to touch. When she blinked, her long black lashes swept against the warm curve of her cheek; Lonnie thought he’d never seen anything quite so lovely, unless it was her tiny feet in those fairytale red boots.
‘Would you like –’ Lonnie paused, aware that he had to go carefully here. Last time he’d asked a girl this sort of question – a first year girl called Maureen, in his Bibliography class – she’d stared at him, astonished, and then said simply, ‘No.’ There’d been no explanation, not even the hint of an excuse, and now when he walked into Bibliography, Maureen and her friends all giggled at him.
Could it be that he’d grown weird, living on his own? So weird he no longer had the ability to realise he was weird?
Lonnie felt he couldn’t bear it if this girl giggled at him. Surely she wouldn’t? She was older, for a start. Would that make a difference?
She was staring at him. She had these beautiful soft eyes. Dulcet eyes, he thought.
‘Would I like . . .?’ she echoed softly.
‘A coffee,’ he blurted. ‘Like a coffee? Over at the Union?’ He held his breath, waiting for her reply. The thick lock of hair felt heavy on his forehead. He flicked it back, the lock fell forward again, hot and clammy against his skin. He flicked once more, and then remembered Lily telling him the gesture made him seem what she called ‘lacking’.
Then something astonishing happened. The girl leaned forward and gently smoothed the stray lock back from his hot forehead.
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘I’d love to have a coffee.’
For a long moment they simply stood there. Then she held out her hand. ‘I’m Clara Lee,’ she said.
‘Lonnie. Lonnie Samson.’
His hand seemed to melt into hers.
10
DANIEL STEADMAN
Now that Lonnie had moved out, the house seemed extra lonely when Lily came home from school.
‘Mum!’ she called, twisting her key in the lock, pushing the door open, stepping into the hall. ‘Mum!’ Because there were some days, very rare days, when her mother got home before her.
Today wasn’t one of them. Lily walked on down the hallway, switching on the lights, her school shoes clumping on the dull scuffed floor, and when she kicked them off and dropped her schoolbag and sank down onto her bed, then everything was silent and the cold air hummed inside her ears. Hollow, that was how their house felt now, and all at once she wondered if this was how it might have seemed to Lonnie after their dad had gone.
The idea surprised her. She’d never thought of Lonnie in this way before; as a little kid whose dad had vanished. He’d been almost six at the time, which was old enough to feel abandoned – old enough to miss someone, anyway. Could that long ago desertion even be the reason her brother was so hopeless? As if their father’s leaving had left a hollowness, not just inside the house, but inside Lonnie, too?
If it was, Lonnie didn’t seem to be aware of it. ‘I can hardly remember him,’ he’d always say when Lily asked about their dad.
‘What did he look like?’ she’d ask, and then Lonnie would close his eyes, a pained expression gathering on his face, one hand up to his forehead. Like a medium in a séance, Lily thought.
‘He had a beard. And –’ (here Lonnie’s fingers would twitch against his brow) ‘And a long sort of face. Long cheeks.’
‘Is that all ? You must remember more than that! You were nearly six! I can remember heaps of things from when I was six! What about your first day at school?’
‘My first day at school?’
‘Yes! Did he take you? Bring you back?’
‘Mum did. At least, I think it was her.’
Lily would give up at this point. It was hopeless asking him anything.
‘I can remember him,’ she’d confided once.
‘But you weren’t even born!’
‘Unborn babies can hear, can’t they? Inside their mother’s tummies? They can hear music, so why not voices? I can remember his voice.’
‘That’s from the telephone,’ Lonnie had
‘Would you like –’ Lonnie paused, aware that he had to go carefully here. Last time he’d asked a girl this sort of question – a first year girl called Maureen, in his Bibliography class – she’d stared at him, astonished, and then said simply, ‘No.’ There’d been no explanation, not even the hint of an excuse, and now when he walked into Bibliography, Maureen and her friends all giggled at him.
Could it be that he’d grown weird, living on his own? So weird he no longer had the ability to realise he was weird?
Lonnie felt he couldn’t bear it if this girl giggled at him. Surely she wouldn’t? She was older, for a start. Would that make a difference?
She was staring at him. She had these beautiful soft eyes. Dulcet eyes, he thought.
‘Would I like . . .?’ she echoed softly.
‘A coffee,’ he blurted. ‘Like a coffee? Over at the Union?’ He held his breath, waiting for her reply. The thick lock of hair felt heavy on his forehead. He flicked it back, the lock fell forward again, hot and clammy against his skin. He flicked once more, and then remembered Lily telling him the gesture made him seem what she called ‘lacking’.
Then something astonishing happened. The girl leaned forward and gently smoothed the stray lock back from his hot forehead.
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘I’d love to have a coffee.’
For a long moment they simply stood there. Then she held out her hand. ‘I’m Clara Lee,’ she said.
‘Lonnie. Lonnie Samson.’
His hand seemed to melt into hers.
10
DANIEL STEADMAN
Now that Lonnie had moved out, the house seemed extra lonely when Lily came home from school.
‘Mum!’ she called, twisting her key in the lock, pushing the door open, stepping into the hall. ‘Mum!’ Because there were some days, very rare days, when her mother got home before her.
Today wasn’t one of them. Lily walked on down the hallway, switching on the lights, her school shoes clumping on the dull scuffed floor, and when she kicked them off and dropped her schoolbag and sank down onto her bed, then everything was silent and the cold air hummed inside her ears. Hollow, that was how their house felt now, and all at once she wondered if this was how it might have seemed to Lonnie after their dad had gone.
The idea surprised her. She’d never thought of Lonnie in this way before; as a little kid whose dad had vanished. He’d been almost six at the time, which was old enough to feel abandoned – old enough to miss someone, anyway. Could that long ago desertion even be the reason her brother was so hopeless? As if their father’s leaving had left a hollowness, not just inside the house, but inside Lonnie, too?
If it was, Lonnie didn’t seem to be aware of it. ‘I can hardly remember him,’ he’d always say when Lily asked about their dad.
‘What did he look like?’ she’d ask, and then Lonnie would close his eyes, a pained expression gathering on his face, one hand up to his forehead. Like a medium in a séance, Lily thought.
‘He had a beard. And –’ (here Lonnie’s fingers would twitch against his brow) ‘And a long sort of face. Long cheeks.’
‘Is that all ? You must remember more than that! You were nearly six! I can remember heaps of things from when I was six! What about your first day at school?’
‘My first day at school?’
‘Yes! Did he take you? Bring you back?’
‘Mum did. At least, I think it was her.’
Lily would give up at this point. It was hopeless asking him anything.
‘I can remember him,’ she’d confided once.
‘But you weren’t even born!’
‘Unborn babies can hear, can’t they? Inside their mother’s tummies? They can hear music, so why not voices? I can remember his voice.’
‘That’s from the telephone,’ Lonnie had
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