Free Nest of Sorrows by Ruth Hamilton Page A

following the French girl’s every move.
    ‘Well? How long is she staying?’
    ‘Till the end of the dance, I suppose. Though perhaps I should take her home early, she is only sixteen . . .’
    ‘In England. How long is she in England?’
    He shrugged, rather too carelessly for Katherine’s liking. ‘A month – six weeks – I’m not sure.’
    ‘And you’ll have to look after her because Pamela’s French is appalling.’
    ‘I expect so.’
    ‘What a terrible chore.’
    He looked at her for what seemed like the first time since they had come into the hall. ‘Katie, are you jealous?’
    ‘Of course not. It’s just going to be such a nuisance. It will cut into our art time.’
    ‘Yes.’
    She sighed. ‘Ah well. Never mind. In a few weeks, we’ll be off to Manchester. I hope there’s something to paint in Manchester.’
    He hesitated, then took another swig of Dutch courage. ‘Katie?’
    ‘It’s Kate, or Katherine. You know I don’t like Katie.’
    ‘OK. Sorry. Look, I didn’t want to tell you this tonight, but I’m not . . . I mean . . . I won’t be going to Didsbury. My parents weren’t happy in spite of the fact that the college had a decent art department. They want me to get a Catholic certificate. I’m going to De La Salle, staying with the Brothers.’
    ‘Oh.’ What else could she say? All those plans, all those years . . . ‘Oh’ somehow summed it all up, didn’t it?
    ‘We can meet some weekends.’
    ‘Yes.’
    He swallowed another mouthful of ale. ‘And we should really mix with other people. I mean, we’ve only ever been out with one another, haven’t we?’
    ‘True. But that was fine with me.’
    ‘Me too!’ he said hastily. ‘We can get together again, when college is over. It’s not the end, Katie – I mean Kate. But we may be cramping one another’s painting style. And you’re so much better than me,’ he added generously.
    ‘Yes. Yes, I know I am.’
    ‘Pardon?’ His jaw dropped for a moment.
    ‘Your style is too flat and lifeless. Perhaps you will do better away from me.’
    He stared hard at her. She wasn’t talking just about painting, was she? No. The yellow lights in her eyes were flashing like some awful warning of shipwreck or earthquake. ‘Do you want to dance?’ he asked quietly.
    ‘No. I think you should go and rescue your little French girl before something interesting happens to her. After all, she’s only half dressed.’
    ‘Katie!’ But she had left him, the table and the pineapple juice before the second syllable of this unwelcome name had left his lips.
    She learned several things that night. The first was that she couldn’t depend on Mike. The second came to her after several dances; Katherine sounded too saintly and it was better to introduce herself as Kate. Kate from
The Taming of the Shrew
? She half-smiled as some clumsy sixth-former put her through a painful square tango. The last lesson was quite an interesting one. Although she was completely covered by the dress, it was without sleeves, and if she let the stole slip to reveal a shoulder, she got more dances than the girls in low-necked frocks. The introductory stages of sex were no longer a mystery. Men were malleable and women were clever.
    Mike didn’t get much of a look-in with his French partner. In fact, he seemed to sit out most dances. Almost every time Kate waltzed or quick-stepped by, he was nursing his beer at the same table. Hard cheese, she thought viciously. He came across at one point to where she stood with several girls from school, his face flushing deeply as he asked for a dance. She refused, pleading a sore foot, only to sweep past him seconds later in the arms of a very popular house captain.
    The last waltz loomed dangerously near. He wouldn’t get a look-in with Josianne, Kate realized that well enough. She glanced round frantically, hoping that some handsome chap would claim her before she became a midnight wallflower. Or cornflower, she mused