he was lungeing his horse in a circle, bracing himself against the wildness of her flight, taking a half-turn of line behind his back to stop the horse from water-skiing him across the school, and she ran her craziness to its end and at last started to work, and Mark kept her to it with little gestures of the long lunge-whip, never touching her.
And then all over again on the other rein.
Make much of horse. His old riding teacher’s instruction at the conclusion of any demanding piece of work. And Mark made much.
Back in her box, she was fêted with extra strong mints, and the smell of the minty breath of his horse was to breathe in the good past. He had reached out and touched her; his touch had been accepted. He stood for a while outside the box, leaning on the half-door, she looking out, occasionally touching him with her nose. Must leave. Bloody D. H. Lawrence to read. Write up those notes. Listen to the answerphone. Please God, not another surprise visit from Morgan. Perdition, he thought, catch my soul.
Rather rum. One of The Mate’s favourite expressions, and it seemed to cover every aspect of the situation. It had, indeed, been one of the rummer weekends of a life not untouched by rumness. And one of the rummest people he had ever met. By far the rummest he had ever kissed. What to make of it all?
It was hardly a personal triumph, for all the kissing, the being kissed back and the promise that he would kiss again. That strange night. Had he passed the test she had set him? Or had he abjectly failed? Did she know herself?
It had been a time stolen from the common run of things, that much at least was certain. But it had not been a lover’s idyll, a dalliance of hearts and bodies, of tempers and reconciliations and promises and plans. She had wept, yes, but only for the pier that stretched out into the sea. Rum.
It was thirty-six hours of magic, but not magic as the term is commonly understood. It was magic of the subtle, ambivalent and sinister kind that you find in Celtic myth. ‘Do you think you could learn to mildly dislike me?’ she asked. ‘It would make things so much easier, don’t you see?’
‘Perhaps. Could you learn to mildly dislike me?’
‘Oh, but I already do.’
‘That’s all right then.’
‘You’re so pleasant, you see.’
‘Only nineteen hours before I kiss you again.’
‘I’m looking forward to that.’
Well, Mark thought, walking up the stairs to the flat. Now a little less than twelve hours before he kissed her once again.
He opened the door and called out Callum’s name, but there was no reply. Then he saw a note pinned to the table by a knife, a regular means of communication: I’m at Chris’s. Could you come round right away? Whatever the time of night? It’s not life and death, but it’s important. All right?
Horror. For a moment he wondered if he wasn’t going to faint. Christine. Or perhaps throw up. He had not been in the mood for reality. What had she done? What did she know? Not that there was anything to know. Or not really.
He sat down for a good while longer, being appalled. But after a while, even being appalled runs out of steam. There was nothing for it but to go and face it. The reproaches: though what had he done for which he should be reproached?
Ten minutes later, he was knocking at Chris’s door. Callum answered: ‘Oh, thank God.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘Go to the kitchen. I’ll tell her you’re here. She’s been listening out. Then I’ll explain.’
Callum’s face, his voice were neutral, carefully so. Mark went and stood about feebly in the kitchen. He wondered if there was beer in the fridge: she might have bought one for him. But it would not do, to look for it.
Callum came in. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. He sat down at the kitchen table. Mark sat also. ‘Thing is, she can’t speak. Physiological thing. I mean, it’s not her fault, she’s not putting it on. Had the doctor round. It’s some kind of locking-up. It’ll unlock in a day or so. Happens sometimes to people in shock.’
‘What’s happened, Cal?’ Mark’s own voice was not at its clearest.
‘She saw you going to the station.’
‘How?’ Perhaps that syllable was a complete giveaway, but if so, Callum gave no sign of understanding it. Anyway, giving what away?
‘We’ve been having quite a chat. She writes things down. New term resolution, remember? She was going to work every Saturday.’
‘Oh Christ, at the Cottle Reading Room.’ Which was near the railway station.
‘She was having a coffee break.’
‘Oh God, at the Voyagers.’ Which overlooked the station entrance.
‘And she saw you and –’
‘But look, Christ, what is she on about? All I did was catch a train, and anyway nothing happened –’
‘She saw you with a girl. And she knew at once that you were in love with her. By the way you were walking.’
‘Jesus, that’s ridiculous, I mean I was –’
‘Tell me about it sometime. But maybe you should see Chris now. And tell her what you want to tell her.’
‘Oh God.’
Mark went and knocked at her door. He then realised that waiting for a reply was foolish, so he called, ‘It’s me’ through the wood and then walked in. She lay on her mattress on the floor, a double mattress purchased primarily as an arena for gymnastics. Though that was not its function now. She lay under the covers, face on the pillow half-hidden by a straggle of fair hair. Body present, mind apparently absent, kidnapped by aliens. ‘Pretty child,’ his mother had said.
Chris sat up in bed, shifting the covers back. Not naked. Quite well wrapped up, in fact. Mark had been intending to embrace her, to kiss her face, but he did not do so, for reasons that eluded him. With odd, dormouse-like movements she rootled about for a notebook and pencil and wrote a word for him. Sorry.
‘Oh, look, Chris, Jesus, it’s me that’s sorry, all my fault, I didn’t mean to cause you any distress, it was hopeless of me, I’m such a bloody fool, but look, honestly, nothing happened, you’ve got it all wrong.’
I love you.
Oh God. ‘I’d never do anything to hurt you, it was stupid of me, inconsiderate, I just went to the seaside, you see –’
Are you sleeping with her yet?
‘Christ, no, not a thought of it, not an option, I mean we did spend the night there, but, you know, no hanky-panky. I mean nothing at all, no kissing and cuddling or anything. Just talking. I mean, she’s weird. I don’t even like her very much.’
You’re
