Cras

Cras

19 September 1965

University of Birmingham

B RIDIE

B ENNETT IS

nineteen years old and standing on the steps of a church dedicated to St Expeditus with a gold ring on her finger and a frozen smile. And she is twenty-seven years old, holding her beloved tailless cat, Ferris, in front of the Christmas tree, and she is thirty, standing on the banks of the Seine in a hat she had no idea was so unflattering until she collected the photographs. And she wore that hat the entire weekend. There’s not a photo of her without it. Why didn’t Alistair tell her? The answer is a simple and eternal one: because he wasn’t looking. And in front of all these memories held in matching silver frames, Bridie Bennett herself is sitting in her uncomfortable office chair, staring into space with a pen held just above a purchase requisition form.

She doesn’t need a degree to see that academia is something of a scam. Her husband writes the books, they cost a fortune, and then he designs each course and examination such that his textbook is essential. Many of the students have complained that there’s only one copy in the library and so

Bridie must now order more. Alistair isn’t pleased because, when he last checked, there were six copies of Exploring Prose through an Applied Linguistic Prism

waiting unsold on the campus bookshop shelf and ‘They shouldn’t be getting them for free.’

Bridie hasn’t the time to explain to Alistair how libraries work. But how would he know how libraries work? Alistair is never in one; she has to collect his books for him. ‘Imagine a student seeing me on my hands and knees, looking for a book,’ he’d said. ‘Mortifying.’

Bridie has been staring at the purchase requisition form for twelve minutes. It is still another two hours until lunch. She sighs and slides the biscuit tin closer.

She’s halfway through chewing a Ginger Nut biscuit when he appears. Tall. Thin. Gangly. He looks to be in his late twenties and yet he is wearing a bow tie. He knocks his elbow on the door frame.

‘Ooh, got my funny bone,’ he says with an embarrassed smile.

In he comes, though she did not invite him in.

Rubbing his elbow with his other hand, he reads the name plaque that rests on her desk and says with a bright smile, ‘You must be Birdie.’

The first peal of her laughter sends a little piece of Ginger Nut shooting out from between her teeth. She claps a hand over her mouth.

He seems pleased that she is laughing, despite his confusion about what might be so funny. He glances back at the sign, and the i

and r

must dance back into their correct positions, because his face crumples into another smile.

‘Oh,’ he says, a hand to his hair to ruffle it. ‘I’m so sorry, you must be Bridie

.’

‘Please,’ she says, gesturing at the chair opposite.

He sits. Palms up. Entirely at ease.

‘Bridget,’ she explains of herself. ‘But Bridie stuck when I was a girl.’

He extends a hand. ‘Eddie Winston. Lovely to meet you.’