Together, they had suffered the vicissitudes, the joys and the disappointments of youth: Kirsten consoled Sarah after her nasty affair with Felix Stapeley, her second-year tutor; Sarah fell out with Damon briefly over a disagreement on the validity of a feminist approach to literature; Galen stood up for Hugo, who failed his Anglo- Saxon exam and almost got sent down; and Hugo pretended to be miffed for a while when Kirsten took up with Galen instead of him.
After being close for so long, their lives were so intertwined that Kirsten found it hard to imagine a future without the others. But, she realized sadly, that was surely what she had to face. Even though she and Galen had planned to go and do postgraduate work in Toronto, things might not work out that way. One of them might not be accepted-and then what?
One of the dancers stumbled backward and bumped into Kirsten. The lager foamed in the can and spilled over her hand. The drunken dancer just shrugged and got back to business. Kirsten laughed and put her can on the windowsill. Having got the feel of the party at last, she launched herself into the shadowy crowd and chatted and danced till she was hot and tired. Then, finding that her half-full can had been used as an ashtray in her absence, she got some more lager and returned to her spot by the window. The Rolling Stones were singing “Jumping Jack Flash.” Russell sure knew how to choose party music.
“How you doing?” It was Hugo, shouting in her ear.
“I’m all right,” she yelled back. “A bit tired, that’s all. I’ll have to go soon.”
“How about a dance?”
Kirsten nodded and joined him on the floor. She didn’t know if she was a good dancer or not, but she enjoyed herself. She liked moving her body to the beat of fast music, and the Stones were the best of all. With the Stones she felt a certain earthy, pagan power deep in her body, and when she danced to their music she shed all her inhibitions: her hips swung wildly and her arms drew abstract patterns in the air. Hugo danced less gracefully. His movements were heavier, more deliberate and limited than Kirsten’s. He tended to lumber around a bit. It didn’t matter to her, though; she hardly ever paid attention to the person she was dancing with, so bound up in her own world was she. The problem was, some men took her wild gyrations on the dance floor as an invitation to bed, which they most certainly were not.
The song ended and “Time Is on My Side” came on, a slower number. Hugo moved closer and put his arms around her. She let him. It was only dancing, after all, and they were close friends. She rested her head on his shoulder and swayed to the music.
“I’ll miss you, you know, Hugo,” she said as they danced. “I do hope we can all still keep in touch.”
“We will,” Hugo said, turning his head so that she could hear him. “None of us know what the hell we’re going to be doing yet. On the dole, most likely. Or maybe we’ll all come out and join you and Galen in Canada.”
“If we get there.”
He held her more closely and they stopped talking. The music carried them along. She could feel Hugo’s warm breath in her hair, and his hand had slipped down her back to the base of her spine. The floor was getting more crowded. Everywhere they moved, they seemed to bump into another huddled couple. Finally, the song ended and Hugo guided her back toward the window as “Street Fighting Man” came on.
When they’d both cooled down and had something to drink, he leaned forward and kissed her. It was so quick that she didn’t have time to stop him. Then his arms were around her, running over her shoulders and buttocks, pulling her hips toward him. She struggled and broke away, instinctively wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Hugo!”
“Oh, come on, Kirsten. It’s our last chance, while we’re still young. Who knows what might happen tomorrow?”
Kirsten laughed and punched him on the shoulder. She couldn’t stay angry with him. “Don’t pull that gather ye rosebuds stuff with me, Hugo Lassiter. I’ll say this for you, you don’t give up trying, do you?”
Hugo grinned.
“But it’s still no,” Kirsten said. “I like you, you know that, but only as a friend.”
“I’ve got too many friends,” Hugo complained. “What I want is to get laid.”
Kirsten gestured around the room. “Well, I’m sure you’ve got a good chance. If there’s anyone here you haven’t slept with already.”
“That’s not fair. I know I’ve got a reputation, but it’s completely unfounded.”
“Is it? How disappointing. And here was me thinking you were such an expert.”
“You could find out for yourself, you know,” he said, moving closer again. “If you play your cards right.”
Kirsten laughed and wriggled out of his grasp. “No. Anyway, I’m off home now. I’ve got to be up early to pack in the morning, especially if I’m to have time for lunch.”
“I’ll walk you.”
“No you won’t. It’s not far.”
“But it’s late. It’s dangerous to walk out by yourself so late.”
“I’ve done it hundreds of times. You know I have. No thanks. You stay here. I don’t want to end up fighting you off out there. I’d rather take my chances.”
Hugo sighed. “And tomorrow we part, perhaps forever. You don’t know what you’re missing.”
“Nor do you,” she said, “but I’m sure you’ll soon forget all about it. Remember, tomorrow for lunch in the Green Dragon. Remind Sarah and Damon, too.”
“One o’clock?”
“That’s right.” Kirsten pecked him on the cheek and skipped out into the warm night.
3 Martha
The room was perfect. Usually, a single room in a bed and breakfast establishment is nothing more than a cupboard by the toilets, but this one, clearly a converted attic with a dormer window and white-painted rafters, had been done out nicely. Candy-striped wallpaper brightened the walls, and a salmon-pink candlewick bedspread covered the three-quarter bed. Just to the left of the window stood the washstand, with clean white towels laid neatly over a chrome rail. The only other furniture consisted of a small wardrobe with metal hangers that jangled together when Martha opened the flimsy door, and a bedside lamp on a small chest of drawers.
The owner leaned against the doorjamb with his arms folded while she made up her mind. He was a coarse man with hairy forearms and even more hair sticking out over the top of his white open-necked shirt. His face looked like it was made of pink vinyl, and six or seven long fair hairs curled on his chin.
“We don’t get many girls staying by themselves,” he said, smiling at her with lashless blue eyes. It was obviously an invitation to state her business.
“Yes, well I’m here to do some research,” Martha lied. “I’m working on a book.”
“A book, eh? Romance, is it? I suppose you’ll find plenty of background for that here, what with the abbey ruins and the Dracula legends. Plenty of romance in all that history, I’d say.”
“It’s not a romance,” Martha said.
He didn’t pursue the matter further, but looked at her with a fixed expression, a mixture of superior, mocking humor and disbelief that she had often seen men use on professional women.
“I’ll take it,” she said, mostly to get rid of him as quickly as possible. She didn’t like the way he leaned against the doorway, arms folded, watching her. Was he hoping she’d start taking out her underwear to put in the drawers? The room began to feel claustrophobic.
He stood up straight. “Right. Well, here’s the keys. That big one there’s for the front door. Come in any time you want, but try not to disturb the other guests. There’s a lounge with a color telly on the ground floor. You can make yourself a cup of tea or instant coffee there, too, if you like. But be sure to wash out your cup afterward. The wife has enough on. Breakfast’s at eight thirty sharp. If you want an evening meal, let the wife know in the morning before you go out. Anything else?”
“Not that I can think of.”
He closed the door behind him as he left. Martha dumped her holdall on the bed and stretched. The sloping ceiling was so low at that point that her fingers touched the plaster between the beams. She poked her head out of
