Read Online Ice and a Slice by Della Galton - Free Book Online Page A

affair. But that was ludicrous. Tanya would never have an affair. She adored her husband.
    She was still thinking about Tanya as she gathered her stuff together for her Poetry and a Pint class. The Red Lion was within walking distance at a stretch, but she usually caught the bus because she had too much to carry – she had a cupboard at the pub, but it wasn’t very big and SJ had a fear of being under prepared. As the bus trundled through the housing estates she wondered if it was Michael who was having an affair. But that didn’t explain Tanya’s texts. Unless she was speaking to his mistress. No – unlikely. She’d seemed embarrassed by the texts, guilty almost, but not upset or annoyed. Still deep in thought, SJ crossed the pub car park, called out a greeting to Jim, who was polishing glasses and didn’t answer, and headed up the uncarpeted back stairs to her room.
    Poetry and a Pint was a delightful antidote to English Literature. There were no exams, no stress and she didn’t even have a fixed syllabus – she tended to flow with the group. Her seven students were united by their love of poetry and they were a diverse bunch. At the moment she had two performance poets, Matt and Steve, whose work was quite edgy; Matt wrote rap and Steve wrote controversial free verse. An older married couple, Bruce and Sybil, published anthologies of Christian verse, but had an excellent sense of humour and luckily were not easily offended. The rest of the class were women who just liked poetry and wanted something to do on a Wednesday night. One of them, Dorothy, who was always beautifully dressed and made-up – she reminded SJ of the women who worked on the posh make up section of a department store – wrote erotic novels as her day job.
    Fascinated when she’d discovered this, SJ had volunteered herself as a proof reader if ever Dorothy wanted one.
    At first she’d laughingly refused. “It might change the way you see me. And besides, you’re busy enough with your teaching, I’m sure.”
    “I’m not too busy to help you – it’s always a pleasure to look at your work. And besides, it’s my job.”
    “We both know that’s not true. This is a poetry class, after all. Reading chapters of my bonk-busters does not constitute teaching me poetry.”
    “I don’t mind helping. You know I don’t. So how’s the latest one going?”
    “Slowly. My editor’s told me I need more sex in it – a wee bit more spice – you know.”
    Dorothy winked, but SJ fancied she saw a trace of wistfulness behind the humour. “I must say I do find it hard going since I lost my Alfie. We used to have such fun trying out all these new positions.” She shot SJ a wicked smile, and added, “I’ve only my memories to rely on now, hen, although I’m not complaining. I’ve plenty of those.”
    SJ giggled. She’d seen Dorothy in a whole different light since she’d read her novels. Romantic they might be; Barbara Cartland they were certainly not.
    People were endlessly fascinating, SJ decided, as she set up the tables and chairs in her room and liberated the white board from its dusty cupboard. The faces they wore for the world weren’t always a true reflection of what was going on underneath. All authors could be glimpsed through their writing, but poetry tended to unveil people completely.
    She’d once had a student, a teenager, who had read out a poem about having a miscarriage. Towards the end of it her voice had begun to shake and by the time she’d stopped reading the entire class had been in tears.
    SJ had abandoned her desk and given her a hug. There had really been nothing else to do, and the class had talked about heartbreak and life for the rest of the session.
    Afterwards, Dorothy had stayed behind.
    “Well done,” she’d said, her soft Scottish accent colouring her words. “You were very good with that wee girl.”
    “I think she just needed to get it out of her system,” SJ said.
    “Yes, love, I think you’re