Belfast Girls Page 4

  The hall was crowded, mostly with new students, but with some of the final year people who were there to extend a welcome. There was a buffet arranged along both sides.

  First came speeches welcoming the ‘freshers’ from the Vice Chancellor and from the president of the Students' Union.

  When the formalities were over, Sheila made her way over to where plastic cups of wine and beer were ranged alongside cocktail sausages, chicken or mushroom vol-au-vents, and miniature sausage rolls.

  She wished Phil had been able to come, and by way of alternative support, helped herself to some of the white wine and took a large gulp. Gazing round, she tried to find a familiar face. At the other end of the long hall, hemmed in by the crowd, stood a tall, dark, bony faced boy of slim but muscular build, who looked very familiar. Sheila studied him for a few moments.

  Yes, it was John Branagh, her friend Mary's brother. Sheila took a deep breath, gulped down most of the rest of her wine, and pushed her way over to him.

  “Hi!” she said.

  John looked round, and stared at her. Their eyes were very much on a level except, Sheila realised, that John was looking down on her by a couple of inches. This was pretty unusual and she liked it quite a lot. It was clear that he had no idea who she was.

  “I was just thinking that I’d like to get to know you better,” Sheila went on. Then she stopped and flushed as she realised the gaucheness of her approach.

  John was looking at her in amusement. “That's a good line,” he remarked, grinning.

  Sheila pulled herself together. “You’re John Branagh, aren’t you?

  “Mary’s brother? You don't remember me, do you?”

  It was John’s turn to look embarrassed. “Oh – sorry, I didn’t realise – you’re one of Mary’s friends? Can I get you another drink? What is it, white wine?” He covered his embarrassment by turning to the buffet table which ran along the side of the hall behind him and handing Sheila another of the plastic cups.

  “I’m Sheila Doherty.”

  “Good to meet you, Sheila. So, are you coming up to Queen’s this year then?”

  “Yes, I’m doing English. But I thought – someone told me, John, that you were going to be a priest. Don’t you go to Maynooth or somewhere to train?”

  “Not necessarily. You can do a degree first.” John hesitated, then said, “But as it happens, I changed my mind about that. I’m not going on for the priesthood any longer. I’m going to be a journalist.”

  “Oh, good!” said Sheila without thinking.

  John laughed, but there was a wry note in his laughter.

  “Good? I don’t think so. I found that I wasn’t the right type. But I still wish I was.”

  Sheila said nothing, but looked at him.

  “Not a question of belief – just a matter of not being strong enough.”

  Suddenly John shrugged and grinned. “Why are we being so serious? Tell me about yourself. You're a good looking girl, Sheila Doherty, do you know that?”

  “Am I?” said Sheila nervously.

  “Have you had enough of this reception? I think I’ve done my duty stint now – some of us were asked to turn up and be friendly to the freshers. I should be able to consider it done if I go on being friendly to this particular little fresher, don’t you think? Would you like to come for a drive? I have my mother’s car this afternoon. We could go for a walk by the Lagan, out by Shaw’s Bridge, and you could ‘get to know me better’, if that’s what you really want to do.”

  They went out by the great front doors of the university to the narrow gravel courtyard where cars were parked.

  The late afternoon sun was still bright outside.

  It shone on the grass, on the beds of neatly planted-out brown and yellow wallflowers, impregnating the air with their sweet scent, and on the cars parked like sardines in a tin, the gleam of the sun which shone on their silver and coloured flanks enhancing the resemblance.

  John drove his mother’s Fiesta through the city streets on out to the beginnings of country, until he reached the tow-path by the river. He pulled up by Shaw’s Bridge, a secluded spot, with parking space for far more than the half dozen or so cars scattered about.

  They sat silently, looking out at the sun rippling on the quiet water of the River Lagan. The long grasses sprinkled with vetch and clover dripped over the bank’s muddy edge and soaked their fingers in the cool green reflections.

  It would have been possible to leave the car and walk along the footpath at the river’s edge. Neither John nor Sheila, however, felt any inclination to do this.

  Sheila thought, “I suppose I shouldn’t have come out here with him if I didn’t mean to let him kiss me. I suppose that’s why he’s brought me here. All boys are like that, aren’t they?”

  She felt no reluctance, only a certain shyness which made her hesitant.

  As the silence continued, she suddenly wondered if John was shy too. He didn't look shy – but that meant nothing. Did she need to encourage him?

  Turning towards him, Sheila saw that John was looking away, out through the window, his thoughts apparently miles distant. She put out one hand and touched him on the arm.

  “John,” she said, “what was it you wanted to talk about?”

  He leaned towards her, his eyes very bright. Sheila’s hand reached on up to touch his cheek, then she found herself leaning slightly forward and suddenly his lips were pressed against hers, his tongue forcing her mouth open.

  It was a long, long kiss. Sheila found herself sinking under the surface. She didn’t want to stop. It seemed that John didn’t want to stop either. Much later, Sheila began to realise dimly that things were out of control, that his hands were all over her, but it didn't seem to matter.

  It was John who sat up and pulled away.

  “Sorry,” he said after a moment.

  “It's all right,” Sheila said.

