Read Uncommon Enemy for Free Online Page B
Authors: Alan Judd
seized upon the excuse to
pull out. Later, when he ran into Nigel, residual guilt made him want to be generous.
‘Sorry to hear about the debate. You must have put a lot of work into it.’
‘You could say that.’
‘What will you do?’
‘Don’t know. JCR. Have an early night.’
‘Come to the Elizabeth with Sarah and me.’
Nigel, who had wealthy parents and a reputation for expensive living, looked at him. ‘You can’t mean that.’
‘I do, I mean it.’ Charles knew he didn’t as he was saying it. It was stupid, a gesture was all he had intended, but he felt obliged to go on. ‘No, come with us.
We’d both like it.’
Nigel hesitated. ‘Okay, if you’re sure. What time?’
Sarah was sitting at her desk brushing her hair, a mirror propped before her, when Charles broke the news. He sat on her bed with his back against the wall, much as he would later in his cell,
watching her face in the mirror. When he said it she was holding her hair with one hand and brushing it with the other. She stopped in mid-stroke and their eyes met in the mirror. Her expression
betrayed a brief struggle for self-control, swiftly achieved, then settled resolution. She resumed brushing.
‘Oh, right, it’ll be nice to see Nigel. At least he won’t feel rejected now.’
‘Sorry, it was clumsy of me. It was an impulse, I didn’t mean him to accept it. I’ve been clumsy throughout all this. Sorry.’
‘No need to apologise.’
‘There is. I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be.’
Soon he was apologising for apologising and by the time they reached the Elizabeth they were not speaking. Nigel was there already and they fell upon him with relief at not having to confront
each other. The meal was presumably good – Nigel said it was – and certainly expensive. Charles paid. Afterwards he remembered nothing of what he’d eaten, but knew she’d had
only a first course and toyed with a trifle. Nigel was at his most entertaining, blooming under their dual attention and failing to notice that neither addressed a word to the other.
It was snowing again when they left. Charles drove slowly through the quiet, whitened streets, dropping the still loquacious Nigel at their college before continuing north to Sarah’s. They
said nothing. The squeaking windscreen wipers appeared to brush the same flakes away at each sweep. He drew up at the back of her college, by the usual nocturnal entrance for forbidden male
visitors. Snow covered the parked cars and hung heavily on the tree branches; the street lamps showed it already obliterating his tyre tracks.
‘Rotten evening,’ he said. ‘Except for Nigel. He enjoyed himself. All my fault. Sorry.’ He switched off the engine.
She got out and shut the door without looking back, picking her way through the snow to the black wooden door in the college wall. At least she hadn’t told him not to follow. He watched as
she carefully brushed the snow off the latch with her rolled umbrella before touching it with her suede gloves. She left the door half open behind her.
He followed. When he reached the door he saw she had paused on the garden path leading to her hall and was doing something in the snow with the tip of her umbrella. Still not looking back, she
moved on without waiting for him. When he reached the spot he saw that she had written ‘I love you’ in the snow. It was that night, he believed ever after, that she became pregnant.
4
N ow, waiting in his cell for her, he tried to remember how many years had passed before he ceased to think daily about it all. Ten at least, years
in which he confided in no-one and pored over every detail until it was as familiar to him as his face in the shaving mirror. Yet he knew all the time there was nothing new to be thought.
He was excited by the prospect of seeing her again, though not because he anticipated any resurrection of the past. It was an unquantifiable prospect; he could not anticipate what he would feel,
still less
pull out. Later, when he ran into Nigel, residual guilt made him want to be generous.
‘Sorry to hear about the debate. You must have put a lot of work into it.’
‘You could say that.’
‘What will you do?’
‘Don’t know. JCR. Have an early night.’
‘Come to the Elizabeth with Sarah and me.’
Nigel, who had wealthy parents and a reputation for expensive living, looked at him. ‘You can’t mean that.’
‘I do, I mean it.’ Charles knew he didn’t as he was saying it. It was stupid, a gesture was all he had intended, but he felt obliged to go on. ‘No, come with us.
We’d both like it.’
Nigel hesitated. ‘Okay, if you’re sure. What time?’
Sarah was sitting at her desk brushing her hair, a mirror propped before her, when Charles broke the news. He sat on her bed with his back against the wall, much as he would later in his cell,
watching her face in the mirror. When he said it she was holding her hair with one hand and brushing it with the other. She stopped in mid-stroke and their eyes met in the mirror. Her expression
betrayed a brief struggle for self-control, swiftly achieved, then settled resolution. She resumed brushing.
‘Oh, right, it’ll be nice to see Nigel. At least he won’t feel rejected now.’
‘Sorry, it was clumsy of me. It was an impulse, I didn’t mean him to accept it. I’ve been clumsy throughout all this. Sorry.’
‘No need to apologise.’
‘There is. I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be.’
Soon he was apologising for apologising and by the time they reached the Elizabeth they were not speaking. Nigel was there already and they fell upon him with relief at not having to confront
each other. The meal was presumably good – Nigel said it was – and certainly expensive. Charles paid. Afterwards he remembered nothing of what he’d eaten, but knew she’d had
only a first course and toyed with a trifle. Nigel was at his most entertaining, blooming under their dual attention and failing to notice that neither addressed a word to the other.
It was snowing again when they left. Charles drove slowly through the quiet, whitened streets, dropping the still loquacious Nigel at their college before continuing north to Sarah’s. They
said nothing. The squeaking windscreen wipers appeared to brush the same flakes away at each sweep. He drew up at the back of her college, by the usual nocturnal entrance for forbidden male
visitors. Snow covered the parked cars and hung heavily on the tree branches; the street lamps showed it already obliterating his tyre tracks.
‘Rotten evening,’ he said. ‘Except for Nigel. He enjoyed himself. All my fault. Sorry.’ He switched off the engine.
She got out and shut the door without looking back, picking her way through the snow to the black wooden door in the college wall. At least she hadn’t told him not to follow. He watched as
she carefully brushed the snow off the latch with her rolled umbrella before touching it with her suede gloves. She left the door half open behind her.
He followed. When he reached the door he saw she had paused on the garden path leading to her hall and was doing something in the snow with the tip of her umbrella. Still not looking back, she
moved on without waiting for him. When he reached the spot he saw that she had written ‘I love you’ in the snow. It was that night, he believed ever after, that she became pregnant.
4
N ow, waiting in his cell for her, he tried to remember how many years had passed before he ceased to think daily about it all. Ten at least, years
in which he confided in no-one and pored over every detail until it was as familiar to him as his face in the shaving mirror. Yet he knew all the time there was nothing new to be thought.
He was excited by the prospect of seeing her again, though not because he anticipated any resurrection of the past. It was an unquantifiable prospect; he could not anticipate what he would feel,
still less