‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘Why?’
‘Because,’ Kevin said loudly as if Andrea was deaf, ‘it’s a matter of honour, not simple expediency. Honour amongst dragons is—’
‘Do you want a coffee?’ Olivia said to me. She was wearing a high-necked velvet dress that had little velvet-covered buttons that ran from throat to hem so that if you’d wanted to split her open you would have had a handy score mark to follow. She looked pale and otherworldly, like someone who usually lived in a ballad and was expecting to be accidentally locked in a kist on her wedding-day or abandon her goosefeather mattresses and run away with a band of gypsies—
‘Effie?’
‘Yeah, right, coffee—’ but we’d failed to notice the bulky advance of Maggie Mackenzie until it was too late. Terri said, ‘Got to see a man about a dog,’ and disappeared with commendable alacrity.
‘George Eliot?’ Maggie barked at me like a sergeant-major.
‘Nearly finished,’ I lied.
‘Don’t lie, Miss Andrews. Where is it?’ I gestured vaguely towards the world outside the walls of the English department, indicating that my George Eliot might have been working away in the library or playing table football in the Union.
‘Come with me,’ she said peremptorily and turned on her heel and raced off towards the lift so that I had to run to keep up with her.
‘Later,’ I gasped to Olivia. In the lift itself there was barely enough room for the two of us and I tried to shrink myself into a corner to avoid having to breathe in Maggie Mackenzie’s inky scent.
I followed her into her room, where she paraded up and down her crowded bookshelves, swiftly pulling out books here and there and handing them to me, a Casebook series on Middlemarch, a Literature in Perspective on George Eliot. ‘These are not difficult books,’ she said, ‘they won’t task your brain too much.’ She made a visible effort to be encouraging. ‘You have to try, you’re wasting your life.’
‘No, I’m not,’ I said without any conviction.
‘You haven’t produced a single piece of work all term,’ she said harshly. Maggie Mackenzie was one of those people who believe that there’s nothing in the world that can’t be done with the application of a little effort. (I suppose she was right.) I glanced down and noticed that the hem of my recycled-sari skirt was loose and torn, some of the little mirrors on it hanging by a thread. I was so clearly a girl who was never going to get her homework in on time.
‘You hardly ever show your face in tutorials,’ she continued. ‘It’s all very well enjoying yourself now, but in twenty years’ time—’
A ragged and uncoordinated chant had started up outside:
‘What do we want?’
‘Peace!’
‘When do we want it?’
‘Now!’
‘It’s beginning,’ Maggie said with some satisfaction.
‘What is?’
‘The end.’
— Not yet, surely? Nora says. Nothing’s happened yet.
‘Well, I must get this essay finished,’ I said, making a surreptitious move to leave the room, and Maggie Mackenzie startled me by suddenly shouting, ‘For God’s sake, pull yourself together, girl — before it’s too late! What do you think’s going to happen to you?’
I expected I was going to grow old and die, or, if I was unlucky, just die, but I didn’t say that to her because it wasn’t what she wanted to hear and instead I mumbled something inarticulate and she grabbed the nearest missile she could lay her hands on — a copy of Cranford, although I don’t think the choice of book was significant — and threw it across the room at me. Her aim was, as usual, poor, the throw executed more in exasperation than aggression, and Cranford hit the back wall of her room, dislodging a rather frightening Frida Kahlo print. If it had been Philippa McCue throwing she would have hit me smack between the eyes and then caught the rebound off Frida.
‘I want that essay on my desk at ten o’clock on Friday,’ Maggie Mackenzie said sharply, ‘or else. You’ll thank me for this later, you know.’
I doubted that I would, but I kept quiet as there was no point in antagonizing her further, and at least she seemed to be giving some thought to my future which was more than anyone else was, including myself.
As I hurried away I heard an odd lowing sound coming from Martha Sewell’s room. I paused to listen and detected more animal noises, followed by some distressed sobbing. I hesitated outside her door, and then knocked.
It was opened by Jay Sewell. Behind him I could see Martha sitting at her desk. She was wearing a grey poncho that seemed to have been made out of felted squirrel fur and was holding her hand to her forehead in an attitude of despairing grief.
‘We lost Buddy,’ Jay explained.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said politely. Buddy had been sick a couple of days ago and now he was dead. It seemed a rather sudden demise. I still didn’t understand who Buddy was, of course.
‘We have no children of our own,’ Jay said, tears welling up in his eyes, ‘and Buddy was like a son to us.’ I didn’t really want to be this intimate with the Sewells and the sight of a distraught Martha, not hitherto prone to any emotion at all, was unnerving. Jay had somehow manoeuvred me into the room by now and at the sight of me Martha started sobbing even more. I put out a reluctant hand and patted her on the shoulder and said solicitously, ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
She stood up suddenly, knocking me to one side, and shrieked at her husband, ‘We have to find him, we have to find Buddy.’
‘He’s not dead, then?’ I asked cautiously.
Martha looked at me in horror. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘What does Buddy look like?’ I said hastily. ‘Maybe I’ve seen him.’
‘He’s very handsome,’ Jay said.
‘And he has beautiful blue eyes,’ Martha added, calming down a bit and dabbing delicately at her nose with a tissue.
‘Well, green, really,’ Jay corrected gently.
‘Nonsense,’ Martha said, ‘they aren’t green. Perhaps a hint of green,’ she conceded. ‘Aqua might be a more accurate word. I could compromise on aqua.’
Jay didn’t seem willing to compromise. ‘Not aqua exactly,’ he said frowning, ‘cerulean maybe.’
‘Cyan,’ Martha offered, like a bridge player making a last, rather outrageous, bid.
‘Cyan?’ Jay said contemplatively. ‘How about glaucous?’ Whoever Buddy was, he was going to have crumbled into dust before Jay and Martha managed to decide on the colour of his eyes.
‘Let’s just say bluey-green, shall we?’ I suggested helpfully.
‘Greeny-blue,’ Jay Sewell said, making a final stand.
Professor Cousins put his head round the door. ‘I heard a commotion. Is there anything I can do?’ He caught sight of me and smiled and said, ‘I would introduce you, but I can’t remember your name.’ He laughed at Jay. ‘I can’t even remember my own name, let alone hers.’
‘Cousins,’ Jay said seriously, ‘your name is Cousins.’
‘I was joking,’ Professor Cousins said, somewhat abashed.
‘They’ve lost Buddy,’ I explained. ‘He’s like a son to them. And he has bluey-green, greeny-blue eyes.’
‘And a gorgeous coat,’ Martha said.
‘A Crombie? I had a Crombie once,’ Professor Cousins said nostalgically. ‘It was gorgeous.’
Martha wasn’t listening, she was growing lyrical. ‘It was like melted milk chocolate. We almost called him Hershey,’ she added sadly.
‘Really?’ Professor Cousins said politely.
‘A little light-hearted fun,’ Jay said solemnly.
‘You could ask the Salvation Army,’ Professor Cousins said. ‘I’m told they’re very good with missing persons.’