Among Others Page 24

  SATURDAY 26TH JANUARY 1980

  I made it to the library, but Greg wasn’t there. It isn’t his Saturday to work. I took my huge pile of books back and collected what was waiting for me. I was wishing I’d arranged to meet someone, but of course I hadn’t because I wasn’t here on Tuesday. I was hoping I’d be able to see Greg and ask him the subject of this Tuesday’s meeting.

  I wandered down to the bookshop, where there was no sign of anyone. I didn’t buy any books. It was drizzling in a very discouraging way. I sat in the cafe and ate a honey bun and read, looking up now and then to watch the rain. They always say it’s lovely weather for ducks, but the mallards on the pond looked as miserable as anyone. The drakes are starting to get their spring colours though. Maybe it’s spring rain. They’d have been glad of it in the Dead Marches, I thought. I bought a couple of buns for me and Deirdre—there’s really no point wasting money on Sharon, even though she is speaking to me again.

  The junk shop was open, and I looked through their books. I didn’t see anything appealing except a folding cloth (canvas I think) map of Europe, with Germany huge and no Czechoslovakia. I think it must be from the war, or right before. Somebody had drawn a pink line on it in felt pen, but otherwise it’s in really good condition. The country colours are sort of pastels, not hard colours like they would be now. I couldn’t resist it, as it was only 5p. I don’t know what I’m going to do with it. But maps are brill.

  I walked slowly back up into town, looked through Smiths, which is usually a total waste of time, but today I was rewarded with a copy of Isaac Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine! I wonder where that came from. I do hope they’ll start getting it regularly. I bought it, and also a packet of Rollos, which I would happily share with Frodo and Sam if I could, but I can’t. I also bought a card for Grampar, one with the sea and a sand-castle that reminds me of summer holidays, and will remind him too.

  Gill was at the bus stop. “No boyfriend today?” she asked.

  I looked her straight in the eye. “Not that it’s any concern of yours, but Hugh’s just a friend, not a boy friend. He goes to the book club.”

  “Oh. Sorry,” she said. I was amazed that she believed me. It’s a good thing it wasn’t Wim she’d seen me with, or I wouldn’t have been able to say that with such conviction, even though it would have been equally true.

  SUNDAY 27TH JANUARY 1980

  The way to be popular in this school is to go into hospital and come out again. Or maybe it’s to have someone say you’re brave—I know Deirdre’s been saying that. Maybe they didn’t actually believe there was anything wrong with my leg before? Or maybe they feel sorry for me? I hope not. I’d hate that. But anyway, seven buns today, counting my honey bun. Two iced buns, two Chelsea buns, an iced cupcake and an eclair. I couldn’t eat them all, and gave one of the Chelsea buns to Deirdre. I hadn’t done anything to make this happen, not just no magic but nothing at all. It’s very peculiar. I asked Miss Carroll about it and she said it was probably just that I’d been in hospital and come out and hadn’t made a fuss, and I’d been mentioned in Prayers and now was there and was in people’s minds when they went bun-buying. Maybe. It seems very odd to me.

  I wrote a cheerful letter to Sam telling him what a terrific idea the acupuncture was. I haven’t even started the books he gave me, so I didn’t mention them. I also wrote to Daniel, mostly about seeing The Tempest, and to Auntie Teg, telling her about the acupuncture and the play. I sent the card to Grampar.

  I’m up as far as the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, which may be the greatest thing ever written.

  MONDAY 28TH JANUARY 1980

  Aujourd’hui, rien.

  That’s what Louis XVI wrote in his diary on the day of the storming of the Bastille.

