The Stranger Came (37 page)

'Well,
yes,
I had
seen
that.
Perhaps
another
day.’

They
stood
in
silence.
She
wondered
why
he
did
not
go. She
needed
time
to
prepare
herself.

'I
have
a
flat
in
the
residences.
But
perhaps
you
knew
that?'

'No
.’

'Rent
free.
It's
one
of
the
perks
of
being
an
academic
warden.
Normally
the
place
is
full
of
life
and
I
like
that.
Being
around
young
people,
it's
never
dull.’
His
voice
had
quietened
and
lost
its
odd
emphatic
stresses.
'But
now,
of
course,
they've
all
gone
home.’

As
a
student
she
had
lived
in
one
of
the
residences,
and had
a
picture
of
him
offering
her
coffee
in
a
room
like
that;
her
on
the
seat
by
the
desk
and
him
cross-legged
on
the
bed.
She
wanted
to
share
the
joke
with
someone,
with
Maitland
if
only
he
would
come.

'Do
you
keep
up?'

'Sorry?'
What was he talking about now?

'With
the
subject.
Do
you
take
an
interest
still
at
all?'

Didn't
he know that even those with honours degrees were counting themselves lucky to find jobs in sales or personnel? It was a different world from the one into which he had graduated
.
His
question
irritated
her
beyond
reason.
Does he think I should 'keep up' as a hobby? Or for love?

When
he
began
talking
of
Maitland's
attitude
to
the students,
it
was
worse
because
she
had
to
hide
her
anger,
having
no
right
to
it.

It
seemed
to
her
a
long
time
before
the
beams
of
a
car,
tilted
by
the
crest
of
the
ascent,
raked
like
searchlights
across
the
dark.
When
Maitland
appeared,
he
came
from
the
wrong
end
of
the
corridor,
catching
her
by
surprise.

'You've
missed
Dr
Wilson.’

'Good
.’

'I
couldn't
get
rid
of
him.
When
we
saw
your
car,
he
went
off
towards
the
front
door.
But
you
came
the
other
way.’

'We
don't
want
to
stand
here,'
Maitland
said.
'It's
like a
bloody
fishbowl.’

Hurrying
after
him,
she
realised
he
must
have
seen
Wilson
standing
with
her
as
he
got
out
of
his
car.
She
wondered
if
that
was
why
he
had
chosen
to
come
in
by
the
other
door.
Breathlessly,
she
said,
'I
was
angry
with
him.
He
was
criticising
you.’

Maitland
grunted
without
looking
back.

'He
thinks
you
upset
the
students
by
wondering
if
any
of
it
matters.
He
can't
understand
why
you
do
it.’

The
truth
was
that
Wilson
had
surprised
her
by
the
strength
of
his
feeling.
'I
know,'
he
had
said,
'that
he's
only…joking.
That's
not
the
right
word
either.
He
wants
to
challenge
them
into
thinking
about
the
value
of
what
we
do.
But
they
misunderstand.
They
come
to
me
and
I
tell
them,
Christ,
the
Professor's
played
his
part
–
he's
worked
with
everybody
in
the
field
who
matters.
It's
all
to do
.
There's
plenty
to
do,
I
tell
them.’
In
his
seminars,
when
she
was
a
student,
he
had
never
conveyed
to
her,
to
any
of
them,
this
simple
truth
-
that
he
was
in
love
with
his
subject.
'The
terrible
thing
is,'
he
said,
a
little
patch
of
colour
on
each
cheek,
'that
it's
the
brightest
students
who
are
most
unsettled
by
him.’

Now,
as
she
followed
him
into
his
office,
Maitland
asked,
'Did
you
want
me
to
meet
you
so
we
could
discuss
Wilson's
opinion
of
how
I
handle
students?'

'Did
you
know,'
she
responded,
'I've
just
realised
you
don't
ever
talk
to
me
about
any
of
that.
You
tell
me
what
Wilson
or
Black
are
getting
up
to
–
or
how
McBain
isn't much
better
than
a
Government
stooge
for
the
next
round
of
cuts. That's
only
gossip.
You
don't
share
what
you're
doing
with
me –
not
your
real
work.’

'My
"real
work.”’
He
settled
on
the
edge
of
the
desk, unbuttoning
his
coat
one-handed.
The
heavy
cloth
slid
open
over
his
thighs.
His
skin
had
the
healthy
look
of
a
man
who
spent
time
out
of
doors.
There
were
lines
at
the
corners
of
his
eyes,
but
with
his
brown
skin
and
thick
curling
black
hair
he
looked
like
a
man
in
his
thirties.
'It's
not
a
particularly
obvious
topic
between
lovers.’

