In a Good Light (28 page)

‘Hey, Esther, these are pretty good,' he said, when he'd finished his examination. ‘Are they yours?'

‘Yes.'

He nodded, impressed. ‘They're brilliant actually. I couldn't do anything like that.'

‘My art teacher doesn't think so,' I said, closing the book firmly, experiencing the curious clash of pleasure and anguish that accompanied any appraisal of my artwork, however favourable. ‘He says they're too draughstmanlike. They look too much like the object.'

‘I thought that was the idea.'

‘He wants me to be more free. To put more emotion into them.'

‘How emotional can you get about a plug?' he wanted to know.

‘I don't know. Sometimes he makes me draw things blindfold, to stop me getting fixated by detail.'

‘Kinky,' said Donovan. ‘I'd keep an eye on him if I were you.'

Around us people were becoming restive. A deputation marched up to the front of the train on a quest for information, and returned some minutes later, shrugging shoulders, unenlightened. ‘I might as well jump out here and go cross country,' Donovan said, peering again into the rain-lashed darkness. As he said this a ticket inspector appeared at the far end of the carriage, and was immediately besieged by indignant passengers. ‘In fact I definitely will,' Donovan said, hastily shouldering his pack. ‘Nice meeting you again, Esther. Take care.' He thrust out his hand, and as I went to shake it, a great bolt of static snapped between us and we flinched apart, shaking our fingers and laughing. ‘Bloody nylon carpets,' he complained.

‘First you throw my book out of the window, then you try to electrocute me,' I grumbled. I watched him open the door a fraction, to check that it was safe to jump; he hesitated for a second, and then he seemed to drop out of sight. Under the disapproving eye of my fellow travellers, I walked across and pulled the door shut, implicated now in his unorthodox departure. I caught sight of him then, scrambling down the embankment and making off across the fields, the orange tip of his cigarette weaving and swaying. The Frys had always been a family for dramatic exits, I remembered.

A moment later the train revived with a whine and a shudder and continued on its way without further incident. I spent the rest of the journey thinking over that encounter
with Donovan. I would have liked to tell Christian about it, but at fourteen I held a pledge of secrecy to be sacred.

PENNY WAS WAITING
for me on the platform at Exeter St David's. She was wearing an ankle-length Cossack's coat, a knitted hat and a scarf whose fringes skimmed the floor. She fended off my attempt at a hug.

‘Don't come near me; I've got a disgusting cold. I've had it for about four months.' Even as she said this she broke into a wheezy cough. Her nose was as red as a radish. It was the first time I had ever seen her looking unglamorous. The rain was still falling as we made our way to the car park.

‘Where's Christian?' I asked, disappointed that he hadn't turned out to meet me.

‘At home with a hangover,' she replied crisply. ‘But don't worry about him.
We're
going to have a lovely time. I hope you've brought plenty of thick jumpers,' she warned, as we set off. ‘The flat's like an igloo.'

‘I'm used to a cold house,' I reminded her.

‘Well, that's true enough,' said Penny, who could seldom
be persuaded to remove her coat in the Old Schoolhouse. She lapsed into a preoccupied silence as she drove us, somewhat erratically, through the city streets. She hasn't even asked about my journey, I thought, glancing at her determined profile. Conversation was, in any case, inhibited by an imposing orchestra of sound from the wipers and fan heater, which were both going at full pelt. In spite of their efforts the windscreen kept steaming up, and every so often Penny would lean forward and scrub a peephole in the glass with one end of her scarf.

In a few minutes we had left the terraced cottages of the suburbs behind, and were into open countryside. The headlights combed the dripping hedgerows through a glitter of raindust.

Presently Penny burst out: ‘Oh, Christian's such an arsehole!'

‘Why? What's he done?' I said, completely taken aback.

‘It's too complicated to explain,' she replied, taking the deep breath required for such an explanation nevertheless. ‘It goes back to, oh, I don't know, your mum probably.'

‘Mum? What's she got to do with it?'

‘It's his attitude to money, to everything. He's such a bad
planner
. I keep having to bail him out. I shouldn't be saying this to you – I know you won't hear a word against him – but it's all come to a head this weekend, and you've arrived in the thick of it, and it can't be helped.' And then she slewed the car into a passing place and burst into tears.

