Dying on Principle Read Free Page B

class it started to rain, and I literally ran home to rescue my washing. I was just in time to see Aggie locking my front door on her way out. Rather than embarrass her by thanking her, I simply turned on my heel and ran back. What I might do, perhaps, was get too many bedding plants and, by claiming I hadn’t room for them, persuade her to do me another favour by accepting them.
    Meanwhile, I had another class to teach.
    After an exhausting session with GCSE students and the apostrophe s during which I wondered if even a computer would have patience enough to deal with the little cypher, I staggered back to my office for a drink.
    Although there was a perfectly good staff canteen, I was so overwhelmed by the luxury of having a room to myself – even one only about eight feet by eight – after the mêlée in which I had passed my time at William Murdock College, that occasionally I would dive in just to savour it. It struck me that the recent prohibition on making tea or coffee there was unnecessary, but I could easily circumvent it by drinking packet fruit juice, which was probably healthier anyway. I could even look out of the window without being assailed by vertigo, whereas my William Murdock office was on the fifteenth floor.
    There was a quiet tap at the door: Melina, clutching a printer.
    â€˜Until I can repair yours,’ she said, immediately busying herself with cables and plugs.
    â€˜Don’t worry: I’ll sort that out,’ I said. ‘Fancy an orange juice?’ I broke another from the polythene wrapper and tossed it to her.
    She caught it, put it down awkwardly, then picked it up and pulled off the straw. ‘Thanks.’ But she finished the connections before she drank.
    To my surprise, I didn’t have to choose the next topic of conversation. Perhaps she thought asking me questions would be the best way of fending off mine.
    â€˜How long are you going to be working here, Ms Rivers?’
    â€˜Sophie.’
    â€˜We’re supposed to call you academic staff by your name and title.’
    â€˜Titles like Dr and names like Trevelyan?’
    â€˜She’s quite new here too.’
    I couldn’t quite work that one out. ‘How long have you worked here, then?’
    â€˜Couple of months, that’s all. Dr Trevelyan started at Christmas. But—’ She stopped.
    I waited. Nothing.
    â€˜I should have come in January,’ I said at last. ‘But there was a big administrative cock-up—’ Melina winced. ‘Administrative hitch,’ I corrected myself, ‘so we had to wait till now. And we go back to our own places as soon as we’ve finished. Not that I for one am in any hurry. I live just up the road, and this place is luxury compared with what I’m used to at William Murdock.’
    She stared at me and seemed about to speak when the phone rang: Dr Trevelyan, wanting to know if Melina had finished.
    â€˜Just doing a test print now,’ I said, grateful that ink jets are so silent as to be undetectable over the phone.
    Melina, however, asked the computer for a test print-out. It obliged.
    â€˜What did you do before you came here?’ I asked, accompanying her to the door.
    â€˜Same thing. A small firm in the Jewellery Quarter. We serviced computers for big firms.’
    â€˜Who?’ I asked, interested that she should have chosen to take a job in education.
    â€˜Lots,’ she said. And was gone.

3
    Synchronicity or coincidence? My evening with Aberlene seemed to pivot round the question, thought I don’t recall either of us proposing to debate it.
    It started with my chopping fresh coriander to add to a curry for supper. It’s my favourite herb. It’s not just the taste, the smell, though those are exquisite in themselves. It’s because it always brings back my friend George. And the pleasure of being with George, loving him as a dear friend, rather than the agony of his death last