A Secret Rebellion. Anne Mather
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Nigel was in his forties, and although he made a big thing about his sporting activities he was decidedly overweight. He was panting by the time he came up beside her, and she allowed him to get his breath back before saying, ‘I don’t think so, Nigel. I’ve got these papers to read, and I promised David I’d take his Thursday evening seminar. I’ll have to do some preparation—–’
‘Oh, Beth!’ Nigel expelled his breath on a disappointed sigh, and ran a hand over his thinning hair. ‘I was sure you’d come. It is almost the end of term. Surely you can take one evening off to have a little fun?’
Beth caught her lower lip between her teeth, wondering why Nigel persisted in thinking she needed to have some fun. Ever since she had made it known she wasn’t interested in having a relationship with any of the younger members of the faculty, Nigel Dorner, who was a divorcee, and Andrew Holroyd, who was slightly older than Nigel and a bachelor, had been vying for her company. It was as if they didn’t believe she could live without a man’s attentions, and they had evidently decided she’d prefer an older man.
‘Look, Nigel,’ she said, not wanting to hurt his feelings, ‘college get-togethers aren’t really my thing. I only attend when it’s absolutely necessary, and I do have a lot of work I want to finish before the holidays.’
Nigel hunched his shoulders. They were broad shoulders, she noticed, unwillingly finding herself comparing them to Alex Thorpe’s. It was because he had been so much on her mind today, she thought irritably, but she couldn’t help conceding that that was where the likeness ended. As well as having broad shoulders, Alex had also been tall, whereas Nigel was little more than her own height of five feet eight. And tubby, into the bargain, she added, his bulging belly always reminding her of Mr Pickwick.
She supposed Andrew Holroyd was the better looking of the two, and he was taller, and less weighty. But neither of them attracted her in the slightest.
‘Well, I worry about you, Beth,’ Nigel said now, turning to an approach that had proved successful in the past. Whenever anyone said they were worried about her, Beth usually gave in. Not least because she disliked the thought that her behaviour was a cause for concern. ‘You live alone in that old house, with only the ghosts for company, and if it weren’t for your work here I doubt you’d have any social life.’
Beth stiffened. ‘I really don’t think that’s any concern of yours, Nigel,’ she said coldly. ‘How I choose to spend my time is my affair—–’
‘Of course it is.’ Nigel realised he had gone too far this time and hurriedly retrenched. ‘And I know it’s not for want of an alternative. Good heavens, you could be out every night if you wanted to. I know that. But you know what they say about—about all work and no play.’
He looked so discomfited now, Beth took pity on him. It wasn’t Nigel’s fault that she had such a poor opinion of his sex, and once she left the faculty, albeit temporarily, she would be cut off from her normal round of acquaintances.
Taking a breath, she allowed a smile to lift her lips for a moment, and then said, ‘All right. What time does this get-together start?’
Nigel couldn’t believe his luck. ‘Oh—um—half-past eight,’ he offered, almost dropping the books he was carrying in his haste to show his enthusiasm. ‘I say, will you come? I’d be awfully flattered.’
‘Not too flattered, I hope,’ murmured Beth drily, starting towards the car park. ‘Until tomorrow, then.’
‘Until tomorrow,’ echoed Nigel eagerly. ‘Would you like me to—to pick you up?’
‘Oh, I think I can find my own way to the Students’ Union,’ Beth assured him lightly. ‘Goodbye. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
She was aware of him watching her as she strode to where the Renault was waiting, and she wondered if she had made a mistake by accepting his invitation. She wouldn’t like him to get the wrong idea, not with the summer break looming. As far as she knew, Nigel was staying on campus, and it could prove difficult if he started to get the wrong idea.
Still, she consoled herself, unloading her burden of essays on to the back seat, she could always deal with that contingency if it arose. For the present, she had quite enough to think about, not least what she was going to wear tomorrow evening.
Her house, the house she had bought four years ago, and which had considerably increased in value since that time, stood in a row of similar Victorian houses, overlooking Albert Square. The cul-de-sac was called Albert Terrace, and had evidently been named with the then Prince Consort in mind. During the past four years, Beth had steadily improved its appearance, and without losing its character at all she had had new wiring, and an adequate heating system installed. She knew it was too big for one person, but she had never intended to live there alone. And if the ghosts Nigel had taunted her with were sometimes more real than he imagined, they were not ghosts that Albert Terrace knew anything about.
The phone was ringing as she entered the long narrow hall that ran from front to back of the building, and she frowned. She had hoped to be free of complications for the rest of the evening, and she nudged the door closed with her foot, before picking up the receiver.
‘Beth!’
It was Justine Sawyer, wife of one of the maths lecturers, and the closest thing she had to a friend on campus. Justine was the one person Beth still had to deal with in her calculations. In her early thirties, and a social worker, Justine had been married to Mike for more than ten years, without having a family. Justine didn’t want children. She didn’t like them, and she had begun to assume that Beth felt the same. How she would react to the news she had to deliver, Beth didn’t know. Right now, she didn’t even want to think about it.
‘Hi, Justine.’ Beth wedged her pile of papers on to the hall table, as she responded to the call, absently scanning the letters her cleaner, Mrs Lamb, had left there for her. ‘You just caught me. I’ve just come in the door.’
‘Yes, I gathered that. I was beginning to think one of the students had delayed you,’ remarked Justine tersely. ‘You have heard the news, I suppose. It’s terrible, isn’t it? He was such a pleasant boy.’
Beth frowned, putting the bills that had been distracting her aside. ‘What boy, Justine?’ she exclaimed. ‘What are you talking about? Nigel intercepted me as I was leaving the English building. That’s why I’m late. He wanted to ask me to some reception he’s having tomorrow evening.’
‘Well, there may not be a reception now,’ declared Justine, sounding a little impatient. ‘Beth, Tony Thiarchos is dead. Mike thinks he may have committed suicide.’
‘Oh, no!’
Beth suddenly found she was a little weak at the knees. Groping for the banister, she lowered herself on to the second stair and took a steadying breath. It wasn’t that she had known Tony Thiarchos very well. He wasn’t even one of her students. But his girlfriend was, and that was how she’d got to know him. How she’d heard about the party in London.
‘I thought you’d be upset,’ said Justine, sounding slightly mollified now. ‘His girlfriend—what was her name? Linda something-or-other—is one of your third years, isn’t she?’
‘Mmm.’
Beth was finding it very difficult to respond at all. It was always a tragedy when a young person was killed, and Tony Thiarchos had seemed to have everything to live for. He was young, good-looking, popular with his contemporaries. She couldn’t believe he was dead. Much less that he had deliberately taken his own life.
‘Mike thinks he was worried about his finals,’ went on Justine. ‘He said he thought there was a lot of pressure on him from his family to do well. They’re going to be pretty shattered when they hear the news. I wonder if they’ll try to keep it out of the papers?’
Beth blinked, struggling to escape from the sudden cloud that seemed to have engulfed her. She was letting herself get too involved, she thought. Tony Thiarchos had meant nothing to her. Just because she had used something he said