  I helped Miss Carroll stamping and shelving some new books. They all looked awful, being of the category of books about teenagers with problems—drugs, or abusive parents, or boyfriends who push for sex, or living in Ireland. I hate books like that. For one thing they’re all so relentlessly downbeat, and despite that you just know everyone will overcome all their problems in the end and start to Grow Up and Understand How the World Works. You can practically see the capitals. I’ve read half a ton of Victorian children’s books, because we had them lying around at home, Elsie Dinsmore and Little Women and Eric, or Little by Little and What Katy Did. They’re by different authors, but they all share the same kind of moralising. In the exact same way these Teen Problem books share the same kind of moralising, only it’s neither so quaint nor so clearly stated as the Victorian ones. If I have to have a book on how to overcome adversity give me Pollyanna over Judy Blume any day, though why anyone would read any of them when the world contains all this SF is beyond me. Even just within books written for children, you can learn way more about growing up and ethical behavior from Space Hostages or Citizen of the Galaxy.

  I’ve written my Tempest response, and most of Deirdre’s, for her to copy out in prep. To make them different, I’ve made hers mostly about Miranda, and mine mostly about Prospero. She’s doing my maths in return. I just can’t cope with all these simultaneous equations, especially as I’ve missed some explanation.

  Finished LOTR, with the usual sad pang of reaching the end and there being no more of it.

  TUESDAY 29TH JANUARY 1980

  Book club tonight, but I don’t know the subject.

  WEDNESDAY 30TH JANUARY 1980

  The subject was Tiptree! I’m so glad I knew she was a woman in advance, because it would have been an awful shock to have discovered it when everyone started saying “she.” I haven’t read all of Tiptree, only the two collections, and I can see I’ll have to rectify this. Having said that, there was no problem having enough to talk about, because we talked for ages about “The Girl Who Was Plugged In,” such a brilliant story, and “Love Is the Plan, the Plan Is Death,” both of which I know really well. Harriet led it, which was nice, except that I remembered she’d also led the one on Le Guin, which made me wonder if there was something going on there. I mean, why have both of her sessions been on women writers, when none of the sessions done by the men have been?

  Keith really doesn’t like Tiptree, he thinks she’s anti-men, and did even when he thought she was a man. He thinks “Houston, Houston” is a horror story. I don’t think that, though I can understand men feeling threatened by it.

  It was Pete’s birthday, so we all went to the pub afterwards for a little bit. Brian asked a funny question he said he’d heard at work. “Which would you rather meet, an elf or a Plutonian?” I had to think about it for a moment, because the question is really about the past and the future, or about fantasy and science fiction. I’ve met plenty of elves, though they’re not exactly elves. Not like Tolkien’s elves. I said a Plutonian, and so did everyone eventually, except Wim, who said elf and stuck to it.

  Next week Wim’s doing Zelazny. I gave him back the two books he’d lent me, and he gave me Doorways in the Sand and Roadmarks.

  He asked me if I could meet him on Saturday. I said I would, and I said maybe he could meet an elf. He looks as if he wants to believe, but isn’t quite sure about it. “Where?” he said.

  “We can go looking in the Poacher’s Wood, so why not meet in the little cafe across from there?” I said.

  “Those woods belong to Harriet,” he said. “Hey, Harriet, is it all right if Mori and I go walking in your woods on Saturday?”

  Harriet turned around from her conversation with Hussein and Janine about whether Tiptree was misogynistic and raised her eyebrows. “Certainly you may, William, though you may find them a little muddy at this time of year. It’s too early for violets or primroses, I should think.”

  I hadn’t known Wim’s name was William, but I suppose it makes sense. I wonder why he isn’t Will or Billy?

  Meanwhile, Janine was giving me a look like the one Gill had given me when she saw me with Hugh. I wonder why Wim did that, making it open to everyone like that? Because we could have done it quietly
without anyone else knowing. And if we’re doing it so he can see a fairy, or see magic, which is what he thinks, then why would he want them to know? They won’t believe it, even if he tells them. People just think you’re mad, or lying. He might think I am if he can’t see them. If there even are any. I’m not, no matter what he says, going to do magic just for the sake of it. Anyway, magic is always deniable, if you want to deny it, and he might well. Or did he want them to know I was going somewhere with him? Why? So if they disapprove of him, they’d disapprove of me too? Certainly that’s what Janine did.

  It’s so complicated. I want lots of friends, not just one.

