Crustaceans by Andrew Cowan Page B

work.

ELEVEN
    Ruth’s home at the start was a barracks three miles from the coast. Fields of beet grew where once there’d been an airstrip. The students occupied buildings still painted for camouflage; a few grey pillboxes watched the horizon. She shared a kitchen and bathroom with four other girls, caught the same bus in the mornings, drank with them some evenings, but never felt sure that they liked her. Half-way through our first term she moved to a house in the town, and moved again in the second year, once more in the third. Each time she was invited, for Ruth always had friends, other people to be with, and wherever we went – trawling pubs for companions, calling unannounced at their houses, gatecrashing parties – she always slipped in before me. And then I would lose her. She wouldn’t speak to a crowd, but withdrew into corners, private conversations like ours, and sometimes – as I looked on – her eyes would catch mine and she’d frown, as though surprised to find me still there, or disturbed I was watching. I’d sense something then of how it might be when she left me.
    But I was happy to watch her. Ruth’s hair was fine and very straight and she tucked it repeatedly behind her ears as she listened. When she smiled she became self-conscious, dipping her head as she reached for a glass or her cigarette, allowing her hair to slide forward. Often she sat with one knee drawn to her chin, her arms wrapped tight round her leg, or else eased off her shoes and drew both legs beneath her, almost kneeling, even in pubs, as though curled up on a sofa at home. She made others feel comfortable, and interesting, but always claimed she felt awkward, burdened by what she was told and exposed by what she’d revealed. Walking back to my flat she would cling to my arm and fret about all she had said and not said. Then in my room she’d sit smoking in silence on the edge of the bed, until finally, with a sigh or a groan, she’d stub out her cigarette and come back to me. It was usually then that she’d tell me she loved me. I didn’t always want to believe her.
    When our time as undergraduates ended there was a party in her house near the college. A short while before it began we sat alone in a pub called the Hurricane, the door wedged open beside us, sunlight glinting from the barrels outside in the yard. Soon most of our friends would be leaving – returning home or travelling abroad, starting jobs, new courses, or moving to London. One couple was going to get married. Ruth had a place at the Royal College. I’d carried her portfolio down to the interview, and I’d helped to write her application. I hadn’t had any plans for myself, and hadn’t known what to say when she received her acceptance. The letter now lay on the table before us. I read it again, and folded it neatly, and pushed it back in its envelope. I propped it next to her glass. I really thought you’d be pleased, she said quietly, and I shrugged, then lifted my drink. I am, I replied; it’s good. It’s just what you wanted, I said.
    The lounge was narrow and empty, low-ceilinged, and as I gazed around at the walls, at the red leather benches and stools, polished tables and ashtrays, I thought of waiting rooms, the coach station, and wished all this could be over. I fixed my eyes on a painting near to the bar, a fighter-plane skimming the sea, sandy cliffs in the distance, metallic grey waves. The frame was white, beaded gold, and it hung from a picture rail. It was slightly askew. I angled my head, and knew – from Ruth’s silence beside me, her stillness – that she was crying. We ought to get going, I said; but Ruth didn’t move. When she turned to face me I looked down at my glass. Have you ever loved me? she asked then; and surprised, I nodded. You’ve never once said so, she said. From the other room came a murmur of men’s voices, the click of