  “No, it isn't!” John said passionately. His face was pale and hurt looking, full of pain. “Why didn’t you stop me sooner?”

  Sheila looked at him in bewilderment. What had she done?

  “I didn’t expect you to be that sort of girl,” John said violently. “You don't look as if you were.”

  Sheila said nothing. She had no idea what to say.

  “Come on,” John said. He was flushed and angry. “I’ll drop you back at the university. I expect you can make your own way home from there? And let me give you a word of advice – be a bit more careful next time you pick up a stranger and snog with him. The next one may not have as much self control.”

  Sheila, in turn, was angry. She had nothing to say, so that was what she said.

  John put the car into gear, and they moved off.

  It was still bright and sunny. The drive led along country lanes where the hedges, laden with blackberries and rosehips, brushed the windows of the car and back up to the dual carriageway. The University was less than half a mile away, just at the edge of the town.

  John pulled up in the car park outside the Great Hall. They hadn’t been away for long. The last stragglers were still drifting away from the reception.

  Sheila gathered her dignity around her like a comfort blanket and scrambled out of the car. It didn’t seem necessary to say goodbye.

  She hoped seriously that she would never see John Branagh again.

  Chapter Eight

  In Mid-December, Sheila and Phil went to a Christmas party given by the English Professor, Dennis Logan. The whole of the English Department had been invited, for the house was large enough to contain them.

  Sheila wavered for some time before making up her mind to go. It was more than likely that John Branagh would be there. But then, why shouldn't she meet him on a purely social level? Why should she miss what promised to be an interesting, and even important, event just because of embarrassment over an episode now long past?

  Professor Logan lived not far from the University, just on the edge of the city. His house was old and rambling, with large rooms a
nd widespread gardens. It had been in his family for a couple of generations but had been modernised recently in an unusual and personal style. One room was devoted to music, another to books. A wooden spiral staircase ran up the central spine of the building and the polished wooden floors of the open plan main reception area were scattered with bright oriental rugs.

  When Sheila and Phil arrived, Professor Logan was welcoming all comers from a position near the centre of the reception area.

  A table placed just to one side of him, plentifully laden with beer, wine and sherry enabled him to pass on those he greeted either slowly or quickly according to status, on the excuse of directing them towards some refreshment. The student element as a whole was only too eager to pass on.

  Sheila was glad to be with Phil. It made the occasion very different from the Freshers’ Reception where she had been on her own, obliged to start conversations herself. Yet it was not so different in one way, for the first person she saw, standing at the far end of the room, just as he had done then, and looking sardonic and aloof, was John Branagh.

  Quickly, Sheila turned away.

  She said to Phil, “Let’s go and explore.”

  They headed for a door to the left and found themselves in the music room. A keyboard occupied one corner, guitars, bouzoukis, mandolins and other such instruments hung on the walls, and a harp had pride of place. A slim brunette in a white, Grecian style dress with a low scooped neckline was perched on a stool plucking a classical guitar and singing softly and melodically in French to a small group of people. Sheila found that she could pick up one or two of the words.

  As they joined the admiring group, Phil whispered to Sheila that this must be Lois, Professor Logan’s wife, a well known poet ‘in her own write’, and a frequent guest on Radio Three. She had set some of her own poems to music but so far had made no big hit.

  The song ended and the buzz of talk grew louder. A fair haired final year student standing nearby had been watching them. He came up and began to talk to Phil in a low voice which deliberately excluded Sheila, on Phil’s other side, from the conversation. Sheila sipped her glass of wine and looked round for more interesting company.

  A tall, lean man in his twenties with a dark moustache appeared at her elbow. He was carrying a spare glass.

  “Care for another? White wine, very harmless.” He smiled lopsidedly and Sheila smiled in return and took the offered drink.

  “Like to dance?”

  “Why not?” Sheila said.

  They left the side room and found the area where a few other couples were dancing, to music downloaded from iTunes.

  “Francis Delmara,” her partner mouthed over the music, pointing to himself.

  “Hello!” Sheila mouthed back. The combination of the wine and the loud music was making her slightly dizzy.

  “Did anyone ever tell you how beautiful your eyelids are?” Francis breathed in her ear. He gathered her closely to himself, smooching rather than dancing. It was all very pleasant. Sheila felt special and desirable.

  “You remind me of a painting by Botticelli,” Francis said, “Aphrodite arising from the waves. But you have more clothes on, alas.”

  Sheila giggled. It sounded funny as well as flattering.

  “It’s hot,” said Francis. What about a breath of fresh air? And another drink?”

  Detouring first by the refreshment bar, he led Sheila out through the patio windows. Fairy lights were strung along the edge of the patio. Beyond was a darker area, grassed over, partly lawn and partly a wilder growth.

  Sheila had every opportunity of discovering this as she and Francis, hand in hand, wandered in that direction. In a short time they felt dampness round their ankles from the grass and other undisciplined green things springing up at random.

  “We must boldly go where no lawn-mower has gone before,” Francis said lightly.

  Sheila, whose head was muzzier than ever, had almost forgotten that he was there, although it was his arm which was keeping her from stumbling.

