by Zoe Strachan
There I found the wood-panelling absent from Herrick, alongside fleur de lys picked out in gilt and a sombre portrait of a man with an incredibly beaky nose. An ex-professor, I deduced, from his ostentatious gown and the Greek lettering on the spines of the books the artist had posed him beside. His successor, Professor Mendelssohn – whom I recognised from his smiling, avuncular photo – was splashing Makedonikos into glasses and tipping olives and cubes of feta into rustic pottery dishes, trying to avoid soiling his flapping sleeves. What a contrast with the agonising half hour I’d spent with my shy new roommate Calum, in a sixties maths room that was all scuffed lino and dusty blackboards, sweaty cheddar and boxes of Bulgarian Rouge. This was more like the thing, I thought, striking forward.
Welcome, called Professor Mendelssohn, or at least I assumed that’s what he said. It was, quite literally, Greek to me.
Hello, I croaked.
Ah, he said, Classical Civilisation, I presume? Yes well, do help yourselves to wine.
And with a swish of his gown he was gone. We followed his instructions, grabbing full glasses of yellowy white, and I tried to figure out the etiquette for olives. They were being eaten, detritus was accumulating in the dish provided, yet nobody was spitting the stones into their hands.
Marvellous! I heard Mendelssohn exclaim to another eager new recruit, though perhaps eager is the wrong word, for this boy was suave and calm and unselfconscious. A heavy wave of hair rippled over one temple, and he stood with effortless posture in an expensively rumpled shirt.
Marvellous, the Prof reiterated. And did you manage over to Crete as well?
Of course he had, of course.
More wine? I asked Luke.
Definitely. He half-closed one eye as if at the onset of a migraine and handed me his glass. I waited while Dr Brownlee – who was rather classical looking, with his aquiline nose and loosely curling crop – served another new student who was wearing a similar shirt to the first and boasted equally privileged bone structure. Dr Brownlee replaced the bottle on the table, obviously not seeing me lurking alongside him. Congratulating myself on my social skills, I inclined the bottle towards a girl wearing glasses with smart, fine frames.
Orange juice for me, she said, confirming my suspicion that she was serious. I smiled as I poured her drink, couldn’t decide what to say.
So, she said, taking a delicate sip. One or two?
Sorry?
Are you taking one or two?
Oh, just one, I said, refilling my own glass and thinking that the wine must be an acquired taste; but then, the only stuff I’d had before was fizzy and came in strawberry or peach flavour.
And is that course one or course two?
I didn’t know there was a choice, I said, feeling slightly muddled as she handed me a copy of her course outline, a sheet of paper divided into Greek I and Greek II.
Oh, I said, I’m not doing Greek, I’m doing Classical Civilization.
Ah, she said.
What about you, I asked. One or two?
Two. I have an A Level and one’s for beginners.
I didn’t ask what Classical Civilization was for, suspecting I knew the answer already.
You couldn’t do Greek at my school, I said. For Higher, I mean.
Really, she said, her eyes darting away from me, seeking out her intellectual equals.
Anyway, I said. I’d better take this over to my friend. Good luck.
Yah, she said, distractedly.
I walked back towards where Luke was sprawled on a low chair, looking intently at two preppy Americans who were comparing grade point averages. They were hideously Ralph Lauren compared to his artful scruffiness. My own sartorial efforts made me look more like a suburban art teacher than the singer in an indie band. I had the t-shirts and the faded red Converses, but my cords sagged rather than clung, and my Harris tweed from Oxfam whiffed in warm weather. I’d often wondered where all those Harris tweeds came from; was there a point in the past when that’s what everyone wore, or did Oxfam collate them for sale only in Ayr? Luke seemed far more insouciant, though when I’d chapped on his door earlier he’d been buffing his shoes to a sheen. A pair of oxblood winklepickers, bought second-hand, they required elaborate cosseting to ensure the scuffing on their toes was kept in check and they were heeled in good time. But despite the gleam of glacé leather, it was the white glimpse of his collarbone under his skinny navy blue shirt that caught the eye. It’s funny what you remember, isn’t it? A glaring flash of flesh in the electric light of a stuffy seminar room. But maybe it was just me that was dazzled.