  On the way back in the car, Greg warned me about Wim. He wasn’t as specific as Janine and Hugh had been. He just said that Wim had had a girlfriend who thought she’d got into trouble, and I should be careful how I went.

  “It’s not like that,” I explained. “He’s got a girlfriend. He wouldn’t be interested in me. I mean I have a bad leg and I’m kind of funny-looking and I’m getting fat because I never get any exercise and I eat all the time, while Wim’s, well, Wim could have anybody.”

  “You’ve got a lovely smile,” Greg said, which is what people always say. It’s like an automatic programmed response, if ever I say I’m not pretty, which I entirely understand that I’m not.

  “He’s so much older anyway.”

  “Eighteen months, not sixty years,” Greg said. “And I’m not blind. I’d say he is interested in you, and you in him. I’ve seen you looking at each other.”

  I couldn’t say Wim was looking at me like that because he thought I could read minds like in Dying Inside (where did he get that idea from?) or that he wanted to go into the woods with me so he could see a fairy. “I’ll be careful,” I said.

  It must be horrible for Wim if everyone he knows, knows, and everyone new he meets gets warned off him like that. That’s what Hugh said. Hugh wasn’t there last night, I don’t know where he is. I haven’t seen him for ages.

  THURSDAY 31ST JANUARY 1980

  It was great walking away from school at lunchtime to get the bus. It felt like escaping. My leg didn’t even feel particularly bad, which made it all the better, it was like putting one over on everyone. Two buses and a train, and I was in Shrewsbury, easy as that. The train’s a little rattly local, not all that different from a bus. Most of the people who were on it had come from North Wales and had North Welsh voices and said “yes/no” at the end of all their questions just like people in South Wales making fun of them. “Shall I get us a cup of tea from the buffet, yes/no?” “Is this Shrewsbury we’re coming to now, yes/no?” Delete where inapplicable. I didn’t laugh, but it was a near thing. It’s hard when someone is just exactly like a parody.

  The acupuncture went well. It turned the pain off entirely while I was on the table. That’s marvellous, it’s just so nice not to have any pain at all, not grinding away in the background even, just no pain. I lived like that for years, but it’s hard to remember. Pain oozes. Like my dream with the ballerina with the walking stick.

  Afterwards I went to a cafe and had baked potato with egg salad and a tuna mayonnaise sandwich, and a double decker. I sat in a little booth with sides and read my book (Charisma, which is brilliant but weird), and felt safely alone and anonymous. It’s not as if I’m me, it’s just that I’m “person in crowd” or “schoolgirl reading book in cafe.” They got me from central casting, and when I go there’ll be another one. Nobody will notice me. I’m an insignificant part of the landscape. There’s nothing that feels safer.

  Then I walked back to the station, and on the way I passed that Owen Owens where I went shopping with the aunts. It’s a department store, not just clothes, and I remembered noticing that there was a pen and paper department. I popped in to see if they had nibs for my pen. The problem with writing backwards with a fountain pen is that it destroys the nib—left-handed people have this problem too, going through nibs fast. Because I write in here a lot, and pretty much always backwards, I go through nibs. So I came in to look, and they did, so I bought one, which was good, but what was even better was I saw through that department to a book department.

  Now I did know that some department stores have book departments. Harrods has one. My copy of LOTR in three beautiful volumes with the Appendices came from there, when Auntie Teg went to London. But Howells and David Morgans in Cardiff don’t—probably because they can’t compete with Lears—and I hadn’t thought there might be one in Owen Owens. Well, joy and rapture, there it was. And, best of all, to my total astonishment, a new Heinlein: The Number of the Beast, NEL paperback January 1980, how new is that! I bought it right away, not even needing to go into my put-away money to get it.

  I almost started it on the train, but I was very good and not only finished Charisma but started Doorways in the Sand. Having a whole fat new Heinlein I haven’t read a word of is such a lovely feeling. Like a reward. I feel all bouncy and happy when I think of it sitting there waiting for me.

  FRIDAY 1ST FEBRUARY 1980

  Rabbits.

