Darlington hadn’t been as much fun as Vince had promised. It was grey and wet, full of charity shops, age-blackened buildings and cemeteries. From the moment they arrived Vince had looked troubled, set upon his mysterious business. As they passed the afternoon in bookshops and wandering the back streets Penny was aware of his nervousness and dread. It was as if he was reorienting himself, unwilling to explain anything to her. She wondered if it was something criminal he was into. Then she thought, surely not. If he was into something dodgy, then he’d never be teaching. It might, of course, be drugs. He was in Dario to get some stuff off someone. That made sense. She started to feel sick with fretting as they sat in a vegetarian cafe by the marketplace, by which time Vince was starting to perk up, going on about, of all things, the nature of desire and love. As he talked and the sense of what he was saying slid over her head, Penny gazed at him and wondered if he was stoned or tripping now. ‘What do you think, Penny?’
She shook herself out of it. ‘Hm?’
‘I asked if you thought loving, desiring, wanting someone could last out years of not seeing them.’ His hands were tracing patterns on the oilcloth. ‘What do you think?’
At first she felt toyed with. Then she thought, he really wants to know what I think. ‘It…’ she began. Oh, I don’t want to sound trite, she thought. But what do I think? And she realised, what she believed in did sound trite. ‘It takes a lot to shake feelings like that off,’ she said. ‘And I think love continues. It moves into different forms, or becomes something else. But it’s still there. And what happens to it then depends on the people involved.’ She swallowed.
‘Wow,’ Vince breathed. ‘You should be on This Morning, doing the phone-ins with Richard and Judy.’
She flushed. ‘Cheers,’ she snapped.
‘No, honest. That was good.’ He sipped his tea. ‘You sound like you’ve thought about this stuff.’
Penny shrugged.
In Dressers’ book department Vince whisked her from shelf to shelf, telling her who was rubbish and whom she ought to be reading. He would pluck books out seemingly at random, flick through them and announce his verdict. Dressers was old-fashioned, its floor wooden and groaning as he dashed about.
‘You’ve read everything,’ Penny said.
‘Nah,’ he said, thrusting something else at her. ‘But enough to know. It won’t make things right, reading good books. It won’t make them easier. In fact, it usually makes things harder.’ He had passed her a novel called She’s Come Undone.
‘Great.’ She went to buy the book, just to placate him. In the queue she asked, ‘Are you always a teacher?’
‘What? But I’m being a friend now. Honestly, if you read this stuff — the best bits — it’s all here. Honest. Friends always recommend books. If they can do that and be unconditional with their respect and love and support and tell you you look nice when you might not… then that’s all right.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Penny nodded as she handed her money over, wishing Vince would keep his voice down just a bit. The lady behind the counter didn’t look impressed.
Then he announced they should go to the Arts Centre in Vane Terrace to see a particular show, a dance piece. She had never been to see a dance piece before and, to start with, had a vision of some sort of ceilidh thing, where she’d be obliged to whirl and skip about in a barn with people watching. Vince appeared to pick up on that as they walked down the narrow and seething Posthouse Wynd and he told her, ‘It’s like a play. About an hour long. People with superbly proportioned bodies running about on white lino, probably. And there will most likely be a huge fridge or something in the middle of the stage.’
Now the 213 was circling the deserted town precinct. They had reached Aycliffe with Penny hardly noticing. She’d have to watch out or she’d be missing her stop. Wake up in that terrible bus station in Sunderland. Upstairs the noise was louder, as if they were all unduly excited by the sight of Aycliffe town centre. Penny groaned at her own prissiness.
I’m only jealous because I’m not drunk and I’ve not had a nice enough time.
Vince had bought her a couple of pints. She was surprised, really. It seemed as if he had no recollection of their teacher-pupil dynamic. Now he sat them at a low, round table in the foyer of the Arts Centre and made them both drink pints of fizzy lager. He was looking to Penny to get him through something. When conversation lulled at one point, round about half past five, he hissed somewhat desperately, ‘Talk to me! Distract me!’ Penny had asked him about college, where he had gone, what he would recommend. Vince warmed to this, telling her a whole load of silly stories about the things he had got up to. Just when he had got into his conversational stride, he jumped up and hurried off to the box office. Penny watched him chatting to a young woman who stood between the till and an oversized vase of arum lilies. Vince was asking after someone, asking if they weren’t working tonight. When he returned with two tickets for the show — it was called ‘Fridge’ — he seemed disappointed.
He waved her money away. ‘My treat,’ he said, and fell quiet until it was time to go in and see the show.
Penny wanted a body like that. She wanted
