night of the Professor’s party all she had ever said to me was, ‘Thank God, that’s
over,’ after an exam at Easter.
‘I’ve been very brave,’ I said. ‘How did you hear I was out of commission?’
‘I met Peter. He told me.’
The only Peter I could think of was Peter Thomson, the dairyman my father laughed at and envied because he dressed like a townie and put the farmer’s back up by refusing to do odd jobs
when he wasn’t tending the herd.
‘Peter Kilpatrick,’ Margaret said widening her blue eyes at me.
‘I didn’t know you knew . . . Peter.’ In my head I usually thought of my fellow lodger as that loud-mouthed bastard Kilpatrick.
‘Well, I’d be bound to,’ she said. ‘Since I’m in the club.’
‘Club?’
‘Moirhill Harriers. I joined when I was fourteen. Peter was their star then – particularly for us girls.’ She had a dark brown laugh like peat water pouring off a hill.
‘He has marvellous thighs.’
‘What about you? I mean – do you still do the running bit?’
‘I won the four hundred metres at the Inter-Universities,’ she said.
‘I didn’t know.’
‘I wouldn’t worry about it. The world’s full of people who haven’t heard the news yet.’
‘You must be pretty good all the same,’ I said.
Under the circumstances, it seemed reasonable to have a look at her legs. Neither jeans nor running to be first could spoil them.
‘I’m thinking of taking up athletics next session myself,’ I said.
The way things were going I could train for the stitched-up one-legged events.
As if reading my thoughts, she asked, ‘Will your foot be all right by then?’
‘That’s no problem.’ Round the perimeter, I pictured us jogging gently. Would a poll of fourteen-year-old harriers – girls only, please – rate my thighs as
marvellous? ‘When I go back to the hospital in a fortnight, they’re going to amputate. That gives me plenty of time to get used to the tin foot before classes start. I wouldn’t go
in for the sprints, of course, and the marathon might be a bit hard on the join. Something in between.’
I had forgotten her response to wit. She bit her lip and both lovely eyes brimmed with tears. ‘Oh, that’s just awful,’ she said in that marvellous voice like rippling water.
And then forced by concern and honesty added, ‘But though it’s brave of you, I don’t think it would be possible for you to be a miler like Peter – not with an— an
impediment.’
How could you help loving anyone as obtuse as that – given youth, naturally, and beauty?
‘I was joking.’ Plunging in and admitting it seemed best, particularly since I had this temptation to go on and see how much she would believe. ‘I’ve a stupid sense of
humour. It hangs over me like the custard pie of Damocles.’
I had a glorious hallucination of her saying, ‘Should that not be sword?’
‘You were joking,’ she said instead.
‘Yes.’
Together we looked at my joke: it fell sick and died.
‘I’m glad you’re not going to lose your foot,’ she said.
She rearranged her body on the sofa and my unmanly doubts fell away.
‘It was great of you to come. I mean it’s not as if . . .’ my mind which had been going, went, ‘as if we know one another . . . really well.’
‘I had to come,’ she explained.
I lurched up and joined her on the sofa. If she was going to make a declaration, it seemed as well to get closer.
‘Peter asked me to give you this.’
She dumped a thing like a postman’s sack between us. From it she pulled crumpled paper handkerchiefs, a bunch of keys, a pack of cigarettes and finally a parcel.
‘You’ve to keep it for Brond,’ she said. ‘He’ll send for it.’
‘Who?’
I gave it back to her.
‘It’s for you,’ she said and pressed it firmly into my lap. It was a sign of my distress that the contact was no more than a subliminal distraction. I sketched a return of the
parcel, which was fended off.
‘How would you like to
over,’ after an exam at Easter.
‘I’ve been very brave,’ I said. ‘How did you hear I was out of commission?’
‘I met Peter. He told me.’
The only Peter I could think of was Peter Thomson, the dairyman my father laughed at and envied because he dressed like a townie and put the farmer’s back up by refusing to do odd jobs
when he wasn’t tending the herd.
‘Peter Kilpatrick,’ Margaret said widening her blue eyes at me.
‘I didn’t know you knew . . . Peter.’ In my head I usually thought of my fellow lodger as that loud-mouthed bastard Kilpatrick.
‘Well, I’d be bound to,’ she said. ‘Since I’m in the club.’
‘Club?’
‘Moirhill Harriers. I joined when I was fourteen. Peter was their star then – particularly for us girls.’ She had a dark brown laugh like peat water pouring off a hill.
‘He has marvellous thighs.’
‘What about you? I mean – do you still do the running bit?’
‘I won the four hundred metres at the Inter-Universities,’ she said.
‘I didn’t know.’
‘I wouldn’t worry about it. The world’s full of people who haven’t heard the news yet.’
‘You must be pretty good all the same,’ I said.
Under the circumstances, it seemed reasonable to have a look at her legs. Neither jeans nor running to be first could spoil them.
‘I’m thinking of taking up athletics next session myself,’ I said.
The way things were going I could train for the stitched-up one-legged events.
As if reading my thoughts, she asked, ‘Will your foot be all right by then?’
‘That’s no problem.’ Round the perimeter, I pictured us jogging gently. Would a poll of fourteen-year-old harriers – girls only, please – rate my thighs as
marvellous? ‘When I go back to the hospital in a fortnight, they’re going to amputate. That gives me plenty of time to get used to the tin foot before classes start. I wouldn’t go
in for the sprints, of course, and the marathon might be a bit hard on the join. Something in between.’
I had forgotten her response to wit. She bit her lip and both lovely eyes brimmed with tears. ‘Oh, that’s just awful,’ she said in that marvellous voice like rippling water.
And then forced by concern and honesty added, ‘But though it’s brave of you, I don’t think it would be possible for you to be a miler like Peter – not with an— an
impediment.’
How could you help loving anyone as obtuse as that – given youth, naturally, and beauty?
‘I was joking.’ Plunging in and admitting it seemed best, particularly since I had this temptation to go on and see how much she would believe. ‘I’ve a stupid sense of
humour. It hangs over me like the custard pie of Damocles.’
I had a glorious hallucination of her saying, ‘Should that not be sword?’
‘You were joking,’ she said instead.
‘Yes.’
Together we looked at my joke: it fell sick and died.
‘I’m glad you’re not going to lose your foot,’ she said.
She rearranged her body on the sofa and my unmanly doubts fell away.
‘It was great of you to come. I mean it’s not as if . . .’ my mind which had been going, went, ‘as if we know one another . . . really well.’
‘I had to come,’ she explained.
I lurched up and joined her on the sofa. If she was going to make a declaration, it seemed as well to get closer.
‘Peter asked me to give you this.’
She dumped a thing like a postman’s sack between us. From it she pulled crumpled paper handkerchiefs, a bunch of keys, a pack of cigarettes and finally a parcel.
‘You’ve to keep it for Brond,’ she said. ‘He’ll send for it.’
‘Who?’
I gave it back to her.
‘It’s for you,’ she said and pressed it firmly into my lap. It was a sign of my distress that the contact was no more than a subliminal distraction. I sketched a return of the
parcel, which was fended off.
‘How would you like to
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