'We
could
talk.’
She
knew
she
was
making
herself
vulnerable
and
silly,
but
could
not
stop.
'I
have
a
degree.
I
try
to
keep
up.’

'Below
a
certain
level,'
he
said,
'shop
talk
doesn't
interest
me.’

Tears
stung
her
eyes,
although
she
knew
he
had
not
meant
to
be
cruel.
He
meant
no
more
than
what
he
had
said
and,
if
she
had
drawn
it
out
of
him,
then
it
was
by
her
own
foolishness.
Unexpectedly,
horribly,
she
heard
herself
asking,
'Can
you
talk
to
your
wife?
I
suppose
she'd
understand
more
of
it?'

'She
used
to,'
he
said
coolly.
'She's
out
of
touch
now.’
She
could
not
believe
she
had
got
herself
into
this
mess.

She
had
been
kept
waiting
too
long
for
him.

'You
said
you'd
be
here
hours
ago.
I
was
so
afraid
you
weren't
going
to
come.’
It
seemed
whatever
was
in
her
head
had
to
be
blurted
out.
She
had
to
control
herself.
'It's
just
that
you
were
so
late.’

'I
always
had
this
image
of
you
as
being
placid,'
he
said.

'It
was
one
of
the
things
I
liked
about
you.’

A
swimmer
going
into
cold
water,
she
took
her
breath
deeply.
'Did
you
know
your
wife
was
at
the
flat?
With
Monty
Norman?
I
saw
her
there.’

He
stared
impassively. At
last,
'If
you
feel
you
must,
tell
me.’

'It
was
in
the
afternoon.
I
had
gone
home
…
'

Home
is
the
safest
place
for
weeping.
People
called
it
home
where
for
a
time
they
slept;
even
in
a
dreary
room
in
a
flat
whispering
with
strangers.
Real
home
for
Sophie
would
have
meant
a
train
journey
north,
except
that
she
would
have
felt
it
unfair
to
cry
in
front
of
her
father.
He
had
worked
so
hard
to
climb
up
out
of
the
need
for
tears.
It
was
a
battle
which
he
had
been
obliged
to
win,
since
the
ones
who
did
not
had
a
high
casualty
rate.
In
charge
at
last
of
the
company's
sales
team,
he
made
a
habit
of
retailing
the
mishaps
of
this
changing
cast
to
his
family.
Un-promoted
salesmen
were
the
walking
wounded.
Men
she
would
never
meet
limped
out
of
the
memories
of
her
earliest
childhood,
men
with
stomach
complaints,
men
weeping
on
corners
or
found
hallucinating
in
the
bedrooms
of
small-town
hotels.
Their
stories
told
over
the
dinner-table
had
been
offered
by
her
father
to
his
family
like
guarantees
of
safety.
His
battle
won,
that
table
was
the
last
place
in
the
world
to
which
she
could
bring
her
tears.

At
this
time
of
the
afternoon,
the
flat
would
be
empty; everyone
had
a
job
except
the
Irish
boy
who
wanted
to
be
a
painter,
and
lately
he
had
begun
to
let
them
all
know
that
he
found
his
room,
which
he
used
as
a
studio,
too
depressing
to
be
alone
in
during
the
day.
The
corridor
was
dusky;
the
only
light
struggled
through
the
transom
windows
above
two
of
the
bedroom
doors.
She
stepped
heavy
limbed
and
slow
as
if
under
water
through
the
twilight
dimness.
Her
room
was
a
cave
full
of
shadows.
Winter
light
pressed
like
grey
water
against
the
single
window.
In
another
week
it
would
be
Christmas.
She
huddled
her
coat
around
her
and
stared
unseeing
at
the
brown
and
grey
cones
of
the
unlit
gas
fire.
Nothing
here
belonged
to
her,
not
the
lumpy
chair,
or
the
scratched
dressing-table,
or
the
wardrobe
with
the
piece
of
folded
cardboard
pushed
in
under
the
door
to
keep
it
from
swinging
open;
not
the
bed,
above
which
she
had
tacked
up
when
she
took
possession
in
the
summer
a
poste
of
the
Theatre
Moliere – Le
Theatre
Gai
de
la
Porte
de
Namur.
She
had
taken
it down
after
Maitland
made
a
joke
about
student
digs.
He
had
meant
no
harm
but
it
was
not
the
way
she
wanted
him
to
think
of
her,
and
anyway
she
had
only
put
it
up
because
the
wallpaper
was
so
drab.
This
was
the
place
where
Maitland
belonged
to
her
and
to
no
one
else
in
the
world.
This
was
her
true
and
only
home.