As I handed Luke his drink, soprano vowels leapt over the hubbub, some striking banality followed by a peal of loud laughter.
Is it wrong of me, he said, to really, really want to punch these people?
Of course not, I said, though I’d never punched anyone, apart from when I was a child and my big cousin swivelled my Rubik’s cube – ridiculous I know – and I knew I couldn’t figure out how to line up all the coloured squares again. I hid on the top bunk where my sister couldn’t see me and carefully peeled and replaced the bright stickers but they wouldn’t stay stuck and I had to hide the evidence of my cheating at the back of a drawer.
I’ve had enough of this, Luke said, draining his glass in one go. Want to head?
The laughter was growing louder, the wine hadn’t run out, and even the Prof looked animated; by then he was talking to a strikingly blonde boy in a tweed jacket that had clearly never seen the inside of a charity shop. I gulped down my own drink, not quite managing to finish it.
The air was cooler outside and the little street lamps blinking into life around the university buildings looked wan against the dusk sky.
A brush with our betters, I said.
Well, we’ve got a choice, Luke said, as we approached the less than picturesque student union. We can stick it out, or we can go and cower in the corner, doing computing science with all the other sad fucks.
I laughed, though I’d given serious thought to computing science, the idea of which brought back happy memories of typing programs into my cousin’s Amstrad, watching as it followed my coded instructions to cascade colours across the screen or work out simple arithmetic problems. As it was, I hadn’t been able to abandon maths. The school-instilled notion was still with me that languages were for girls, English was for poofs (and girls), and modern studies was for thickos.
There were some normal folk there as well, I said.
You, me and about a half dozen geeks and wallflowers.
It’s always the quiet ones you have to watch, I said.
I don’t know about you, he said, but that’s not quite the niche I want to carve for myself.
4
When Richard emerged from his workroom the table was set and a garlicky warmth filled the kitchen. As soon as Stephie saw him she said brightly, ‘G & T?’ and proceeded to spring ice cubes out the tray with determined slithery thunks. Slivers of lemon were fanned out on a chopping board. Six thirty on the dot. She must have been waiting, or perhaps she’d started without him.
‘Thanks.’
They clinked glasses and he suggested sitting outside. He would usually have gone for a run after such a long stretch at his desk, but having left Stephie to her own devices all afternoon he realised it wasn’t an option. The glow the evening light cast over her face seemed to blend away her dark circles more effectively than the kind of make-up women spend a fortune on (cheaper variations of which were now strewn along the bathroom windowsill).
‘So, how did you get on exploring the hotspots then?’ Richard asked, taking a sip of his drink. It was too strong, which he chose to take as evidence of Stephie’s unfamiliarity with home measures rather than the opposite.
‘Yeah, okay,’ she said. ‘You were right about the lift. Old guy picked me up at the beach. And do you know what, he wasn’t even coming this far. After he dropped me he turned and went back the way we came.’
‘Uhuh? What did he look like?�
��
‘Like an old guy.’
‘Can you be any more specific?’
She frowned. ‘Like Gandalf. But with slightly less hair and a Glasgow accent.’
‘That’d be Rab. He’s a bit of an old hippy. Does the boat trips. You should go sometime.’
‘Not much fun on my own,’ she said. ‘I saw you at your desk. Peeked in the window but you were engrossed. How’s the work going?’
Richard hadn’t been aware that she’d seen him, and tried to shake the feeling that he’d been caught with his hands down his trousers, or something equally undignified. Recalling the conversation with Rupe, he said, ‘You know, I don’t think I want to talk about it. But thanks for asking.’
‘Oh well. I probably wouldn’t understand what you were on about anyway. As long as you’re not stressed out about it.’
