machine, his ears erect, grey muzzle pointed at me, eyes keen. I crossed to the back door, unlocked and opened it. Patch was up and out into the back in a flash. I didn't much mind who he bit, as long as it wasn't me.
Back upstairs, with two pints of cold water. Margaret was sitting up in bed, the quilt pulled up to her shoulders. Her hair was tousled and her eyes half-closed still, but she looked better than she had a right to. I handed her one glass and drew the quilt back so I could get in beside her. She moved her hands shyly to cover her breasts as I manoeuvred my way into the bed without spilling a drop. I was an old hand.
She said: 'You're staying?'
I said: 'You don't want me to?'
She smiled. 'It's not that. Most men after a night like that - and all married men - want to make an early break for it.'
'I'm not entirely sure I'm a married man.'
'It'll be okay.'
'What, you'll go round and patch things up for me?'
'The last man was here said he had to leave because he had to see the Cup Final. It was eight o'clock in the morning. He said he wanted to see the teams leaving for Wembley. Can you imagine doing that to someone?'
'Depends who was playing.' I leant over and kissed her lightly on the lips. 'Besides,' I added, 'I've nowhere to go.'
The bedroom was small, warm. The floral wallpaper looked like it had been pasted in the sixties; maybe even the fifties. It was a single bed but it fitted us well; neither of us were fatties, yet. At the end of the bed there was a simple wooden dresser with a round mirror. There were a couple of cheap-looking jewellery boxes and some fluffy toys on the left. In a gold-effect frame on the right there was a colour photograph of a red-headed woman in upper middle age; resting against it was a much smaller colour snap, beginning to curl at the edges, of a young man, probably in his twenties. They didn't look dissimilar.
'Mother and brother, right?'
'Mother and friend.'
'Her friend?'
'My friend.'
'Boyfriend?'
'Ex.'
'But still has a place in your heart.'
She shrugged.
'What happened to him?'
'It's a long story.'
'Shorten it.'
'You don't give up, do you?'
'I'm a journalist.'
'Is this off the record then?'
'No.' I lifted the quilt and snatched a look at her body. 'And I feel a column coming on.'
'You're a dirty bastard' she said, poking me in the ribs, but it was a good-natured poke and she fell to kissing me next and in a minute we were making love again and it was every bit as good as the first time. When she was finished, and I most certainly was, she said: 'You don't let your troubles interfere with your lovemaking, do you?'
'A trouble shared is a trouble halved.' I had no idea what I meant, but it sounded quite appropriate.
We nestled back into the bed. It was a little after eleven. It was a Saturday morning and I'd no work until the evening. Patricia would maybe be wondering where I was, and maybe she wouldn't. I cared deeply, but I couldn't bring myself to do anything about it. I would phone her later, let her stew for a bit, let her realize she'd jumped to conclusions a little too quickly. It was only a kiss. A wee kiss. She didn't need to know about the rest. I could bluff it through. I was in bed with a woman who wasn't my wife. The first time. Ever.
'Tell me about the guy in the photo.'
Her chin rested in the crook between my arm and chest, her thin hand on my stomach. 'I had an abortion. I had to go to England for it. He didn't want me to have it. We split up.'
'Okay,' I said.
'I'm not looking for approval. I didn't want the baby.'
'I didn't say a word. Your life.'
'Yeah.'
She said it with what might have been a melancholy sigh or a stifled yawn, or both. It was the first hint of bubbleless-ness she'd displayed, if it was the former, and about time if it was the latter.
'You still see him?'
'No. He's in prison. The Maze. He's a bad boy. Or he became one.'
'Because of you?'
'I don't think so. He was going that way anyway. You've maybe heard of
Back upstairs, with two pints of cold water. Margaret was sitting up in bed, the quilt pulled up to her shoulders. Her hair was tousled and her eyes half-closed still, but she looked better than she had a right to. I handed her one glass and drew the quilt back so I could get in beside her. She moved her hands shyly to cover her breasts as I manoeuvred my way into the bed without spilling a drop. I was an old hand.
She said: 'You're staying?'
I said: 'You don't want me to?'
She smiled. 'It's not that. Most men after a night like that - and all married men - want to make an early break for it.'
'I'm not entirely sure I'm a married man.'
'It'll be okay.'
'What, you'll go round and patch things up for me?'
'The last man was here said he had to leave because he had to see the Cup Final. It was eight o'clock in the morning. He said he wanted to see the teams leaving for Wembley. Can you imagine doing that to someone?'
'Depends who was playing.' I leant over and kissed her lightly on the lips. 'Besides,' I added, 'I've nowhere to go.'
The bedroom was small, warm. The floral wallpaper looked like it had been pasted in the sixties; maybe even the fifties. It was a single bed but it fitted us well; neither of us were fatties, yet. At the end of the bed there was a simple wooden dresser with a round mirror. There were a couple of cheap-looking jewellery boxes and some fluffy toys on the left. In a gold-effect frame on the right there was a colour photograph of a red-headed woman in upper middle age; resting against it was a much smaller colour snap, beginning to curl at the edges, of a young man, probably in his twenties. They didn't look dissimilar.
'Mother and brother, right?'
'Mother and friend.'
'Her friend?'
'My friend.'
'Boyfriend?'
'Ex.'
'But still has a place in your heart.'
She shrugged.
'What happened to him?'
'It's a long story.'
'Shorten it.'
'You don't give up, do you?'
'I'm a journalist.'
'Is this off the record then?'
'No.' I lifted the quilt and snatched a look at her body. 'And I feel a column coming on.'
'You're a dirty bastard' she said, poking me in the ribs, but it was a good-natured poke and she fell to kissing me next and in a minute we were making love again and it was every bit as good as the first time. When she was finished, and I most certainly was, she said: 'You don't let your troubles interfere with your lovemaking, do you?'
'A trouble shared is a trouble halved.' I had no idea what I meant, but it sounded quite appropriate.
We nestled back into the bed. It was a little after eleven. It was a Saturday morning and I'd no work until the evening. Patricia would maybe be wondering where I was, and maybe she wouldn't. I cared deeply, but I couldn't bring myself to do anything about it. I would phone her later, let her stew for a bit, let her realize she'd jumped to conclusions a little too quickly. It was only a kiss. A wee kiss. She didn't need to know about the rest. I could bluff it through. I was in bed with a woman who wasn't my wife. The first time. Ever.
'Tell me about the guy in the photo.'
Her chin rested in the crook between my arm and chest, her thin hand on my stomach. 'I had an abortion. I had to go to England for it. He didn't want me to have it. We split up.'
'Okay,' I said.
'I'm not looking for approval. I didn't want the baby.'
'I didn't say a word. Your life.'
'Yeah.'
She said it with what might have been a melancholy sigh or a stifled yawn, or both. It was the first hint of bubbleless-ness she'd displayed, if it was the former, and about time if it was the latter.
'You still see him?'
'No. He's in prison. The Maze. He's a bad boy. Or he became one.'
'Because of you?'
'I don't think so. He was going that way anyway. You've maybe heard of
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