  Had a severe warning from Miss Thackerly about cheating at maths. Deirdre and I had the same mistakes. She kept us behind after class and said she wasn’t going to report us this time, and she wasn’t going to ask who had copied whose work, but that if she ever caught us again we’d be looking at expulsion. I had no idea it was that serious. People copy each other’s prep all the time. Deirdre has copied my Latin loads of times, and plenty of people copy Claudine’s French. I suppose it’s a case of not getting caught. I promised Miss Thackerly we wouldn’t do it again—Deirdre was in tears and could hardly speak. Getting expelled would be awkward for me, but it would be the end of the world for her.

  Letter from Daniel, with another fiver. I’ll tell him about finding Number of the Beast when I write. It starts well.

  SATURDAY 2ND FEBRUARY 1980

  I was almost sorry I had such a big pile of library books, though of course they were all things I wanted and had ordered. Greg was there and stamped them out for me.

  “There’s a new Heinlein,” I told him.

  “The Number of the Beast,” he agreed. “It’s on the top of my list of things to order for the shelves as soon as April comes.”

  “It’s wrong for libraries to have limited budgets,” I said.

  He snorted, and took the books from the lady behind me. I’m not wrong though. They could take the money from building enough nukes to kill all the Russians in the world and give it to libraries. What good does an independent nuclear deterrent do Britain, compared to the good of libraries? Somebody has their priorities wrong. I’m not really a commie, no matter what they call me, but I do think it might be instructive to look at library budgets in the Soviet Union.

  The sun was shining in a watery way as I walked down the hill. I thought I was early to meet Wim but he was already there, sitting in the table at the window eating a toasted teacake and drinking coffee. He always looks so relaxed and at home wherever he is, I don’t know how he does it. He was wearing a blue turtleneck just one shade darker than his eyes. I was conscious that I was, of course, as always, wearing school uniform. He looked like a student, like an adult, the way I would so much like to be, and there I was in a stupid gym-slip and a stupid hat, looking about twelve. I ordered and paid for tea and a honey bun, like always. I admit I did think of ordering something more sophisticated but I resisted the temptation.

  “I’m surprised you came,” he said, as I sat down next to him. His lips were greasy with the butter from the teacake. I’d have liked to have wiped it away. While I’m cataloguing what I’d have liked to do, I’d also have liked to feel his pullover to see if it was as soft as it looked. I don’t often have to suppress this kind of urge.

  “I said I’d come,” I said.

  “I thought Greg would have told you about me.”

  “So that’s why you did it. I couldn’t work that out.” It came out before I thought about whether saying it was a good idea or not.

&n
bsp; “You already knew?” he asked. “About Ruthie and all that?”

  “Janine told me, ages ago, and also Hugh told me, rather more sympathetically.” The waitress put down my tea and bun.

  “Hugh’s all right,” he said, wiping his lips on his napkin. “Janine hates me.”

  “Greg did tell me as well, in very general terms.”

  “It’s the trouble with a place like this. Everybody knows everybody’s business, or thinks they do. I can’t wait until I can shake the dust of it off my feet. I won’t ever look back.” He stared out of the window, stirring his coffee without looking at it.

  “When will that be?” I asked.

  “Not until after I take my A Levels. A year next June. Then I’ll get a grant and be off to university.”

  “What A Levels are you doing?” I asked. I wanted to eat my honey bun, but on the other hand, I didn’t want to have my mouth full. I took a smallish bite.

  “Physics and chemistry and history,” he said. “You wouldn’t believe the flap there was. It’s ridiculous only studying three subjects and trying to segregate arts and sciences.”

  “I made them rearrange the entire timetable so I could do chemistry and French,” I said. “At O Level, that is. I’m taking my O Levels next year. Every time we have a French class in what is technically the lunch hour, the teacher blames me, apologises to the others for the fact that I’m inconveniencing everybody.”

  Wim nodded. “That must have been an impressive fight.”

  “I couldn’t get them to do it for biology too. And Daniel, my father, backed me up. And I suppose he is paying for it.”

  “My parents don’t give a damn.”