‘Just the usual. But gin helps.’ He raised his glass to her again and she smiled.
‘I’m going to get my head down tomorrow,’ she said, clinking her glass against his again and taking a drink. ‘Study schedule all drawn up in felt tip pen. Can’t promise I won’t get a bit wound up though.’
‘Well, it’s a good place for thinking.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Look,’ he gestured towards the mountains in the background. ‘Or there,’ he nodded at the sea and the islands. ‘How much therapy would you need to get that kind of perspective?’
‘So everyone’s small compared to a mountain? Deep, man.’
‘Well …’
‘Come on. If it was that easy there’d be a massive big branch of the Priory in your front garden.’
Richard shrugged. ‘Everyone’s different.’
‘And while we’re on the subject,’ she said, ‘What makes you so sure that I’ve got thinking to do? Apart from the studying, that is.’
‘Otherwise you could study in the college library or your bedroom at home.’
‘Your old bedroom. It was bigger than mine so I moved in. Mine is now the computer room with sofa bed. Though I don’t know who’s going to sleep on it, given that you don’t ever come and visit.’
‘You’ve come here.’
‘Would you rather I went back?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Look, I’m making a mess of this. I’m glad you’re here. Glad you felt you could come. There’s nothing wrong with a change of scene. It worked for me.’
‘Unless it means you can’t go anywhere else. In case it all comes flooding back. Whatever it is, which let’s face it I don’t know, because nobody thinks to tell me fucking anything.’
Stephie drained her glass. Richard started to speak then took a bigger mouthful of his own drink, felt it slipping home. Before he could continue she slid out from the bench and stood up.
‘Want another?’ she asked.
He rolled the half melted ice round the bottom of his glass.
‘Okay. Thanks. But don’t tell Mum. Don’t want her thinking I’ve been getting you into bad habits.’
‘Like Vouvray and Valium, that classy combo?’
‘She never used to.’
‘Yes she did. It’s just that you weren’t there to see it,’ Stephie called over her shoulder as she went back into the house. ‘But who knows, maybe you’re not the only person who can worry her.’
Richard heard the fridge door open, the rattle of ice again. Should he ask what was going on or just let her tell him in her own time? He wondered how much their parents knew. He’d been so assiduous at shielding his own life from them when he was Stephie’s age, though that had only made things worse in the end. Or was he just being selfish, assuming that his sister’s messes couldn’t be as desperate as his own, that they could have been more easily hidden had she chosen to play her cards close to her chest.
‘So, what’s for supper then, domestic goddess?’ he said, instantly worrying that he’d hit too flippant a note.
‘Ooh, hark at her. Supper? Whatever happened to tea?’
‘I grew out of it when I stopped eating at five o’clock. And less of the faux queen stuff, if you don’t mind. It doesn’t suit you.’
‘Sorry,’ she said quickly, as if she’d taken his comment to heart. ‘This evening we’ll be having a simple supper – not, heaven forefend, tea – of roast vegetable lasagne with a green salad and garlic bread.’
‘You’ve been busy.’
‘Yeah, well, it’s no problem. I like cooking. I broke a bowl though.’
‘I heard. Doesn’t matter. Ikea’s only about three hundred miles away.’
‘And,’ Stephie said. ‘There’s only one condition.’
Richard smiled. ‘There’s a dishwasher, in case you hadn’t noticed.’
‘I didn’t mean the dishes. Anyway, let’s go in, it’s getting midgey out here and my crispy topping must be crisp by now.’
Richard had almost forgotten how pleasant it was to have someone cook for him, and that together with the wine relaxed him, but Stephie’s words lurked at the back of his mind. Their parents were worried about her studies, there might be nothing more to it. He must have looked pensive; as Stephie spooned another wedge of lasagne onto her plate she said, ‘Look on the bright side, at least you know I don’t have an eating disorder.’
‘I thought they were passé anyway.’
‘What would you know? Wee poof like you, stuck up here in the back of beyond?’
