twenty-two, just coming to the end of his own student days. She asked him what he was studying. He told her, English. Did he think he would go into teaching, she wanted to know? Or journalism? He said he hadn’t a clue – he’d only come from Fermanagh to Belfast to study because there were no jobs at home. Likely, he would end up going slowly insane in the Civil Service, like many other Arts graduates before him.
She asked him if he had ever been beaten up because of his effeminate hairstyle, and black eyeliner. He admitted he had been chased, three times, by football fans. It didn’t seem to bother him. He could run a lot faster than they could, he explained. That was the great advantage of being thin: he didn’t have a lot of weight to carry.
By the time they reached Mulberry Street, she knew quite a lot about him. He was the eldest child in the family. He had six sisters. His mother was a nurse who went to Mass every day. His father was a mechanic who liked to restore vintage cars in his spare time. They were a close, happy family. He had a guitar, but couldn’t play it very well. He liked chocolate biscuits.
She had the key to her flat in her pocket. She turned it over and over in her hand. Her other hand was tingling, where he was touching it. She decided to invite him in.
She didn’t know what was going to happen when they went up the little stairs and switched on the light. Would he kiss her? Those were the days when men didn’t automatically assume they would be invited into the bedroom on the first date. (The good old days, she thought. Would they ever come back?) She offered to make coffee. They stood in the middle of the sitting-room. The air around them was charged with anticipation. She could hardly breathe with nervous energy. He commented on the decor, and said that it was very artistic, and that he would very much like a cup of tea.
They talked for a while, about pop music mostly, and about other harmless things. When Clare got up from the little sofa to make toast on the 1950s grill, he followed her into the kitchen. She’d thought that with all those sisters, he would be spoilt in the house, but he told her he was very domesticated. He kept an eye on the bread while she hunted through the cupboards for some powdered milk. When the toast was buttered, she noticed he had grilled it on one side only, so that the bread was soft underneath. She hadn’t made toast that way before, so she tried it, and it was very nice, and she grilled her toast on one side forever afterwards.
He looked at her lips as if he wanted to kiss her, but he didn’t. His restraint made Clare weak with desire. She told herself, he must feel something for her or he wouldn’t have walked her home. But the moment was too precious to spoil it with an awkward attempt to embrace him. They listened to music for a while, sitting on the little sofa, eating toast. Neither of them spoke. Clare willed herself to touch his face and kiss him, but she couldn’t move. At four o’clock in the morning, she knew it was time for him to leave, but she didn’t want him going out alone into the empty streets. He looked very vulnerable with his thin coat and his even thinner face.
“Stay with me,” she said, suddenly, before she became too shy. “I mean, just stay with me for a little while longer.”
“I’d like that,” he said, softly.
They went into the bedroom. He sat gently down on the bed.
“I’ll just take my boots off, if that’s okay.” It took him several minutes to get them off because there were twelve buckles on each one. “Come here,” he said. “It’s cold.” He held out his hand and she sat down beside him. When he looked into her eyes, as they lay down on top of the bedclothes, she almost believed that she was obsessed with him already. He had some tapes in his trouser pocket. There was a small stereo on a chair beside the bed. He found one that Clare liked and put it into the stereo, pressed the repeat
She asked him if he had ever been beaten up because of his effeminate hairstyle, and black eyeliner. He admitted he had been chased, three times, by football fans. It didn’t seem to bother him. He could run a lot faster than they could, he explained. That was the great advantage of being thin: he didn’t have a lot of weight to carry.
By the time they reached Mulberry Street, she knew quite a lot about him. He was the eldest child in the family. He had six sisters. His mother was a nurse who went to Mass every day. His father was a mechanic who liked to restore vintage cars in his spare time. They were a close, happy family. He had a guitar, but couldn’t play it very well. He liked chocolate biscuits.
She had the key to her flat in her pocket. She turned it over and over in her hand. Her other hand was tingling, where he was touching it. She decided to invite him in.
She didn’t know what was going to happen when they went up the little stairs and switched on the light. Would he kiss her? Those were the days when men didn’t automatically assume they would be invited into the bedroom on the first date. (The good old days, she thought. Would they ever come back?) She offered to make coffee. They stood in the middle of the sitting-room. The air around them was charged with anticipation. She could hardly breathe with nervous energy. He commented on the decor, and said that it was very artistic, and that he would very much like a cup of tea.
They talked for a while, about pop music mostly, and about other harmless things. When Clare got up from the little sofa to make toast on the 1950s grill, he followed her into the kitchen. She’d thought that with all those sisters, he would be spoilt in the house, but he told her he was very domesticated. He kept an eye on the bread while she hunted through the cupboards for some powdered milk. When the toast was buttered, she noticed he had grilled it on one side only, so that the bread was soft underneath. She hadn’t made toast that way before, so she tried it, and it was very nice, and she grilled her toast on one side forever afterwards.
He looked at her lips as if he wanted to kiss her, but he didn’t. His restraint made Clare weak with desire. She told herself, he must feel something for her or he wouldn’t have walked her home. But the moment was too precious to spoil it with an awkward attempt to embrace him. They listened to music for a while, sitting on the little sofa, eating toast. Neither of them spoke. Clare willed herself to touch his face and kiss him, but she couldn’t move. At four o’clock in the morning, she knew it was time for him to leave, but she didn’t want him going out alone into the empty streets. He looked very vulnerable with his thin coat and his even thinner face.
“Stay with me,” she said, suddenly, before she became too shy. “I mean, just stay with me for a little while longer.”
“I’d like that,” he said, softly.
They went into the bedroom. He sat gently down on the bed.
“I’ll just take my boots off, if that’s okay.” It took him several minutes to get them off because there were twelve buckles on each one. “Come here,” he said. “It’s cold.” He held out his hand and she sat down beside him. When he looked into her eyes, as they lay down on top of the bedclothes, she almost believed that she was obsessed with him already. He had some tapes in his trouser pocket. There was a small stereo on a chair beside the bed. He found one that Clare liked and put it into the stereo, pressed the repeat
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