in his hand and began to run, swerving round the little groups of students, on down the corridor, bursting through the door into the courtyard, along the path towards Administration. Behind him a girl’s voice called ‘Hey!’ Lonnie kept on running. She couldn’t be calling him; he didn’t really know any of the girls at this university.
‘Hey!’ The voice was right behind him now. He turned and saw the dark-haired girl who’d woken him in the tutorial. ‘Hang on a minute,’ she said breathlessly.
Did she mean him? Lonnie glanced back over his shoulder, but there was no one else on the path. ‘Me?’ he asked, pointing to his chest. ‘Do you mean me?’
She laughed. ‘Yes, you.’
Clara had no clear idea why she’d run after this boy – the tall thin fair-haired boy who’d fallen asleep in class, and whom she’d always thought looked romantic, as if he might live in a garret and write poetry. Was it these soft looks that appealed to her? Or was it that sentence she’d heard him mutter in his sleep back there in Dr Finch’s room: ‘You’re no grandfather of mine?’ Certainly that had struck a chord in Clara, because it was exactly the way she felt about her dad. ‘You’re no Dad of mine !’
All she knew for sure was that when she’d seen the anguish in his face as he studied Dr Finch’s comments on his essay she’d simply had to run after him. Perhaps he didn’t know Dr Finch never gave anyone a good mark if he could help it.
‘Marked you down?’ she asked him boldly, gesturing towards the crumpled wad of papers in his hand.
‘Yeah.’ Lonnie flushed and looked down. He saw her feet, the little red boots she wore. They looked like shoes from a fairytale.
‘I know it’s none of my business –’ she was saying.
He raised his eyes. ‘Oh, it is ,’ he said fervently. He didn’t want her to go.
‘It is?’ asked Clara, surprised. ‘You mean you don’t mind me butting in?’
‘Oh, no .’ He flicked the long pale lock back from his forehead, and it fell right back again.
‘Only you looked so upset back there, and I thought – I thought you mightn’t know Dr Finch does it to everyone. Marks them down, I mean.’
‘Does he?’ Lonnie smiled.
Clara smiled back at him. ‘Especially if they’re good.’
‘Oh, I’m not good,’ said Lonnie modestly. ‘Not normally, anyway. It was just that this time, for once, I thought I’d got it right, you know?’
She nodded.
‘It made me feel like chucking it in.’
‘Oh, don’t!’ She sounded like she really meant it.
‘It was only for a moment. Anyway, my pop would kill me if I dropped this course.’
‘Your dad?’
‘Haven’t got a dad. I mean, I did have, but he left.’
Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh! Sorry!’
‘S’okay. It was ages back; I can hardly remember him.’
And that was true, no matter that Lily never believed him when he said so. He couldn’t remember much about Dad at all, except for these random little flashes he was never sure about. The only thing he remembered properly was the feeling in the house after Dad had gone, as if he and Mum had been let loose into an empty sky. ‘Pop’s my grandpa,’ he explained. ‘He’s got this axe, and he says he’ll use it on me if I drop out anymore.’
‘Oh, I bet he wouldn’t.’
‘He might, if he got mad enough.’ Yet all at once Pop’s hostility didn’t seem to matter quite so much, and even the wasted essay wasn’t so important. Lonnie had the definite feeling he was going to do better next time round. He bounced on his toes; feeling strangely light, as if some heaviness had lifted from him and floated away like the mist his nan called ‘foggy dew’.
The girl was smiling at him again. She was so small and slender, no bigger than those Grade 6 girls who called out to him every time he walked past Toongabbie Primary on his way to the station. She wore a pleated skirt and a long green sweater in a wool so fine and soft it made you long
‘Hey!’ The voice was right behind him now. He turned and saw the dark-haired girl who’d woken him in the tutorial. ‘Hang on a minute,’ she said breathlessly.
Did she mean him? Lonnie glanced back over his shoulder, but there was no one else on the path. ‘Me?’ he asked, pointing to his chest. ‘Do you mean me?’
She laughed. ‘Yes, you.’
Clara had no clear idea why she’d run after this boy – the tall thin fair-haired boy who’d fallen asleep in class, and whom she’d always thought looked romantic, as if he might live in a garret and write poetry. Was it these soft looks that appealed to her? Or was it that sentence she’d heard him mutter in his sleep back there in Dr Finch’s room: ‘You’re no grandfather of mine?’ Certainly that had struck a chord in Clara, because it was exactly the way she felt about her dad. ‘You’re no Dad of mine !’
All she knew for sure was that when she’d seen the anguish in his face as he studied Dr Finch’s comments on his essay she’d simply had to run after him. Perhaps he didn’t know Dr Finch never gave anyone a good mark if he could help it.
‘Marked you down?’ she asked him boldly, gesturing towards the crumpled wad of papers in his hand.
‘Yeah.’ Lonnie flushed and looked down. He saw her feet, the little red boots she wore. They looked like shoes from a fairytale.
‘I know it’s none of my business –’ she was saying.
He raised his eyes. ‘Oh, it is ,’ he said fervently. He didn’t want her to go.
‘It is?’ asked Clara, surprised. ‘You mean you don’t mind me butting in?’
‘Oh, no .’ He flicked the long pale lock back from his forehead, and it fell right back again.
‘Only you looked so upset back there, and I thought – I thought you mightn’t know Dr Finch does it to everyone. Marks them down, I mean.’
‘Does he?’ Lonnie smiled.
Clara smiled back at him. ‘Especially if they’re good.’
‘Oh, I’m not good,’ said Lonnie modestly. ‘Not normally, anyway. It was just that this time, for once, I thought I’d got it right, you know?’
She nodded.
‘It made me feel like chucking it in.’
‘Oh, don’t!’ She sounded like she really meant it.
‘It was only for a moment. Anyway, my pop would kill me if I dropped this course.’
‘Your dad?’
‘Haven’t got a dad. I mean, I did have, but he left.’
Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh! Sorry!’
‘S’okay. It was ages back; I can hardly remember him.’
And that was true, no matter that Lily never believed him when he said so. He couldn’t remember much about Dad at all, except for these random little flashes he was never sure about. The only thing he remembered properly was the feeling in the house after Dad had gone, as if he and Mum had been let loose into an empty sky. ‘Pop’s my grandpa,’ he explained. ‘He’s got this axe, and he says he’ll use it on me if I drop out anymore.’
‘Oh, I bet he wouldn’t.’
‘He might, if he got mad enough.’ Yet all at once Pop’s hostility didn’t seem to matter quite so much, and even the wasted essay wasn’t so important. Lonnie had the definite feeling he was going to do better next time round. He bounced on his toes; feeling strangely light, as if some heaviness had lifted from him and floated away like the mist his nan called ‘foggy dew’.
The girl was smiling at him again. She was so small and slender, no bigger than those Grade 6 girls who called out to him every time he walked past Toongabbie Primary on his way to the station. She wore a pleated skirt and a long green sweater in a wool so fine and soft it made you long
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