Rough Cider

TWO

I went down to the Senior Common Room to make myself a coffee. The place was deserted except for a couple of cleaning women who had Sinatra’s latest at full volume on the record player in competition with their vacuums. Strictly, they shouldn’t have been in there until five, but they were obviously used to having the place to themselves after four on Fridays. Like everyone else, they didn’t care to hang about at the end of the week. Everyone except me, apparently. They looked at me as if I were an agent of the head caretaker, but I gestured to them to carry on.

Carol Dangerfield would be at the window of her office, waiting to see the next scene played in the staff car park. Would I invite my blond pursuer into my car and drive into the night-with her, or would I hold her at bay with my stick? Well, Carol was in for a disappointment unless she was planning some overtime. I made the coffee, drank it slowly, and practiced snooker shots until well after five.

When I eventually walked out to the car park, it was deserted except for three cars and one girl, reclining against mine. There was a light drizzle on the wind, and you could feel the chill of an October evening. Whiteknights Park is pretty exposed. Alice Ashenfelter was wearing a coat, but she had to be persistent or dedicated or just mad to have stood there so long.

The possibility that she was mad hadn’t occurred to me before. There was a girl living next door to us once who developed a passion for our Conservative Member of Parliament. I mean, a real infatuation. It didn’t matter that he was happily married with three young children. She used to write him passionate letters at the House of Commons. He staunchly ignored them until she started sending them in larger envelopes with pairs of Marks and Spencer panties. Apparently people in public life are subjected to more of that kind of thing than most of us hear about. Anyway, this girl was schizoid. She ended up breaking into the MP’s house at night and getting put away for a few months. The last I heard, she was under permanent sedation.

I nodded to Alice Ashenfelter as if she were just the latest blonde who happened to be leaning against the bonnet of my car on a Friday evening.

She took a step away from the car, clasped her hands in front of her as if in supplication, and said. “Dr. Sinclair, I’m sorry if I embarrassed you, going up to your room like that.”

“It didn’t embarrass me,” I said. “Forget it.”

“I wouldn’t want to be a nuisance to you.”

“You’re not,” I answered with more hope than conviction. “But it’s kind of you to mention it. Good night, miss, er…”

“Where are you going now?”

“Where I generally go at the end of the day: home.” I had the keys out and was fumbling for the door, always an awkward procedure for me.

“Could we talk?”

“Here?” I made it sound like a straight no. I unlocked the door and pulled it open.

“Someplace else. Anyplace you want.”

“I don’t think so.” I dropped my bag and stick into the car and lowered myself onto the seat. The moment I let it take my weight, I knew that I was in trouble.

Alice Ashenfelter said innocently, “It looks like you have a flat tire.”

I can cope with most of the functions necessary to maintain a car. I can change a tire. The only thing is that it involves more effort and more groveling on the ground than it would for a man with two good legs. On a damp surface in my gray worsted suit, it was a prospect that I think justified the mild obscenity I uttered.

The girl said, “I’ll fix it. Where do you keep your tools?”

I considered the offer. I had a pretty strong suspicion that she’d let down the tire. To accept her help would put me under some kind of obligation. Yet try to get a garage to send out a man on a Friday in the rush hour and see how long you have to wait.

I hauled myself upright and unlocked the boot, intending to do the job myself, but her two hands were quicker than my one at lifting out the jack. She didn’t need any help in assembling it, either.

“I can manage without your help,” I said.

“It’s too damn cold for that kind of he-man crap,” said she. “Would you hand me the wrench, please?”

I found myself smiling, and that was fatal. I succumbed to the logic of what she had said. She quickly and competently got on with the job. While she was jacking up the car I unfixed the spare and later I fastened the flat in its place, so I didn’t feel totally redundant.

Before she’d finished, I knew I had to offer her a lift at the least. I was prepared to bet she’d let the tire down in the first place, but after her Good Samaritan act, I couldn’t drive off and leave her standing in the rain in the deserted car park.

I offered to take her to a pub where she 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.”