Rough Cider Read Free

could wash her hands. She got in and we drove to one on the London Road where I was pretty sure we wouldn’t meet anyone from the university. When she came out of the ladies’, I bought her a lager and lime.
    “Now, would you like to tell me what that was about?” I asked.
    “Couldn’t we just pass a little time getting to know each other?”
    “Is that important?”
    She stared at me earnestly through her gold frames. “It’s normal, isn’t it?”
    “All right. Tell me what you’re doing in England.”
    “Vacationing.”
    “In October?”
    “A late vacation.”
    “Catching up on the history or just the history lecturers?”
    She reddened and looked into her drink. “That isn’t fair and I resent it.”
    “You mean, there’s something special about me?”
    She didn’t answer. She was fingering the end of her plait like a small, sulky girl. Her hair was parted in a perfectly straight line down the center of her bowed head. She was a true blonde.
    “Maybe I imagined that you were pursuing me,” I suggested. “Is it the onset of paranoia, do you think?”
    She answered in a low voice, “I think you’re making this hellishly difficult for me.”
    “If I knew what it was, I might be able to help. If you’re in some kind of trouble, I can probably put you in touch with people who will help you.”
    She looked away and said petulantly, “Give me a break, will you?”
    So we lapsed into silence for an interval.
    Finally I made signs of moving and said, “Where are you staying? Can I give you a lift?”
    She shook her head. “There’s no need. I know where I am now. It’s no distance from here.”
    “I’ll be away, then. Thanks for your work on the tire.”
    She moved her hand a short way across the table, as if to detain me, then thought better of it and curled it around her glass. “I’ll come here at lunchtime tomorrow. Could we try again?”
    I stared at her, mystified. “Why? What’s the point? What are we supposed to try for?”
    She bit her lip and said, “You scare me.”
    I didn’t know what response to give. Clearly it wasn’t meant as a joke. I shook my head to show that I was at a loss and got up.
    “Lunchtime tomorrow,” she repeated. “Please, Theo.”

* THREE *
    Y ou know the impression Alice Ashenfelter made on me, so I’m not going to explain why I didn’t meet her at the pub in Reading on Saturday morning. It must have got through to you by now that I’m not your obliging English gentleman. I just eat like a gentleman. I drove into Pangbourne and did my Saturday shopping at the grocer’s (we still had one), half a cooked gammon, some duck pâté, a dozen new-laid eggs, and a fresh melon. Mindful of Saturday night, I picked up a bottle of champagne from the off-license and waited at the garage while my flat tire was inspected. As I had anticipated, they didn’t find a puncture. They suggested that there might be a fault in the valve, and I undertook to check the pressure in a day or two. I forgot all about it after that.
    The rugby international on the BBC’s Grandstand occupied me agreeably for most of the afternoon. That evening I took my current girlfriend, Val Paxton, a staff nurse at Reading General, to the Odeon to see A Hard Day’s Night. Neither of us enjoyed it much. The best I can say is that the facile story line was made bearable by some memorable songs and witty dialogue. Val, who wasn’t crazy about the Beatles, would have opted for Losey’s King and Country at the ABC movie theater, but I didn’t want to spend my evening at a court-martial. If you think that’s a deplorable attitude for a history lecturer to take to one of the most powerful dramas ever made of the first world war, you’re dead right, chum. You’re right and I’m honest, okay?
    Afterwards, over a drink, Val told me she’d been thinking about our relationship, and we didn’t have much going outside the bedroom. Plain speaking: that’s what you get from a nurse. She said her