Free The Snowing and Greening of Thomas Passmore by Paul Burman Page A

unfamiliar town, and my fingers are numb. “Pardon?” I say.
    She lets go, stands back and smiles. “Perhaps later,” she suggests. “When you’ve warmed up.”
    Clutching a plastic beaker of beer, I mumble silly jokes and know she’ll ditch me. Of course she will. I watch the other blokes mill around, sometimes laughing with her, and wonder who’ll make the first move.
    â€œI suppose you know everyone?” I ask.
    â€œAlmost everyone,” she says, embracing me, her mouth close to my ear. “Only Em, Sue and Andy are close friends though, and you know Andy. Most of the guys are brain-dead pot-heads and acid-droppers, and you know what I think about that.”
    â€œHmm.”
    Still I can’t get warm.
    Eventually she hushes me, takes the cracked beaker and puts it down, makes me dance, embraces me again, takes my hand and leads me along the passage to the kitchen, through to the garage, to the frosty garden and the gazebo.
    â€œLet’s go for a walk,” she says.
    â€œNow?”
    â€œYes. I want to show you something.”
    Unable to speak, I slide a hand towards my jacket pocket.
    â€œIt’s alright,” she says, “I’m on the pill. But thanks, Tom.”
    In the darkness, we make the gazebo warmer than the house. For us. She thaws me. Somehow we avoid splinters, escape frostbite. Winter is defeated from this nest; it’s vanquished by the smell of two lovers, of patchouli oil and musk, by our rag-tag of garments half-off, by the singing of our giggling and panting in the dark and by the taste of Kate on my lips, the warmth of her thighs and the tenderness of her gently guiding hand, the deliciousness of being planted inside her, soft and moist… and her generous delight in that first clumsy fuck.
    Before long she spends the weekend at Nenford. (Annette and Andrew are on school camp, so she’ll have a proper bed and there’ll be space to listen to records and be alone.) I meet her at the bus station in Northampton, but before heading home and introducing her to Mum and Brian we walk along the banks of the Nene, through Midsummer Meadow. It’s early April, and windy and cold – the month that arrives like a lion and leaves like a lamb. The trees are entering bud, the river’s swollen and muddy, and the sky’s pretty much the same as the river: a sepia brown sky reflecting the churned-up day. To keep her to myself, I’d walk forever if we could, hand-in-hand, arms swinging, our eyes smarting in the wind, following the river all the way to the coast. I don’t want to share her with anyone.
    But she’s been studying Dario Fo on the bus – Morte Accidentale di un Anarchico – revising for an exam, and her mood is muddied too. She lights a cigarette, takes two long, deep drags, exhales and then pinches out the tip, before dropping it in a bin.
    â€œWhat’s the matter?” I say.
    â€œNothing,” she says, walking ahead of me. Then she stops, turns, forces a smile. “No, that’s not true, Tom. I’m sorry. It’s just that there’s too many thoughts beating about in my head.
    I’ve got so much revision to do, I’m not sure I can afford to take time off this weekend. I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have come.”
    She pauses, glances across the river and then at me. “I nearly phoned and called it off.”
    â€œNo,” I say. She’s come all the way from Abetsby to tell me it’s over and that I’ll be going home without her. “No, Kate.”
    â€œNot us. Just the weekend.”
    â€œOh. I thought you meant…’
    â€œYeah.” She hesitates. “But I’ve been thinking about that too. At times. It’s fair you should know.”
    â€œWhat? Why? Don’t do that.”
    â€œListen, Tom, I’d already decided to avoid any relationships for the next few months, to concentrate on schoolwork. I’ve worked