that, that week. ‘What happened?’ and ‘Oh dear.’ Other words, like ‘university’, ‘student accommodation’ and ‘London’, seemed to have adopted a hollow, clanging quality, like someone wandering around a field ringing a big cracked cow bell.
Stella called round at the end of September, to say goodbye. She was off with her rucksack and her umbrella plant and her CD player, off up to the other side of town, to start her course in veterinary science. And goodbye seemed the right thing to be saying.
‘So what are you going to do now?’ she asked, peering at me.
‘I don’t know,’ I replied.
Stella tutted. She seemed strangely cross. My secret trip to the doctor’s the previous February was something that had happened a long long time ago, to someone else; it was something with a beginning, a middle and an end.
‘D’you think you’ll do retakes?’ she said.
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because if I was going to do retakes I should’ve signed up for them by now, shouldn’t I? And anyway, there’s no way I’d ever retake geography.’
‘You’ve got decent O-grades, though, haven’t you?’ Stella pointed out, a frown briefly puckering her forehead. ‘You could always do something with them. I mean, it’s not as if you haven’t got maths and English.’ She stared out, across our front lawn. ‘You could do a course at the Open University or something.’
I was silent. The words ‘Open University’ hung in the air between us. Nobody our age studies with the Open University, Stella! I wanted to yell. The Open University happens at two in the morning! It’s for shift workers and posties! It’s for mothers, up in the small hours with their babies!
Stella sighed and yawned.
‘So. Anyway,’ she said, ‘I’m going to have to go now.’ She paused. ‘Ed’s coming round soon.’
I felt a strange, fizzing kind of heat somewhere inside my head.
‘Ed’s coming round?’ I said.
‘Yes,’ Stella replied.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘how very odd. How very odd,’ I said again.
Although Stella had briefly mentioned him, I reflected, the last time we’d seen each other. But only in the amusing context of the way he dressed. Only to berate that awful T-shirt; those scruffy trainers; that weird see-through portfolio, that funny trenchcoat. Now the T-shirt and trainers and portfolio and coat seemed to have become less amusing. The clothes he wore and the things he carried seemed to have become acceptable in some way. ‘It’s not as if you were ever going to get round to anything, is it?’ she snapped now. ‘I mean, nothing ever happened, did it, after the . . . thing that happened at his party?’
I couldn’t think how to reply to this. The words failed to form. But something had already begun to shift, to become slippery, like compacted ice. Nothing seemed quite stable any more.
‘. . . and anyway,’ Stella was going on, ‘how about Craig Dillard?’
I stared at her.
‘What?’
‘I thought he was pretty keen, wasn’t he? You two seemed to be pretty much an item last term! Always sitting together in geography!’
‘An item?’ I said.
I thought of an item of luggage; of a great, heavy, unclaimed suitcase, revolving slowly round an airport carousel. And it struck me how friendship, of any kind, might never be more than two people occupying the same space at the same time. That was all it might ever be about – like the closeness of two people standing side by side in an airport, waiting to reclaim their luggage.
‘Anyway, you were never going to get your act together with Ed, were you? I mean, I’m really sorry about what happened and everything,’ Stella was saying, ‘but that’s just the way it is.’
And she turned and walked towards the gate. She was going to study veterinary science in a week’s time, and it was unclear what I was going to do. She always was pragmatic, though: I remember thinking that as I watched her rounding the corner of the road and
Stella called round at the end of September, to say goodbye. She was off with her rucksack and her umbrella plant and her CD player, off up to the other side of town, to start her course in veterinary science. And goodbye seemed the right thing to be saying.
‘So what are you going to do now?’ she asked, peering at me.
‘I don’t know,’ I replied.
Stella tutted. She seemed strangely cross. My secret trip to the doctor’s the previous February was something that had happened a long long time ago, to someone else; it was something with a beginning, a middle and an end.
‘D’you think you’ll do retakes?’ she said.
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because if I was going to do retakes I should’ve signed up for them by now, shouldn’t I? And anyway, there’s no way I’d ever retake geography.’
‘You’ve got decent O-grades, though, haven’t you?’ Stella pointed out, a frown briefly puckering her forehead. ‘You could always do something with them. I mean, it’s not as if you haven’t got maths and English.’ She stared out, across our front lawn. ‘You could do a course at the Open University or something.’
I was silent. The words ‘Open University’ hung in the air between us. Nobody our age studies with the Open University, Stella! I wanted to yell. The Open University happens at two in the morning! It’s for shift workers and posties! It’s for mothers, up in the small hours with their babies!
Stella sighed and yawned.
‘So. Anyway,’ she said, ‘I’m going to have to go now.’ She paused. ‘Ed’s coming round soon.’
I felt a strange, fizzing kind of heat somewhere inside my head.
‘Ed’s coming round?’ I said.
‘Yes,’ Stella replied.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘how very odd. How very odd,’ I said again.
Although Stella had briefly mentioned him, I reflected, the last time we’d seen each other. But only in the amusing context of the way he dressed. Only to berate that awful T-shirt; those scruffy trainers; that weird see-through portfolio, that funny trenchcoat. Now the T-shirt and trainers and portfolio and coat seemed to have become less amusing. The clothes he wore and the things he carried seemed to have become acceptable in some way. ‘It’s not as if you were ever going to get round to anything, is it?’ she snapped now. ‘I mean, nothing ever happened, did it, after the . . . thing that happened at his party?’
I couldn’t think how to reply to this. The words failed to form. But something had already begun to shift, to become slippery, like compacted ice. Nothing seemed quite stable any more.
‘. . . and anyway,’ Stella was going on, ‘how about Craig Dillard?’
I stared at her.
‘What?’
‘I thought he was pretty keen, wasn’t he? You two seemed to be pretty much an item last term! Always sitting together in geography!’
‘An item?’ I said.
I thought of an item of luggage; of a great, heavy, unclaimed suitcase, revolving slowly round an airport carousel. And it struck me how friendship, of any kind, might never be more than two people occupying the same space at the same time. That was all it might ever be about – like the closeness of two people standing side by side in an airport, waiting to reclaim their luggage.
‘Anyway, you were never going to get your act together with Ed, were you? I mean, I’m really sorry about what happened and everything,’ Stella was saying, ‘but that’s just the way it is.’
And she turned and walked towards the gate. She was going to study veterinary science in a week’s time, and it was unclear what I was going to do. She always was pragmatic, though: I remember thinking that as I watched her rounding the corner of the road and
Similar Books
