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some clever clowning in the Upper Sixth.
    ‘Go on.’
    ‘I’m engaged to Malcolm.’
    Disappointment dried, withered him. He could not be so easily immersed in her.
    ‘He’s a lecturer at the college.’
    ‘I see.’
    ‘I attended his lectures on psychology in the first year course. He’s very clever. And interesting.’
    ‘You’re lucky then.’
    Very slowly she picked up her jar of ale which she’d barely sipped, held it a moment at her mouth, and then returned it to the table, clutched between both hands.
    ‘It’s no good,’ she announced.
    ‘What isn’t?’
    ‘Between Malcolm and me. The engagement.’
    ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ he asked, man of the world.
    ‘I don’t mind.’ She pouted, shrugged, but minutely, creating no fuss. ‘He’s boring. And I think sometimes he’s silly. For a man who’s thirty-one.’
    Fisher kept his eyes down, concentrating on his drink.
    ‘It was a great thing,’ she said, ‘when he asked me out with him. He was a lecturer. And attractive. I lived in a hostel then, and the other girls were jealous. We used to talk to each other about the things he said in his tutorials.’
    ‘What did he?’
    ‘I’ve forgotten now. Oh, well, once he gave a lecture on how much of human behaviour was instinctive. It was interesting. I’d never thought of it before, and we hadn’t done anything about it at school, even in bio lessons. He made it sound fascinating, the way he talked, though it didn’t tie up with much.’
    ‘Um.’
    ‘But he’s rather silly. And jealous. All caught up with himself. He’s everything that counts.’ She stopped. ‘I oughtn’t to talk to you about him. Daddy hadn’t anything to say in his favour.’
    ‘Oh.’
    ‘“He’s a pretentious, slimy, little shit.” That’s what he called him.’
    ‘And is he?’
    ‘I think,’ Meg said, steadily, ‘nobody’s perfect. But I’ve had enough of Malcolm. I shall tell him so.’
    ‘What will he do?’
    ‘There’s not much he can, is there?’ She did not triumph, merely stated this fact or fiction.
    Fisher, delighted, a man again, had emptied his pot, urged her to do likewise, but she refused. She talked on desperately for half an hour until he became unsure whether she meant what she said, or baited him, or perhaps needed his support. At his third pint, she still wetted her lips in her half; he said, clutching himself together,
    ‘Do you know I love you?’
    The green eyes settled on him, widened, considered.
    ‘I don’t mind you.’
    That sounded sufficient for the present, and he took her hand. She pulled off a pair of white gloves so that he noticed she was wearing an engagement ring.

4
    Fisher straightened the shoes at the bottom of his wardrobe. He heard the family in the street drive off, checked that he’d a wallet in his pocket, his pack-a-mack to hand and went downstairs.
    ‘Last out?’ he asked his landlady as she hurried from dining room to kitchen.
    ‘I don’t think so, Mr. Fisher.’ I don’t spy, she implied. My guests enjoy themselves without my help. ‘The beach today, is it?’
    ‘Probably.’
    ‘The glass is high still. I think we’re in for some really settled weather.’
    He deposited his mackintosh on the hallstand, nodded, and walked for the sunshine at the door.
    ‘Have a good time, Mr Fisher.’
    The obsequious use of his name displeased him. As ever, he wondered what she’d report to her husband or the hirelings over the washing up. ‘Do you think he’s married?’ would occupy them to advantage, as she piled the plates and clashed the trays of cutlery. He’d forgotten his newspaper, bathing towel and trunks, but he didn’t think to slip back for a second inquisitorial burst of civility.
    On the beach he sat watching arrivals. One needed occupation, a family to amuse, a wife to be bored with, a ball to kick around with your mates. Deliberately he searched, moved to a more populous part of the front where he hired a deckchair as becoming his