‘Don't cry, Penny,' I pleaded, handing her a clump of tissues from the dashboard. ‘It'll be all right.' It's an unsettling experience, comforting your mentor. I didn't enjoy it at all. Suddenly the prospects for the weekend ahead looked grim. I was there not as a guest now, but a potential
mediator in some simmering dispute. The contents of my stomach began to coagulate with anxiety. I swallowed hard. ‘You're not going to split up, are you?' I asked.

Penny applied the tissue to her eyes and then nose, and shook her head. ‘I shouldn't think so. It's just a hiccup.'

‘Would it be better if I went home?' This was an offer without much substance. I knew she wouldn't pack me back off to London on my own, but I wanted some reassurance that they weren't planning a marathon row in my presence.

‘No, of course you can't go,' she sniffed. ‘This was going to be your special weekend. I've got us tickets for Tom Robinson at the Union tonight, but I don't feel like it now. Do you?'

‘Not if you don't,' I said. Whoever he was.

‘Mind you, I don't particularly want to go home either. It's too cold. Shall we find a nice pub with a log fire, just the two of us?'

‘Okay,' I said. The idea seemed to cheer her up so I didn't dare oppose it. I couldn't help wondering what Christian would make of our non-arrival. Would he mind, or even notice? How, come to that, did he manage to be nursing a hangover at seven o'clock in the evening? Was this evidence of the fabled debauchery of undergraduates, or just a fib on Penny's part to excuse his absence? I didn't have the courage to probe while we were skidding along waterlogged country lanes in a blackout. I thought anything contentious had better wait.

About half a mile further on the headlights picked out a painted sign propped against a tree at the roadside.
The Wheatsheaf – 100yds. Real Ale. Bar Meals
. An arrow pointed through a gap in the hedge not much wider than the car. At the end of the narrow track was the welcoming sight of
a squat stone pub with thatched roof and golden lights in every window. In spite of its location it was fairly busy, but I'd noticed before that Penny had a gift for being served. The crowd around the bar seemed to fall away to let her through, and within minutes of her arrival we had secured a corner table beside the inglenook, and the barman had made her up a hot toddy to her exact specifications: juice of one lemon, one measure of single malt, one tablespoon of clear honey, water just off the boil.

As she unswaddled herself from her scarf and coat, she began to lay out her case against Christian.

‘It started with this idea that we'd go to the States this summer,' she said, removing her woolly hat to reveal hair ravaged by static. ‘We both applied to go and work in one of these summer camps. I got all the forms and did all the research, tarted up my CV a bit, you know. We thought we'd do two months at one of the camps and then go travelling for a month. Well, last week the letters came: I've got an interview; Christian hasn't. I don't know what to do. It's causing so much bad feeling between us.'

‘Why didn't they want him?' It was the first time Christian had failed at anything: it was inexplicable.

‘I don't know. I thought they'd snap him up, with all his sporting achievements. He'd make a great athletics coach, or whatever. I've got a feeling he didn't do a very good application. You see, he's a bit lazy about some things. I spent ages on my personal statement.' She gave a guilty laugh. ‘I had to embroider a little, but they allow for that. I think Christian wanted me to do his application for him, and when I wouldn't, he just dashed it off in a hurry. I refuse to mother him. I can't stand men when they go all helpless.'

There was a pause as a waitress brought over the two bowls of treacle sponge and custard that Penny had ordered as an antidote to despondency and foul weather. ‘Pudding's so comforting isn't it?' she said, taking up her spoon. ‘I can face almost anything on a full stomach.'

‘Christian can't really blame you for being selected,' I said, when we'd fortified ourselves with a few mouthfuls of the elixir. ‘I mean, it's not really your fault.' Here I was, taking sides already.

‘Exactly,' Penny agreed. ‘But Christian's now hinting that he doesn't want me to go. He says if it had been the other way round he wouldn't go without me.'

‘Didn't you ever discuss the possibility that only one of you might be chosen?' I asked.

Penny shook her head. ‘I'm such an eternal optimist. I never even considered failure.'

‘Wouldn't you miss him if you were apart for two months?' This, after all, had been the basis of their decision to forgo their first choices of university.

