by Anna Larner
Moira frowned. “I don’t know. I usually go home, back to Newland on a Friday night.”
“So ring your parents and let them know that you’re staying at college tonight.” Iris shrugged as if to indicate that this shouldn’t be a problem surely.
“It’s just my dad.” Moira looked at Iris. “My mum’s not alive, she died when I was young.” Moira wasn’t sure why she had just said that. She certainly didn’t want Iris to pity her.
“I’m sorry, that must have been hard. It’s just me, my mum, and my gran. My dad took off when I was a nipper. I think he went to sea,” Iris said matter-of-factly.
“I’m sorry too.”
“Don’t be—by all accounts he was a drunken arsehole.”
Moira didn’t know what to say.
Iris nodded at Moira and encouraged, “He’ll be okay for one night, though, your dad?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
Iris bent down, gathering her belongings, holding her notebook at her chest. “Look, it would be great if you can make it, but if you can’t, then, well, I guess I’ll see you Monday.”
*
The Union bar was packed, as usual, on Friday night. There was a five-deep queue to be served for a drink. Jimmy Somerville sang out loudly from the wall-mounted speakers. A group of students slurring along to “You Make Me Feel (Mighty Real)” clattered into Moira as they passed by. The room smelt strongly of cigarettes and beer. Moira’s feet stuck to certain sections of the floor. She felt a rising sense of panic, and just as she turned to walk out, she felt a tug on her sleeve. It was Iris.
She hollered in Moira’s direction, “I love him. He puts such passion into his music and he’s got such a distinctive voice. Don’t you think?”
Moira had no thoughts—she’d never heard of him.
“Jimmy Somerville,” Iris said, with a smile.
“Oh, right,” Moira nodded. “Right.”
“Come on,” Iris shouted into Moira’s ear, as she led her out the main bar to the side entrance and back in again. They re-emerged behind the main bar and, directly addressing the barman with a slap on the back, Iris announced, “Hi, Matt, we’ll have…” Iris looked at Moira, waiting for her to tell her what she wanted to drink.
Moira swallowed, cleared her throat, and said, “A cider. A half. Please.”
“A pint and a half of Strongbow.” Iris placed her order with a wink to Matt, who nodded and placed two glasses under the cider pumps.
Moira looked at the queue of waiting students they had bypassed. “So you know the barman, then?”
Iris nodded, handing Moira her drink. “I work here on Tuesday and Wednesday evenings.”
“And you get free drinks?” Moira was amazed at such an awesome perk.
“What? No. I wish.” Iris laughed. “They’ll take it out of my wages—I’m not stealing, honest.”
“Oh no, I mean, I didn’t think you were. I mean you don’t seem the type.” Moira shut up quickly before she made things worse. She wasn’t, if she were honest, entirely sure what type Iris was.
Moira knew that Iris had, by the third year of her three-year course, gained a reputation for what could be best described as eccentricity. Her quirky, independent appearance mirrored her carefree manner. She wore flared dungarees that, when ripped, which was often, she would patch with flower-patterned fabric. Iris’s short spiky hair changed colour it seemed with each season. Iris stood out.
Moira had heard rumours about Iris’s affairs with both men and women. However, Moira had never heard anyone speak badly of Iris. Her confidence and openness to exploring her sexuality, and her unapologetic approach to relationships and to life in general, made her an oddly admired college figure; she almost had a folkloric quality to her.
“Well, cheers, then,” Moira said, with a smile.
“Cheers.” Iris drank half of her pint down in one. “God, I needed that. Well that’s the vocal cords lubricated. Come on, I’ll introduce you to the band.”
Iris’s band mates were a trio of three skinny lads, dressed in black T-shirts and tight black jeans. In true rock and roll style they were clearly strangers to a hairbrush, razor, and soap.
“This is John, accordion, occasional piano. Hamish, strings. Billy”—Iris gave Billy a wink, prompting Moira to wonder whether Iris was dating him—“drums, he is the beat of the band.” She clinked glasses with a beaming Billy.
