‘Was the blond guy your boyfriend? I didn’t want to embarrass you, or cause you any difficulty, so I backed off until he ran for his bus.’
‘You were spying on me?’
‘I wouldn’t call it spying. I’m not the secret police, you know.’
‘You are not funny. In my country this is still not a joke, Mr Keith.’
‘Ah, so at least you remember my name.’
‘Of course I remember your name. I met you yesterday. How can I forget your name?’
She shakes her head and once again stares out of the window. The puddles reflect red and white light from the cars, and red, amber and green from the traffic lights. The slack water rainbow is surprisingly beautiful. He has to take charge, yet be sensitive, otherwise he realises that the whole encounter will quickly descend into argument and she will leave. She seems to like it when he leads, for this perhaps gives her the space to be quirky and witty. This being the case, he understands that now is not the time to let the conversation drift. He takes a sip of the bitter McDonald’s coffee and then he places the plastic cup back on the tray. He stares at her, but still she will not meet his eyes, so he picks up the discarded red straw and drops it into his abandoned coffee.
‘Shall we go back to my flat? I’ve got better coffee than this, and at least it’s more comfortable.’
‘Comfortable?’
She picks up her cup and takes a noisy sip.
‘Well, this is McDonald’s. You know, everything is secured to the floor, no reclining allowed. It’s not exactly relaxing in here. And it’s cold, particularly every time someone opens the door, so that’s what I mean by more comfortable.’
He points through the window.
‘We can get that bus and be at my place in five minutes.’
The following day he works well on the book. His only interruption is a call from Ruth, who wants to know if he has taken home a file about racial violence in Cardiff. Apparently, she needs to give the file to a researcher who is putting together a piece about the cultural insularity of South Wales. He asks Ruth which researcher, and is relieved when she does not mention Yvette’s name. There is a pause and then, lowering her voice, Ruth asks him how he is doing. She seems embarrassed.
‘I’m all right, Ruth,’ he says. ‘Recharging my batteries. You know I haven’t had a break from work in over twenty years. I don’t mean holidays or anything like that, I mean a real break. So I’m just exploring other things. I’d almost forgotten that I had any other interests or talents.’
Ruth says nothing, and awkwardness overtakes them both. He realises that he probably sounds immodest, but it is too late now. Suddenly he is conscious of the presence of the telephone in his hand, and he longs for her simply to ask him what he is doing with his time, or make a joke, or tell him that the photocopier in the office isn’t working, but she remains silent.
‘Has Clive asked after me?’
Ruth seems momentarily surprised.
‘Mr Wilson?’
‘Yes, Clive Wilson.’ He laughs now. ‘The boss.’
‘No, he’s not said anything. You know what he’s like.’
He regrets having mentioned Clive, for it makes him appear anxious and weak. However, this is not how he feels, nor is it the impression that he wishes to convey to his secretary. Having closed the telephone he finds it difficult to reapply himself to the words on the screen. He would still like to write a few paragraphs on Gil Scott-Heron, but he wonders how much, if anything, his potential British readers will know about the chocolate cities and vanilla suburbs of the United States? If they don’t know anything then it will be impossible for him to develop his thesis about how black cultural heritage is passed on from one generation to the next. After all, he can’t illustrate the principle by pointing to Liverpool or Birmingham. Okay, so the Romans brought black soldiers to build Hadrian’s wall, and there were black trumpeters and pages in the sixteenth-century courts of England and Scotland, and everybody knows that eighteenth-century London was full of black people, but that was then. He is trying to write about a deeper and more substantial tradition of cultural inheritance, and this means that he has to look across the Atlantic for his models. Of late he has found that the same is also true in the race relations business. Increasing numbers of social policy papers seemed to cross his desk arguing that one can only understand Bristol or Leicester or Manchester by looking at Oakland or Detroit or Chicago. He switches off his computer and admits defeat for the day, but he had worked well until Ruth called. Now he has time on his side.
By quarter past four it is apparent that everybody has left the building. There are no longer any students ambling down the steps before peeling off to the left or right in search of a bus, and nobody else appears to be emerging from inside the school. It is not raining, but he stands beneath the red awning, although he now admits to himself that he is wasting his time loitering on this far side of the road. Today he will use the pedestrian crossing. He waits until the beeping begins, and the little green man appears, before dashing quickly in front of the idling traffic. There is still no sign of her and so he decides to go inside and see if he can locate some kind of administrative office. Yesterday she chose not to come back to his Wilton Road flat, and having walked her to the bus stop, and thanked Danuta for having coffee with him at McDonald’s, he watched her get on the bus. It was his bus too, but he decided to walk back in the rain, without an umbrella, and think about what a strangely pleasant distraction the girl was. However, when the skies really opened he realised the extent to which rain could hurt, for the heavy drops felt like needles of glass. By the time he reached home he was drenched to the skin, so he took a long hot shower to prevent himself from catching a chill, and then he kicked up his legs on the sofa and spent the evening continuing to think about Danuta, or his book, jumping nimbly in his mind from one subject to the other, happy to be able to focus on something other than the situation with Yvette and the frustration of not knowing when he will be able to return to his job.
The unfriendly woman looks up from her desk and peers at him over the top of her glasses.
‘Can I help you?’
It is the end of the day, and it is apparent that she is the only one left in the reception office of the language school.
‘I’m looking for somebody. A friend.’
The woman peels off her glasses and places them on her desk. She stands and crosses to the hatch. He guesses that she is in her late fifties, and almost certainly a spinster. There is no sign of a ring, and no hint of sensuality to her.
‘And does your friend have a name?’
‘Danuta.’ He pauses. ‘She’s Polish.’
‘I take it you’re not with any official organisation? Immigration? Housing?’
‘I told you, I’m just a friend.’
‘Then I’m afraid I can’t help you. Students come and students go, but we have to respect their privacy.’
He smiles and nods.
‘Yes, of course, I understand what you’re saying, but it’s just that I arranged to meet her. Today at four o’clock, and I’m worried because she’s not here.’