‘I’m getting off on time today. If news desk ask, I was here until the bitter end,’ I say. ‘I don’t need to file anything until tomorrow and the progress in Court 2 is on the stately side.’
Zoe makes a salute. ‘Understood. Anything fun?’
‘What, in Court 2?’
‘What you’re off to.’
That’s a good question. ‘A drink with an old friend.’
‘Ooh. A friend friend or a friend?’
For some reason the question irritates me. ‘Friend, female,’ I snap, then realise my guilty conscience is making me antsy.
Zoe nods, spearing a slice of woolly tomato and then plunging through potato flesh the way gardeners work over soil.
16
The Tallack trial continues, and my afternoon passes in a similar reverie. This time I’m back in my study period before first year exams. Ben left me a cryptic note in my pigeonhole in the university’s arts block with the venue, time and ‘come alone’, as if we were secret agents.
I’d never been up to Central Library in St Peter’s Square, content to make do with the university library, John Rylands. In acknowledgement of this, and to take the mickey, Ben drew me a map with the whole route described, eventually arriving at what resembled a blue-biro-inked cake, the Tuscan colonnade standing in for candles. He drew a goonish face, captioned ‘Ben’, and an arrow to indicate he was inside.
On arrival, as I admired the architecture, I saw Ben waving at me from a desk.
‘Hi. Why are we here?’ I hissed, sliding into a chair next to him.
‘I didn’t want anyone overhearing us in the uni library,’ Ben whispered. ‘And it’s an outing. Look at these.’
He pushed a stack of exam papers towards me.
‘Past papers?’ I asked.
‘Yep. Going through them, there’s a totally obvious pattern. There’s only a question about Beowulf every other year.’
‘Riiight …’ I said. ‘So …?’
‘It was on last year’s paper and there’s no way it’s going to come up this year. We don’t have to revise it.’
‘A risky strategy.’
‘I’m one hundred per cent sure it’ll work.’
‘Really?’ I said, sarcastically. ‘One hundred per cent? As sure of the laws of gravity, or the laws of … of …’
‘You don’t know any other laws, do you?’
‘Sod?’
‘OK, I’m ninety per cent sure then.’
‘There’s an equally failsafe fallback.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Without tutors suspecting a thing is happening, we covertly put information into our brains. Then we smuggle it into the exam room behind these faces. No one would ever guess our secret.’
Ben stifles a laugh. ‘Smart arse. I knew you wouldn’t appreciate my efforts.’
I pointed up at the inscription on the ceiling.
‘Wisdom is the principal thing, therefore get wisdom.’
Ben shook his head. ‘Get degree is principal thing, not sermon off Ronnie.’
‘Look. It might work, but you’re clever, you don’t need to play games.’
‘Ack, I hate Old English.’
‘Would your mum want you to do this?’
Ben wrinkled his nose. ‘Don’t drag my mum into this.’
I’d met Ben’s mum by chance, the previous week. I called in on his shared flat to drop a textbook off and a slim young woman with short hair and Ben’s same neat features was stood chatting in the doorway, jangling car keys.
‘Hello, I’m Ben’s mum,’ she’d said, as I approached, in that yes I will speak to your friends if I want to teasing way.
‘Hello, I’m Rachel. Ben’s friend off his course,’ I added, in case she thought it was a booty call.
‘Oooh Rachel!’ she said. ‘You’re the lovely, clever girl with the musician boyfriend.’
‘Er, yes,’ I said, flattered I’d been described at all, let alone in such a nice way.
‘Now your boyfriend lives – wait, wait – I know it …’ Ben’s mum held her hand up to indicate she was thinking.
‘Mum,’ Ben said, in a low growl, face reddening.
‘Sunderland!’ she announced.
‘Sheffield,’ I said. ‘You got the “S”, though. And the north. Very near, really.’
‘Honestly, you don’t know how healthy it is for my son to have a young woman around who’s immune to his charms, so good for you and your Sheffield-or-Sunderland boyfriend.’
‘MUM!’ Ben shouted, in a rictus of agony, as I’d giggled.
In the library, I said: ‘I liked your mum.’
‘Yeah, don’t remind me. She liked you too.’
‘Plus if you fail the first year, who am I going to sit with in lectures?’ I asked Ben.
Someone nearby coughed, pointedly. We opened our books. After ten minutes I looked up and saw Ben deep in concentration. He had this habit of clutching his shoulder with the hand on the opposite side of his body, chin on his chest, as he squinted at the text. I had an unexpected urge to reach across and brush the marble-smoothness of his cheekbone with the back of my hand.
He glanced up. I quickly reassembled my features into exaggerated boredom, faked a yawn.
‘Drink?’ he whispered.
‘Triple shot espresso with ProPlus ground up in the coffee beans,’ I said, closing my reference book with a thud, half-expecting it to throw up a cloud of talcum-like dust.
Settled in the cafeteria, Ben said: ‘I can’t fail the first year, I have to get this degree and earn some money because my waster of a dad isn’t going to help my mum or sister any time soon.’
‘Do you see him?’
He shook his head. ‘Not if I can help it, and the feeling’s mutual.’
Chin propped on palm, I listened to his account of his dad’s abrupt departure from their lives, his mum working two jobs, and felt guilty I’d ever complained about the boring dependability of my home life. I also thought how, with some people, you feel like you’ll never ever run out of things to talk about.
When Ben got to the part where he tracked his dad down and his dad told him he didn’t want to be found, he was suddenly,