“So, what type of music do you play?” Moira looked around at the instruments propped up on the stage.
“Traditional music of the homeland.” Hamish dramatically placed his hand over his heart as he spoke.
“Gaelic folk,” John said. He seemed irritated.
“Right, great.” Moira’s eyes flicked from instrument to instrument.
John hadn’t looked up at Moira. He was intently cleaning his accordion. When he did look up, he seemed surprised by her, in a good way, Moira thought.
“You’re not what I expected,” he said, smiling.
“Oh.” Moira felt herself blush. She didn’t dare ask John what he was expecting or indeed what he had obviously heard about her from Iris. His smiling appreciation made her feel a little funny. She both liked the attention John was giving her, and at the same time she found it a bit creepy, intrusive.
On closer inspection, Moira could see that each band member’s black T-shirt had the band name on the back.
“Here.” Iris encouraged a reluctant John to lift his accordion from his chest to reveal the letter E on the front of his T-shirt. “They’re the Ls.” Iris was nodding towards Hamish and Billy. “And you”—Iris handed Moira a black T-shirt—“can be my S. That is, if you want.”
“Don’t you girls want to be the Ls?” Billy looked mischievously at John.
Iris shrugged and with a contemplative expression, said, “Maybe, maybe.” Iris looked at John, who looked across at Moira and back at Iris.
Moira sensed that this intimate group of four had a certain amount of history together. That each look they gave one another meant something. But what, Moira couldn’t quite tell.
Without warning, Iris disappeared behind the stage.
“Moira.” Iris called up.
Moira jumped down and found Iris sitting on an orange plastic chair, pulling on a pair of tight black jeans.
“They’re okay, you know, hairy, smelly lumps, but nice ones,” Iris said, slightly breathless, as she stood to do up her zip and button.
Moira giggled in response and then blurted out, “Are you with any of them? I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pry.” Moira couldn’t quite believe that she’d asked such a personal question.
“No, it’s okay. Oh, you know boys.” Iris blew at her fringe.
Moira nodded, although she wasn’t sure what she was agreeing with.
“I’m sure, given half a chance they’d shag me, but well, I don’t know.” Iris looked at Moira and smiled. “How about you, do you have someone?”
Moira shook her head. She felt ashamed somehow. “I’m too busy.”
Iris smiled, kindly, curiously in reply. “I’m surprised—you’re lovely Moira, quite handsome actually.”
Moira looked down, uncomfortable at such scrutiny, and focused on examining the T-shirt she’d been given.
“You don’t have to play an instrument or anything. It’s just, well, we’re The Bells and there are only four of us.” Iris shrugged. “You don’t have to wear the T-shirt.”
“No, I’d like to be your S, I mean…” Moira’s heart raced as Iris smiled back at her, and a surge of emotion threatened to overwhelm her as Iris lifted off her jumper and dumped it on the chair, revealing her bare chest.
“I’d like that too.” Iris blushed at Moira.
Moira tried to look anywhere but at Iris’s breasts.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to embarrass you. I didn’t think.” Iris pulled on the band T-shirt. “Although, it’s not like I have much to embarrass you with,” Iris added, pulling out her T-shirt away from her. “I don’t even think I’ve
enough for a handful.” She shook her head and looked back at Moira. Moira was holding her new T-shirt against her chest.
“I guess mine are a bit bigger,” Moira said, swallowing hard. “But yours are, yours are really nice, I mean—”
“The Bells!” A loud introductory shout came from the stage area.
“Oh God, I’m on.” The band began to play as Iris disappeared onstage.
Moira, still holding the T-shirt in front of her, pulled the chair to the side of the stage, and taking a large glug of her cider watched, entranced, as Iris and her Bells lit up the Union.
*
Iris was already busy with her net when Moira arrived on Monday morning.
“Found anything?” Moira asked as she pulled on her waders.
“A rare, endangered Coke can.” Iris held the dripping can in the air.
“Wow, a great find,” Moira said, shaking her head. “Although, what it will tell us about the effects of farming on the wider environment, God knows.”