‘Yes, of course. But I'm in an impossible situation. If I go, he'll probably take up with someone else, and if I don't, I'll feel all bitter and resentful. And come the summer, I'll say let's go to France or something, and Christian will say he can't because he hasn't got any money – he's permanently broke – so he'll spend all summer working to pay off his overdraft and I'll hardly see him anyway.' She threw down her spoon. ‘I can't eat this, it's too sickly.'

‘Oh dear,' I said. If even pudding had failed to console then the outlook was bleak indeed. I started to eat faster: I had a feeling Penny might suddenly decide it was time to leave. ‘I'm sure you'll think of a solution,' I said, encouragingly.

‘There is no solution,' the eternal optimist replied. ‘It's one of those situations where a compromise doesn't exist. One of us will have to back down.'

As I disposed of my last mouthful of custard, she stood up. ‘Come on. Let's go back to the igloo. Don't look so scared. We won't start shouting and throwing things at each other. Not in front of a visitor.'

Twenty minutes later we pulled up on the paved forecourt of a large Edwardian house, which stood by itself at the edge of a village. The ground floor was disfigured by a glass and aluminium porch, topped by an illuminated sign saying: VETERINARY PRACTICE. Apart from a dull glow from the curtained dormer windows the house was in darkness. The top flat was reached by a wobbly wooden fire escape at the back of the building.

‘Mind the turds,' Penny instructed, as we picked our way across the wet grass. The rain had stopped while we were in the pub and all but a few shreds of cloud had blown away. Above us the sky was a velvety black, undimmed by the pollution of street lamps, and a hail of brilliant stars hung as if just out of reach.

The fire door at the top of the steps led directly into a shabby kitchen, semi-lit by a bare pendant bulb. There was unwashed crockery on the table and in the sink, and the lino was tacky underfoot. I instantly felt at home. A tall, skinny girl in jeans and leg-warmers and a long, hairy pullover stood at the gas stove, stirring something in a saucepan. She turned as we came in. She had long feathery hair and dark shadows under her eyes. ‘Oh, you're back,' she said neutrally. Although her voice and movements were languid I could detect tension.

‘Yes, we went to the Wheatsheaf. It's quite nice. Have you ever been there?' said Penny, taking off her coat and throwing it over a chair.

‘No, I haven't got a car,' the girl said pointedly.

‘This is Esther,' said Penny, refusing to acknowledge the last remark. ‘This is Martina.'

‘Oh hullo,' said Martina, dismissing me with a glance. ‘What happened to Tom Robinson?'

‘I didn't feel like it.'

‘I would have gone,' said Martina, turning back to the stove.

‘Well, go then,' said Penny, dropping her keys on the worktop. ‘Take the car.'

‘It's too late now,' Martina replied. She stopped stirring and inverted the saucepan over a plate. A clod of scrambled egg flopped out. She cleared a space on the table amidst the debris of former meals and began to eat, slowly and without relish.

‘No it isn't,' Penny persisted, looking at her watch. ‘Bands never start on time.'

Martina shrugged. ‘By the time I've got ready.'

‘It's up to you,' said Penny, and recognising that she was not to be persuaded, changed the subject. ‘Is Christian in?'

‘Yes.' This through a mouthful of egg. ‘Wart's here again.'

‘Oh? Well he can't stay. The sofa's taken.' Penny propelled me towards the doorway through which I could see a narrow hall, obstructed by a wooden drying frame hung with clothes. ‘She'd no intention of going out,' Penny whispered, when we were through the door. ‘She just wanted to make a point.' As we passed the washing, she gave one of the socks a squeeze. ‘I think it's wetter than when I put it there,' she said.

She certainly hadn't exaggerated about the gnawing coldness in the flat. Eddies of icy air swirled up through gaps in the floorboards to add an extra dimension to the frigid atmosphere; the wallpaper was clammy to the touch. I couldn't envisage getting undressed for bed: I still didn't feel tempted to take my coat off.

Penny took my bag and deposited it in one of the rooms off the hallway beside a double bed, which appeared to have been only recently vacated: the duvet and blankets were flung back to reveal a body-shaped depression in the sheet. I couldn't help noticing that without the ministrations of Maria, the Portuguese home help, Penny's living conditions were considerably less civilised, and took some comfort from the fact.