Free Gospel by Wilton Barnhardt

seed…”
    Lucy, feeling green herself, particularly after watching the boy over there get sick, steadied herself on the back of the priest’s chair and aimed herself toward the pub building.
    That’s it, she thought, no more drink, not for me.
    Lucy staggered into the hot, smoky pub and waited in the line to get her order. When she returned with the pints … the table was empty.
    They’d gone and stiffed her.
    â€œHello there!” called a female voice.
    It was the tall girl Lucy had seen earlier that morning with the beret and magenta stockings. She was sitting at a picnic table by a roaring fire surrounded by four young men, three of whom were moving on to a “drinks party,” or so they announced. The tall girl waved Lucy toward her and Lucy got a closer look at the clear-featured handsome young man with rich black curls that hung before his eyes.
    â€œDo you want these pints?” Lucy said instinctively.
    Lucy set them down and joined the table.
    â€œI’m Ursula Crewes,” said the tall girl. She didn’t introduce her brooding companion. “You’re Julian’s American friend, aren’t you?”
    Lucy paused long enough for Ursula to rush right in:
    â€œYou simply must come to Tessa’s party—there’ll be stacks of drink, I swear. There, I’ve done it. Everyone thinks I’m an utter selfish bitch, but I’ve just proven I’m not. You simply must come.”
    â€œWell I—”
    â€œOh, besides, it will terrify Alex when he gets back from London after the break! When he hears we’ve been friendly, comparing notes, saying horrible things about him, which we must. I’ll go first. He’s a dreadful lover, really he is. Too drunk or too quick, though maybe you have found the golden mean that eluded me…”
    Lucy should have been correcting the mistaken impression that they had mutual friends, but Ursula was intensely devoted to what she was saying.
    â€œNo, there wasn’t much between us; I just made a beastly fool of myself, threw myself upon him at the St. John’s Ball. I was an utter slag-whore, I admit that! Oh he surely told you; I can’t believe he’s that gentlemanly, not to gossip about me.”
    â€œWell, actually—”
    â€œYou might as well call in later,” Ursula said, “because the party’s on our staircase and you’ll be kept awake anyway.”
    â€œYou can have parties all night in Braithwaite?”
    â€œHeavens no, but Jim the porter’s on duty tonight, always dead drunk, never susses. Three quads away. Well, we’re off!” Ursula stood with her male admirer and reiterated the invitation kindly before sweeping her friend along toward St. Bridget’s Passage.
    That left Lucy alone with one pint.
    â€œStill givin’ ’em away, pet?”
    She turned to see a young man with dark-blond, close-cropped hair, leather jacket, a T-shirt that had a caricature of Margaret Thatcher and something about FUCK THE POLL TAX.
    â€œSure,” said Lucy.
    The young man left his nearby table and sat at hers. “American?” he asked.
    â€œYep. From Chicago. My name’s Lucy.”
    He was Duncan from North Shields, that was up north where no tourist ever went so he didn’t expect her to know about it. Lucy was thrilled with the singsongy way he talked, up and down as if each sentence ended in a question. Had she heard of Newcastle, near where he was from? No, Lucy hadn’t.
    Duncan then asked, “How do you know Ursula?”
    â€œI don’t know her at all. She thinks she knows me from somewhere, I think. I’m staying in the guest room at Braithwaite and her room’s on the same staircase.”
    â€œâ€™Tis the fuckin’ end of civilization, that place.” Duncan in a few swallows had drained the pint of beer.
    â€œWhat college do you go to?”
    â€œBraithwaite, so I knay what I’m