“Moira, look.” Iris was pointing to the sky. “It’s their famous sky dance.”
Moira looked up and shielded her eyes from the sun as it flickered and beamed, in and out, from behind white-grey clouds.
“There, there.” Iris gasped, as she clambered out the river and joined Moira at the riverside. “Just above the trees—it’s a hen harrier, do you reckon?” Iris beamed at Moira.
“Yes. It’s an adult male, white body, black wingtips, yes.” Moira returned Iris’s beaming smile.
Iris pulled her binoculars from her yellow woven string bag and handed them to Moira.
“You go first,” Iris said, her gaze fixed to the sky.
“Are you sure?”
Iris nodded.
As Moira tracked the bird’s flight, Iris tucked her arm around Moira’s back.
“Has he got something, Moira?”
“Yes, a vole.”
“Wow, he’ll need to land then soon, right?” Just as Iris said this, the bird dropped into the far trees. “Can you still see him?”
“No, he’s disappeared for now. Let’s record him, yes?”
Moira moved away from Iris, who remained standing where they had stood.
“I love birds of prey, their wildness. They seem free.” Iris’s tone had a faraway quality to it.
Moira gathered together the recording paper and clipboard. “Until the gamekeeper sees them, that is,” she said flatly.
“I suppose. Maybe that’s what makes them seem so awesome. Their freedom is so fragile, powerful, and vulnerable at the same time. It’s kind of exciting. I like that, you know, how precious something becomes when it is inherently at risk, when it dares to fight for itself, its right to exist, in spite of the world around it.”
Moira had the sense by the intense way Iris was looking at her that Iris was speaking in broader terms about life in general.
“I guess. Best keep our eyes out, maybe there’s a family group.” Moira held the binoculars to her eyes once more.
“Sure,” Iris said. “Of course.”
*
Over lunch on the riverbank, with their feet dangling in the stream, Iris said, “I had a really good time on Friday, you know.”
“Yep, me too. You have a beautiful voice, Iris, haunting.”
“What, like giving you nightmares?”
Moira enthused, “No, like spine-tingling, hairs on the back of the neck kind of thing.”
Moira had spent the entire weekend back in Newland, humming tunes from Friday night. Her father had had to stop her at one point, saying, “Honestly Moira, you’ll not sleep if you don’t get that tune out your head.”
For the last two weeks, in fact, Moira had found it difficult to sleep. She felt excited, really excited. She had abandoned her pyjamas in favour of her new T-shirt for bed. She couldn’t get Iris out of her head. Iris was the topic of conversation, even when she had no place in it.
“Don’t tell me,” her father had teased. “Young Iris would do it differently. I can’t wait to meet this lassie.”
Feeling stupid and exposed, Moira quickly decided that she would try not to talk about Iris at home; it felt like the two worlds didn’t fit somehow. It also, Moira realized, revealed her affection for Iris and she knew instinctively that this was, and should be, a personal, private matter.
“There’s something about singing without all that overproduction, it’s what I’m into.” Iris threw a piece of bread into the stream. “I’m into pure experiences, you know.”
Moira nodded, even though, if she were honest, she didn’t really know what Iris meant by pure experiences.
As if Iris could tell, she said, “This is a pure experience, being here with you now, just talking, talking about what matters to us and sharing together.”
“I like talking, and being with you too.” Moira looked at Iris’s notebook, clothed in purple fabric, adorned with hand-painted designs. “Are you a poet as well as a singer?”
“I write songs, which, I guess, are poems to music. I write about what’s going on in my life.”
“Right. So what do you enjoy more—caring for the environment or singing in the band?”
“Oh,” Iris said absently, “singing.”
Moira felt saddened by her reply, although she wasn’t sure why.
Speaking wistfully, Iris said, “’Cause when I sing, I feel alive, on fire. I love to see people’s faces enjoying the music. I like to make people happy.”
“You do make people happy, Iris. Very happy.”
Iris looked closely at Moira. “I hope so. I really do.”
