if you’ve been caught in a monsoon.’
She nodded. ‘Marvellous! What are we doing tomorrow night?’
A tram arrived a few minutes later, which was a good job because it was getting damned cold. The conductor gave her a hand up, frowned and peered outside as he pressed the bell.
‘Hasn’t been raining up here, has it?’ he asked as he came for the tickets.
‘It’s been pouring on the other side of the fields,’ Imogene told him seriously. ‘Absolutely pouring.’
The conductor glanced at her with a touch of alarm, then withdrew silently. I watched him standing out there on the platform, and he put his hand out to feel for rain at least half-a-dozen times before we reached Ladywood Park.
Imogene hugged my arm. ‘That was marvellous, Oliver. It really was. What are we going to do tomorrow?’
I think I gave Jake the laugh of his life when I appeared from the night like some fugitive from a chain gang. True to form, he got me a very large whisky, and ran a hot bath in which I soaked while I told him all.
‘What a woman, Oliver,’ he said. They must have broken the mould when they made her. My offer still stands. If you don’t want her let me have her.’
‘The trouble is you never know where you are with her.’ I sighed heavily. ‘Do you know what she just told me, cool as you please, before I left her? That she finishes at Khyber Street this week. She won’t be back next term.’
‘Where is she going?’ Jake asked.
‘Got herself a teaching post in the Bahamas. One of these three-year contract things.’
‘The story of my life,’ he said solemnly and placed a hand on my shoulder. ‘Make hay while the sun shines, old sport. It will soon be raining again.’
But in a way I was rather glad, for I think I knew then that I couldn’t stand the pace, though I tried hard enough, God knows.
We were together constantly for the whole fortnight of the Christmas holiday. In fact, I slept with her several times for she lived on her own in a two-roomed flat on the far side of the park from me.
I worked myself into a sweat with her on so many occasions that I lost count, but never succeeded in achieving any greater success than I had that first time in her little office at school.
I was with her on the final night of all. On the following day she was to take a train for London and I was to return to the joys of Khyber Street.
She could be serious enough when she wanted and was more subdued than I’d ever known her. I helped her pack and we went to bed just before midnight and made love, the end result being no different from usual.
I got out of bed and went and sat at the window, smoking a cigarette. It was raining slightly, and for some reason I felt terribly sad and very much at the end of something. After a while, there was a movement behind me, a blanket was slipped round my shoulders and she sat on the window seat beside me.
‘That was lovely,’ she said.
I thought she was just trying to be nice and reacted accordingly. ‘Is that a fact?’ I said bitterly.
‘I’m satisfied, Oliver, you’re not,’ she said. ‘It’s as simple as that. Not everyone is the same. We all have different needs. Why can’t you let it go at that?’
She was right. I’d been a stupid morose idiot, seeing only what I wanted to see, and all because of the worst kind of male pride. I felt a sudden rush of affection for her and put an arm around her shoulder.
‘Promise me one thing, Oliver,’ she said suddenly. ‘Get out of Khyber Street. It isn’t for you.’
‘What do I do? Write the great novel of the century?’
‘Why not?’
I reminded her that my latest effort, the short novel based on my experiences in the Army in Berlin, had been rejected by one of the best literary agents in London, although he had been kind enough to say I had promise and would be willing to handle me.
‘Write another book then,’ she said which, strangely enough, had been exactly the advice contained in the last paragraph
She nodded. ‘Marvellous! What are we doing tomorrow night?’
A tram arrived a few minutes later, which was a good job because it was getting damned cold. The conductor gave her a hand up, frowned and peered outside as he pressed the bell.
‘Hasn’t been raining up here, has it?’ he asked as he came for the tickets.
‘It’s been pouring on the other side of the fields,’ Imogene told him seriously. ‘Absolutely pouring.’
The conductor glanced at her with a touch of alarm, then withdrew silently. I watched him standing out there on the platform, and he put his hand out to feel for rain at least half-a-dozen times before we reached Ladywood Park.
Imogene hugged my arm. ‘That was marvellous, Oliver. It really was. What are we going to do tomorrow?’
I think I gave Jake the laugh of his life when I appeared from the night like some fugitive from a chain gang. True to form, he got me a very large whisky, and ran a hot bath in which I soaked while I told him all.
‘What a woman, Oliver,’ he said. They must have broken the mould when they made her. My offer still stands. If you don’t want her let me have her.’
‘The trouble is you never know where you are with her.’ I sighed heavily. ‘Do you know what she just told me, cool as you please, before I left her? That she finishes at Khyber Street this week. She won’t be back next term.’
‘Where is she going?’ Jake asked.
‘Got herself a teaching post in the Bahamas. One of these three-year contract things.’
‘The story of my life,’ he said solemnly and placed a hand on my shoulder. ‘Make hay while the sun shines, old sport. It will soon be raining again.’
But in a way I was rather glad, for I think I knew then that I couldn’t stand the pace, though I tried hard enough, God knows.
We were together constantly for the whole fortnight of the Christmas holiday. In fact, I slept with her several times for she lived on her own in a two-roomed flat on the far side of the park from me.
I worked myself into a sweat with her on so many occasions that I lost count, but never succeeded in achieving any greater success than I had that first time in her little office at school.
I was with her on the final night of all. On the following day she was to take a train for London and I was to return to the joys of Khyber Street.
She could be serious enough when she wanted and was more subdued than I’d ever known her. I helped her pack and we went to bed just before midnight and made love, the end result being no different from usual.
I got out of bed and went and sat at the window, smoking a cigarette. It was raining slightly, and for some reason I felt terribly sad and very much at the end of something. After a while, there was a movement behind me, a blanket was slipped round my shoulders and she sat on the window seat beside me.
‘That was lovely,’ she said.
I thought she was just trying to be nice and reacted accordingly. ‘Is that a fact?’ I said bitterly.
‘I’m satisfied, Oliver, you’re not,’ she said. ‘It’s as simple as that. Not everyone is the same. We all have different needs. Why can’t you let it go at that?’
She was right. I’d been a stupid morose idiot, seeing only what I wanted to see, and all because of the worst kind of male pride. I felt a sudden rush of affection for her and put an arm around her shoulder.
‘Promise me one thing, Oliver,’ she said suddenly. ‘Get out of Khyber Street. It isn’t for you.’
‘What do I do? Write the great novel of the century?’
‘Why not?’
I reminded her that my latest effort, the short novel based on my experiences in the Army in Berlin, had been rejected by one of the best literary agents in London, although he had been kind enough to say I had promise and would be willing to handle me.
‘Write another book then,’ she said which, strangely enough, had been exactly the advice contained in the last paragraph
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