You Must Be Sisters Read Free

misdirected love, and gazed through the crack in the curtains at the grey glimmer of dawn. Why couldn’t her dreams show better taste? All that stuff about dreams showing one’s deepest desires was nonsense. Yesterday, the thought of being clasped in the plump arms of the Assistant Maths Master would have made her laugh. Today, still drenched in her dream, she would feel quite peculiar when she saw him sitting in the Staff Room, puffing his pipe and complaining how no member of staff seemed able to keep his locker tidy. It would all wear off in a few hours, of course, but it would be interesting to see her oblivious object, the glamour of her dream strewn incongruous as tinsel over the shoulders of his serge suit.
    Really, she thought briskly, kicking back the bedcovers, this is ridiculous. Why can’t I find someone real, by daylight?
    She went into the bathroom and looked at her shiny early-morning face, its eyebrows raised at itself in scrutiny. She started brushing her teeth. But where, in this huge city, can I find him? Just at this moment there must be hundreds of young men in their prime, lathering their faces, the same grey light coming through the same frosted window; they must be thinking just the same thing; but when can we meet? Lucky old Laura, she must be meeting hundreds.
    Her eyes travelled over the faded wallpaper; she saw the millions of other faces at their early-morning mirrors, men’s faces and women’s, sprightly ones and tired ones, handsome and plain, and each person wondering what to wear today and whether to brush his hair to the side or perhaps forward? A cityful of souls all around her. If she let it, London could render her helpless.
    ‘I say, Claire!’ Yvonne’s voice hissing through the door. ‘I say, Clary, you’ve got a letter!’
    It was from Laura. Claire took it into the kitchen.
    ‘Gosh,’ said Yvonne, padding up behind her in her quilted dressing-gown, ‘do read it! I’m longing to know all about University Life, the lucky thing. I bet she’s got loads of boyfriends!’ She opened the bread bin, peered in it and sighed. ‘You know, my diet starts today and it says I must have grapefruit, but grapefruits are so dear I decided I’d just have a
teeny
slice of toast instead. Do you think that’s all right, Claire?’
    ‘If it’s really small.’
    Claire took the letter into the sitting-room. Nikki, her other flatmate, had entertained last night and it was full of overflowing ashtrays. Claire drew back the curtains; the houses opposite, solid Clapham redbrick, stared back at her.
    Thanks for your letter. I loved your description of The Foot. How’s life at the flat with Nikki and the terrible Yvonne?
    Talking about terrible things, I girded my loins and went to a Freshers’ Ball last week. Truly a cattle market with all the males lined up one side and all us females, giggling and drinking halves of cider, up the other. At some mysterious signal half-way through the evening we converged, and I was glued to a succession of manly chests, some belonging to biologists, some to medics, once to a person who called me Norma and once to a person who called me Gloria. I kept up a bright stream of chatter that at moments of stress, especially with the Gloria one, became even brighter. ‘Er, what exactly is an isotope?’ I would say, furtively trying to push down a creeping hand. You’ll be relieved to know I got back to Hall unravaged
.
    Work is harder than I expected. It’s a shock to change from being top of one’s class at school to being just any old average student. We have a fine yellow stone building for psychology and a lab full of rats that I’m getting very attached to. Boys in my class look rather moist and young, but in the second and third years there are dishier ones who wear old leather coats, things like that. Mummy and Daddy would disapprove of them
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    ‘Grub’s up.’ Yvonne padded in with a tray. She gazed down at her piece of toast. ‘Gosh, Clary,