  “Look, isn't the moon beautiful?” he said, his voice growing more husky. “But not as beautiful as you, my lovely girl.”

  He bent his head to kiss her.

  Sheila found herself responding. Her knees began to buckle under the weight of his body pressing against her. She found that she was being dragged slowly to the ground. There was no desire in her to resist. Then she was lying back in the soft damp grass and Francis’ hands seemed to be everywhere.

  This wasn’t what she had intended, Sheila thought.

  Her right hand, spread floppily out like the hand of a rag doll, came in contact with something metal. Idly she twisted the projecting handle.

  Suddenly Francis stopped nuzzling Sheila’s neck and began to shout very loudly in her ear instead. Then he sprang to his feet and began to dodge wildly about.

  Sheila sat up slowly and watched in surprise.

  As well as music and romance, there was wetness in the air. It took her another minute to realise that water was spraying all around, at no great height from the ground and in a misty arc rather than a soaking stream.

  Her idle twist of the metal handle had turned on the sprinkler and it had started to water the lawn.

  “Turn it off!” shouted Francis. “Turn it off!”

  His shirt was soaking where the sprinkler had caught him and he was shivering in the cold December air. He had got by far the worst of it, for Sheila had been protected by his body. In the end, he had to find the handle and turn it himself, for Sheila was giggling helplessly and was not sure even yet where the handle was.

  They staggered back to the house.

  The romance seemed to have gone out of the atmosphere. As far as Francis was concerned, a warm, dry towel was higher on his list of priorities than Sheila's body. As soon as they entered the house again by the patio doors, he disappeared in search of a bathroom.

  Sheila felt rather wet and shivery too, though still inclined to giggle.

  Somewhere deep down, ready to surface when the light-headedness had cleared up, was relief that things had stopped when they did.

  She found another bathroom and a towel for herself, gave her hair a rub, and wiped down her dress. Then she felt able to rejoin the throng.

  Phil was still chatting with the fair-haired final year student and it seemed better not to interrupt them.

  The atmosphere had hotted up.

  Lois, the Professor’s wife, was dancing with someone whom Sheila recognised as a celebrity from local television, Ronnie Patterson.

  Someone seemed to have turned up the volume and also speeded up the video, for everyone’s movements were in fast, jerky motion, like an old Charlie Chaplin film.

  Sheila was hesitating, wondering whether to help herself to another drink or to be sensible, when she heard a voice in her ear.

  “Hello. I think we should get to know each other better.”

  It was John Branagh, with a glass in each hand, and a determined expression.

  Sheila laughed. Suddenly she felt very happy.

  “That sounds like a good line.”

  “Come and sit down,” said John.

  He led her to a sofa to one side of the room and handed her one of the glasses when she was seated.

  “Now,” he said, “let’s try to start on a better footing, this time. Tell me something about yourself.”

  Sheila, who usually found herself at a loss for conversation with boys, suddenly found that she could talk.

  They sat together and laughed and talked and, later on, they danced a little.

  John talked in his turn and told Sheila about his feelings and beliefs with a freedom that surprised himself.

  As the evening wore on and more people were dancing, they smooched dreamily round the room, saying less and less.

  Later, John drove her home, and asked her if she would like to go with him to see a film they had discussed. Sheila agreed happily.

  “Goodnight,” he said, and leaned over to kiss her gently. The
n he got out of the car, and went round to open her door.

  Sheila got out, not sure whether to be glad or sorry that there was to be no more kissing.

  “Goodnight, John,” she said, and went into the house.

  She had never been so happy in her life.

  Chapter Nine

  It was at a debate in the Mandela Hall, in the basement of the Students’ Union, that Phil met up with Davy Hagan again. She and Sheila, trying to become more involved in university life, went along out of curiosity, mainly to see the guest speakers who were all local celebrities.

  Sheila and John were going out together regularly. It was several months now since the Christmas party. Sheila felt everything was perfect. If only they saw each other more often. But John, in his final year, needed to spend most of his time working. He rationed himself and Sheila to one meeting a week, and even then was careful to bring her home far earlier than Sheila liked. So Sheila had plenty of spare time and spent most of it with Phil.

  It was Phil’s idea to attend the debate. The subject, ‘That this House believes cannabis should be legalised,’ was one that interested her. Secretly she had an unacknowledged feeling that this was the sort of thing that Davy Hagan would want to support for, if the truth were told, Davy Hagan still popped up in Phil’s thoughts far more frequently than she would have wanted anyone to know, even Sheila. Davy had never tried to encourage Phil to smoke blow after one early offer which she rejected sharply, but Phil knew he smoked regularly himself.

  The chairman introduced the speakers. The debate warmed up. Opinions from the floor came fast and furious.

  “The current laws criminalise this harmless plant!” shouted Aidan McKimmon, an unpopular loud-mouthed politician with an independent stance. “I say this house needs to stand against these laws and insist on change!”

  It was halfway through the evening. Noises suddenly erupted outside. A crowd of protesters burst into the hall hurling eggs at the speakers in favour of the motion, and particularly at Aidan McKimmon.

  The porters, helped by a number of the older students, furiously tried to push the protesters out of the hall, back towards University Road.