After lunch, when it was Moira’s turn to record, she found herself watching Iris. Moira noticed that, endearingly, when Iris found something of interest, she did a little skip and clap of her hands. “Moira,” she would shout, “look.” With the thing in her net, she would wade towards the bank, flushed with excitement. You look so beautiful. You’re so beautiful, Iris.
Now and then, Iris would look up from her scooping and catch Moira’s eye.
“What?” Iris asked with a suspicious smile.
“Nothing.” Moira looked down quickly.
Iris jumped onto the bank. “No, really, what were you thinking? Tell me, Moira.”
Moira stared at the ground. She knew she could tell Iris pretty much anything, that she was unshockable, and that it was likely she wouldn’t have been the first woman to say she was beautiful.
Iris stepped in. “Were you thinking I looked stupid?” Moira shook her head. “Were you thinking I looked very hip in my waders? I’ve stuck a rose patch on.” Iris showed Moira her knee patch. “Or…”
Moira looked up.
Iris looked directly in her eyes. “Anyway,” Iris said quickly, stopping the conversation and sliding back into the stream.
As Moira took her turn to survey and collect, a lump of moss fell near her making her look up. There was no tree above her, no bird or squirrel. Odd. The second lump, which hit her on the head, made Moira suspicious. She deliberately ignored it. The third lump, Moira caught.
Iris squealed and splashed down the stream. “I’m sorry,” she called over her shoulder. “It was a twitch.”
Grabbing a handful of mud from the riverbank, Moira splashed after Iris, who had made a hopeless attempt to hide in the tresses of the weeping willow.
Iris screamed as Moira held her tight and shoved the mud squarely in her face, then dropped the caught moss down Iris’s waders.
Before Moira could escape, Iris wrestled her back into the stream.
“Iris Campbell”—Moira spluttered—“there’s no need to drown me.”
Iris was smiling widely back and then her expression became serious. “What were you thinking?” Iris brushed back Moira’s hair from her eyes.
Moira paused and caught her breath. “What?”
“On the riverbank—a moment ago, what were you thinking?” Iris’s hand cupped Moira’s wet cheek.
“That you were beautiful,” Moira heard herself admi
t.
“I thought you were. You had that dopey expression that people always get when they like me. Another one bites the dust!”
“You shouldn’t make fun of me, Iris.”
Iris held her arm, stopping Moira from turning away. “I love that look,” Iris confessed, turning Moira’s face to look at her. “And I love that it’s on your face. I want you to think I’m beautiful.” Iris paused. “’Cause I think you’re beautiful, I’ve thought it for ages. I coughed my way through my lecture the other week to get your attention. I actually ended up with a sore throat.” Moira couldn’t quite take in what she was hearing. “Whilst I’m in confession mode, I swapped with James to do this project with you. I’m meant to be on dune habitat surveying.”
“Right, I see.” Moira felt numb.
“My knickers are wet,” Iris said, without a trace of emotion.
Moira’s eyes opened wide; she felt her cheeks burn.
“Oh no,” Iris giggled, “not because I’m turned on, although…” Iris giggled again. “I have a leak in my waders.”
Moira laughed, her laughter tinged with embarrassment, as Iris shoved her playfully as they made their way to the bank.
Grabbing Moira by the hand, Iris pulled her out of the water and into her, bringing their bodies together.
Moira could feel Iris’s ribs pressing against her stomach.
Iris lifted an errant twig from Moira’s hair and ran her fingers through the wet curls.
Moira could hear sniggering from behind her. She turned to see a group of students pointing at them, laughing. She was mortified.
Iris tried to console her. “It’s okay, Moira, we must look pretty silly, soaking wet and everything.”
“It’s not okay.” Moira released herself from Iris’s hold and began collecting her things together.
“Wait. Have you plans for tonight?”
“No.” Moira felt sensitive and tried to keep her soaked jeans from her legs. “No plans, unless, of course, you consider making my tea and having a bath, a plan.”
Iris held Moira by the arm. “Meet me at the Union, say eight?”
Moira looked at Iris, who was nodding to her to indicate it was a fab idea.