave her a strange feeling, she could almost feel her presence.
“I’ve done my best for Kirsty Mum,” she whispered. “I had to grow up so quickly, I was only a girl myself. I hope I didn’t make too many mistakes.” Sighing, she pushed open the door and entered the house.
Chapter 28
“Domination is what it’s all about.” Marc Valentine was philosophising about women.
Alan Balfour sighed and decided that he wouldn’t get any more work done. He saved his report on the computer.
Marc continued. “Don’t turn up for dates, keep them dangling. They don’t like it, but it excites them.” He adopted his lecturer stance, half sitting on the edge of the desk. “We’re still primates and the female has the primitive urge to attract and submit to the dominant male. If you try to be kind to them, you are no longer dominant, and they’ll treat you like a wimp.”
Alan sighed again. He got on well with Marc until it came to the subject of women. He wished he hadn’t mentioned his date that evening. He eyed Marc, the heavy gold chain tangled in the dark hair at the vee of his shirt, the Latin looks. He exuded masculinity, but Alan wasn’t taken in. He sensed Marc’s bitterness, his hurt. His macho image was bluster, role playing.
“Being a zoologist doesn’t necessarily entail acting out your subject in your personal relations …”
“Balls!” Marc interrupted. He stopped, flustered for a moment as Alan turned his level grey eyes on him.
“You are a romantic. Get real! You need a bit of patter to convince them you’re dominant but not dangerous, then they expect to be shafted.”
Alan considered. Marc was only just past thirty, but he had two failed marriages behind him. “But on the evidence of your own relationships, doesn’t it strike you there could be something wrong with your philosophy?”
Marc laughed. “That’s because they’ve had their heads filled with crap about equality and feminism. If women listened to their hormones the world would be a much happier place.”
Alan reflected. He’d often watched young women or even young girls; entranced by the softness and the animation in their faces, then had been embarrassed when they’d returned his look and he realised he’d been staring. He felt there was something beautiful inside them waiting to blossom.
“But you can’t have sex twenty-four hours a day,” he protested. “What about the rest of the time? I’ve tried sex often enough and enjoyed it, but I’m older now. I want more, I want a relationship.”
“What do you mean by a relationship?” Marc questioned, barely suppressing a sneer.
Alan smiled. “I like women. I like the way their minds work. I want the interaction between male and female with all its checks and balances, and yes …” he saw Marc opening his mouth, “with all the problems and misunderstandings as well.”
Marc made a despairing gesture. “You think they are the weaker sex? They are as hard as nails underneath. You are the type who’ll spout poetry to a woman. Well, she might sigh and smile into your eyes, but as soon as your back is turned she’ll be getting shafted by someone else.”
“I’ve never tried spouting poetry to a woman,” Alan replied quietly. “But even if I did and she liked it, where’s the harm?”
“Where’s the harm? You’re saying to them, ‘you control me, your smiles, and your approval are important to me’. Once you let control slip you’ve had it.”
Alan looked at his watch. “Wel
l I’d better get off and mug up my poetry for my date.”
Marc glanced at his own watch. “Remember my advice, don’t let them grind you down.” Alan just grunted as he removed his computer disc.
On his way to the halls of residence, he worried about how much he still had to do. He must get his report finished, his M.Sc. depended on it. In another two months he would be looking for a job. He’d had some offers but there was an expedition to Iraq in the offing and he’d applied to join it. He had a good chance as his professor was very satisfied with his work and Dr. Taylor with whom he worked, was one of the expedition’s organisers. If he was chosen for the expedition, which involved investigating the ecological effect the dams on the river Tigris had on the marshlands further south, it would help his career enormously.
He reached his room, had a quick shower then dressed, thinking about Claire. There was something honest and sincere about her, and although he’d only known her for about a month, he felt as if part of him had known her all his life. He thought of her as a friend, but was experienced enough to see she was beginning to regard him in a romantic light. He wasn’t sure if he wanted that. He hadn’t pretended or encouraged her, but nevertheless her interest kindled a spark in him. She was dark haired and very attractive, and he loved the way her eyes sparkled like dark jewels when she talked. He set off for the bus stop still thinking about her. She was five years older than he was which bothered him. He didn’t want her to get too serious. He would rather avoid scenes and he hated hurting people.
He boarded his bus, sat near the driver, asked him to give him a shout at Dalkieth Road and then sat silently reflecting, as the bus travelled through the centre of Dundee then along Arbroath Road, following the coast. He found himself reviewing his life and loves and sighed at his memories. The girls in his classes at school had all been friendly and had tried to encourage him out of his shyness. Up to a point they’d succeeded.
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