Deborah Crombie - Dreaming of the bones

As soon as I finished my exams (in a haze of exhaustion), the parties began, and a good thing, too, otherwise I think I would have felt quite ill while waiting for the results to be posted. It’s all a bit hysterical, as everyone is feeling the same sort of relief and trepidation, and most are muddle-headed as well from end-of-term all-night swotting. Daphne and I trooped bravely from college to college and staircase to staircase, determined not to miss out on a single invitation. Some of the do’s were quite elegant, while others were last-minute affairs dependent upon potato crisps and bottled beer, and often those were the jolliest .

Even the posh parties were very relaxed and informal, with lots of drinking and talking and dancing and people wandering about. If anything marred our fun, it’s that I seem to have acquired a persistent suitor, through no fault of my own. He’s a dark, brooding Welsh boy named Morgan Ashby, an arts student who has a knack for turning up wherever I make an appearance. He then looks soulfully at me from across the room, which is quite off-putting. Finally, he mustered the courage to ask me to his May Ball, but I have no desire to play Cathy to his Heathcliff, and refused. Besides, I’d accepted Adam’s invitation months ago and wouldn’t have stood up dear, sweet Adam for the world .

We made a foursome, Adam and I, Nathan and Daphne, and the heavens conspired to make it perfect for us-the end of our first year at Cambridge, and our first May Ball. Moon full, stars shining, an almost tropical night (truly a gift of the gods, it was so warm we could wear our gowns outside the marquee without wraps). In the garden, they’d strung fairy lights in the trees, making it look quite enchanted, and we danced on the lawn. Daphne and I both wore gossamer white, and pretended we were naiads (or is it dryads?) floating diaphanously about .

We can now count ourselves among the Survivors. We stayed up through the wee hours, and at dawn we punted to Grantchester for breakfast, a bit bedraggled but still game. There we met up with Adam’s friend Darcy Eliot and his date, an insipid blond girl from Girton who hadn’t a sensible word to say about anything. It was too bad, really, because I think Darcy is destined to be one of us. Not only is he smashingly good-looking and charming and a promising poet, but his mother is Margery Lester, the novelist. Talk about icing on the cake! You know how much I love her books-you’re the one who introduced me to them. I daren’t allow myself to hope that I might meet her one day, and if I did I’m sure I wouldn’t be able to think of a thing to say .

Picture me, curled up in my window niche in my nightdress, scribbling away to you. The morning light has gone all soft and shadowless, and if I close my eyes I think I can smell the faintest hint of rain through the open window. My ball gown lies discarded across the chair, a bit tawdry, perhaps, in daylight, and for a moment I feel bereft, Cinderella the morning after. This time won’t come again, and I wonder if I can bear to let it go .

Needs must, though, as Nan would say, and my eyelids feel heavy as the best parlor curtains, thick and velvety, with the scratch of old dust. One more thing to tell you, though, the best last. When we finally straggled back to Cambridge, my exam results had been posted on the boards outside the Senate House. It was a good thing I had Adam to hold me up. My knees went all jelly and I had to close my eyes while he read them to me, because I couldn’t bear to look myself. But it was all right. I did better than I expected, in fact, I really did quite shockingly well .

But nicest of all, darling Mother, is that we’ll have all the Long Vacation to be together. I’ll have to study, of course, for they don’t expect me to be idle, and it will take me another week or so here to organize all the books and things I’ll need over the summer. Then the counties will click by outside the train windows, and you’ll be waiting at the station with the old Morris. And maybe Nan will come, too, and you’ll bring Shelley, who will pant and tail-wag in doggy anticipation, and then I will be home .

Lydia

Gemma regretted her decision more with every passing mile. After their disagreement last Sunday over his visit to his ex-wife (You started a row, she reminded herself), she and Duncan had spent the workweek avoiding one another. It wasn’t that they made a habit of spending every minute together, but he usually came round to her flat several evenings during the week, and when circumstances permitted she went to his. By Friday, having found herself missing him dreadfully, she faced up to the fact that she was going to have to apologize.

She’d caught him in his office just as he was slipping into his jacket. “Um, could we have a word?” she asked a bit hesitantly. “I thought maybe we could go round the pub for a drink-that is, if you’re not too busy.”

Kincaid had stopped shuffling papers into his briefcase. “Business or personal?” he asked, looking up at her, still pleasantly neutral.

“Personal.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Are you buying?”

She smiled. His teasing was a good sign that he wasn’t still too miffed with her. “You’re tight as a miser’s bum, but I suppose I can stand you a drink.”

“That’s settled, then,” he said, and ushered her out the door.

Without discussion they walked towards the pub on Wilfred Street, not too far from the Yard, where they’d gone for afterwork drinks since they first became partners. A surprisingly bitter wind had sprung up during the course of the day, and by the time they reached the pub they felt grateful for the warmth of the closely packed room. Gemma watched for a table to open up while Kincaid braved the crush at the bar. “I’ll let you off the hook tonight,” he said over his shoulder as he disappeared into the haze of smoke. “But next time, it’s on you.”

They had a favorite table, in the corner near the gas fire, and Gemma thought it a good omen when the couple occupying it stood up just as Kincaid appeared bearing their drinks. She dived for it like a rugby forward, and beamed up at him when he reached her.

“Good job,” he said as he waited for her to wipe up the drink rings and crumbs with a tissue she’d found in her handbag; then he set the drinks down and slid in beside her. He raised his glass to her. “It’s been a long week.”

He’d given her an opening, Gemma thought, and she’d kick herself if she didn’t take it. She took a sip of her shandy to wet her lips, and plunged ahead. “I’m sorry about last Sunday. About what I said. I was way over the mark, and it was none of my business.” She’d been studying her beer mat intently-now she raised her eyes to his. “It’s just that… I know it sounds stupid… but the idea of your seeing her makes me feel… uncomfortable.” She looked away again.

He was silent for a long moment, and she wondered just how big a fool she had made of herself. Then he said, “I know. I should have realized from the first.” Startled, she looked up and started to speak, but he continued, “But you haven’t any need to feel uncomfortable. Or threatened.”

She made a small gesture, halfway between a shrug and a nod of assent, but didn’t trust herself to speak.

Moving his glass a fraction of an inch on the beer mat, he added, “I have to admit that it threw me a bit, seeing Vic again. We’d left a lot of things unfinished.”

“Did you…” Gemma stopped and swallowed. “I mean, have you resolved them?” she finished carefully.

“I’ve been thinking about it all week. And I’ve found, rather to my surprise, that I like her very much. But I’m not still in love with her.” He met her eyes. “Vic said she knew, somehow, that I had someone waiting, and I said I thought I did.”