‘I’m not completely out of touch you know,’ he said, hating her for a second for using the word, even as a joke.
‘Oh, that reminds me. There’s some mail from you from Mum. Junk I guess but I promised I’d pass it on.’
‘Thanks.’
After they’d eaten she presented him with a bundle of slightly dog-eared envelopes, and Richard leafed through the advertising offers for gold cards and interest free credit, until he stopped at one with a familiar crest on the franking mark. His failure to graduate hadn’t stopped the university alumni office getting in touch now and then to invite him to buy a brick for the new biochemistry building or attend a charity auction. Handwritten address though, that was unusual.
‘Anything interesting?’ Stephie asked.
‘I don’t think so,’ he said, tucking the unopened envelopes behind the knife block. ‘Lovely dinner, thanks.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘Oh well, a promise is a promise, I guess,’ he said, opening the dishwasher and checking it was empty. ‘I’ll clear up.’
Stephie put Clingfilm over the leftover lasagne and put it in the fridge. He resisted asking if it was cold enough yet. ‘That wasn’t the condition though,’ she said.
‘What was it then?’
‘Oh, we’ve had a nice evening and there’s a film on telly I want to watch. Let’s leave it until tomorrow.’
‘You’re making me nervous.’
‘Don’t worry. I just want you to … fill in a few gaps for me.’
Richard nodded. It wasn’t entirely unexpected, and what difference would it make, really? He spent enough time rehashing the past without an audience.
0
I clambered on to a chair to check the fit of my new needle-cords in the mirror above the sink, reconsidered my T-shirt and replaced it with one that was slimmer against my body.
Very swish, Calum said, looking up from his physics workbook.
Thanks. Hey, d’you fancy coming for a drink? We’re just going along to the Earl.
No thanks. The Star Wars Society have borrowed a video projector and we’re going to watch the trilogy back to back. Of course you’re welcome to come along, but I’m guessing it’s not really your scene?
Oh I don’t know, Empire Strikes Back would have to be in my top ten movies. But I think I’ll give it a miss this time, I said.
It’s an invalid argument that results in the conclusion that parties are always fun. That a roomful of people should mingle and laugh and dance together as a matter of logical truth, as though they were the best friends in the world. But still I felt a quiver of excit
ement as I walked along the corridor and knocked on Luke’s door. It was answered by Max, the awful roommate. He didn’t invite me in.
Hello, I said, trying hard. Is Luke around?
So you’re going to the party, he said, his mouth twisting into a surprised little moue. Really?
Behind him I saw Luke swing his legs off his bed, where he’d been lying reading, and reach underneath for his oxblood winklepickers.
Like the shoes, Max said as Luke tied the laces. Is it fancy dress?
Yes, Luke said as he eased his wallet and cigarettes into his pockets. The theme’s posh twat.
How droll. Are you sure you’ll – he cast his eyes over our clothes – fit in?
I’m hoping not, Luke said. See you later.
Have fun kids, Max called after us. Don’t do anyone I wouldn’t. Or should that be: don’t do anyone I would.
As the door closed this was punctuated with throaty laughter which somehow convinced me that it was meant in reference to me being gay.
Fucking superior cunt, Luke said.
So what’s the plan? I said. Pick up a carry out first, then pub?
After the first pint I allowed my expectations to blossom again. They weren’t very specific ones, but enough to lend a tingle to the tummy. I’d developed a bit of a crush on a fellow Philosophy student, an auburn haired pre-Raph type who seemed shy of his autumnal hues. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he spent his evenings in quiet contemplation, never venturing out, but after the eudaemonia lecture I’d overheard him say that he was going to a party at the weekend. Maybe it was the same party.
Luke and I stayed in the bar until closing time, matching each other pint for pint, then drifted along the main street, following the trace of music until we saw coloured lights pulsing in the windows of a flat above the fishing tackle shop. The entry door was open and on the stairs to the first landing we found a boy in an open-necked white shirt and black dress trousers, sitting on a step.