Evening Class
He opened the door and threw a javelin of light into the room. But it was not a darkened room he was looking for. In the half-light he could see the blackboard-trace of another’s lesson, and against the wall, the outline of an overhead projector. Tools of the trade. He would have turned and closed the door - would have, but for a slight rustle that caught his attention, as if the light had awoken sound. His fingers found a switch and there was a buzz as the blackboard neon struggled to life. In one corner, a woman was sitting. She seemed suddenly upright, as if she had been leaning across the desk by which she sat. Asleep perhaps.
"I’m terribly sorry. I was looking for the Creative Writing people."
His automatic reaction was to turn, to cover up embarrassment and leave. But some other instinct prevailed. Did he not fancy the trace of a tear on the woman’s cheek, the shadow of sorrow about her eyes? And why was she sitting in the dark anyway? Having half-turned away, he actually moved a little further into the room, one hand still holding the door.
"Are you all right?"
She nodded.
"Is there anything I can get you?"
Again a slight motion of the head, meant to satisfy him, meant for him to accept without question. He turned fully away this time, his hand going back to the light switch, then hesitating as if uncertain of the action it should take.
"Please. I don’t suppose you have a cigarette?"
In her first word were the answers to most of the questions he could have asked, not in the word itself but in the manner in which it had been uttered. She was looking at him, watching his hand desert the light switch as he rummaged in his jacket pockets. Cigarettes, a lighter. As he handed her the packet - open, one cigarette showing itself beyond the others - he realised that he was right; she had indeed been crying. The hand that took the cigarette did so without confidence; the lips that held it, faintly trembling.
"Are you sure you’re OK?" He watched her draw.
"I’m sorry." She blew out a little smoke. "There’s a machine. Could I have some coffee?" She made a motion, taking her eyes off his face, as if she were looking for her bag, some money to give him.
"Of course."
As he stood in the corridor getting the coffee he thought it had been a stupid thing to say - "of course" - but what else could he have said? He waited for the second cup. If she didn’t want to talk he could drink it elsewhere.
When he got back to the room, she seemed more relaxed. He thought maybe she had combed her hair, calmed down a little.
"Thank you." As she took her coffee he saw her notice the second cup.
"Would you like me to go?"
He had intercepted her look, an immediate defensive stiffening in her features. Mistrust. He tried to sound willing - yet unwilling - to leave her on her own.
*
"I was looking for Room 27," he said, sitting now in the row in front, a couple of desks to her right, "but I’ve never been here before so I was just trying doors. You don’t happen to know where 27 is?"
"No."
"I guess I’ll find it." He paused and watched her stub out her cigarette. "I didn’t mean to intrude. I was going straight out, but then I heard you move."
She picked up her coffee and looked away from him, volunteering nothing. He guessed she was reading the words scrawled on the blackboard. Involuntarily, he looked back over his shoulder. ‘Tomorrow’, ‘Ever After’, ‘The Light of Day’.
*
"Has anyone seen Tom?"
"Who’s Tom?" A middle-aged woman, bespectacled in over-large glasses, looked up from her book at the small man who had spoken; a slight, dapper figure standing in the doorway.
"Tom. You know. The chap I told you was coming."
"Ah, your protege!"
"For Christ’s sake, Beet!" The man was annoyed by the tone of her voice: she had said ‘Who’s Tom’ with false enthusiasm; ‘your protege’ with sarcastic deference. He was tempted to be rude to her, to put her straight for once, but a figure appearing suddenly behind him saved him.
"Evening all."
"Ah, Tony. Seen Tom?"
"Who?"
"Arthur’s protege."
Arthur ignored her. "Tallish chap, fairly young. New. Meant to be coming this evening."
"Sorry Arthur. Only people I’ve seen are the young lads from Car Mechanics and two Brazilian girls smoking cigars in the canteen."
Tony walked passed Arthur into the room.
"Hello Bee."
The woman gazed up from her book but said nothing. Provoked in turn, Tony mumbled something under his breath then lowered himself resignedly into a chair.
"Looks like another scintillating evening," he said.
"I hope Tom turns up."
"Who is this ‘Tom’?"
Arthur turned back into the room, briefly relieving himself of his corridor vigil.
"New chap at work. We got talking the other day, you know. Asked what there was to do in town; that sort of thing."
"And you mentioned our clandestine clan."
"Said he scribbled a bit, so I asked him if he’d like to come along."
"He won’t come." Beatrice spoke from the depths of her book.
"If someone’s told him Beatrice is going to be here then I expect he’ll stay away."
Beatrice shot Tony a brief look of hatred as he lifted himself out of his chair and made his way to the door.
"You’re not going Tony?"
"Don’t panic, Arthur. Coffee, that’s all."
"I’ll come with you. Maybe he’s got lost."
*
"I don’t usually behave like this."
"I’m sorry?"
Her words had come suddenly from behind him. He turned his eyes back to her from their study of the blackboard.
"Silly reaction really. Typical woman!" She made an attempt to laugh, but it was stifled somewhere as if caught trying to escape. He smiled slightly, sympathetically, trying to convey understanding. "Funny I should end up here though."
"In the dark."
"Yes. She paused, experimenting with the slightest of smiles as if to test out the range of emotion available in her face. "He’s not worth it anyway."
"Ah." Tom pulled the cigarettes from his pocket and offered her another. "We seldom are."
"Thanks." He lit it. "Another woman, you see. I guess I just needed somewhere quiet, on my own."
There was a brief pause.
"I hope you told him where to go." It was his offering, half-joke, half-serious, to cap the well, to set the limit on her divulgence - especially as it was none of his business.
"Something like that." She drew on her cigarette and looked for her bag again. Having located it at her feet, she looked at him. "What about you? It doesn’t look as if you’re in the middle of anything melodramatic."
"I’m lost, remember."
"Yes." She laughed a little now. "Room 27. What’s in Room 27?"
"I hate to think actually - though I do have an idea what’s meant to be there."
"I’m keeping you; I’m sorry."
"No, not at all." He paused then leant forwards as if to impart a secret and whispered, "To tell you the truth, I didn’t really want to go at all."
She laughed at his play-acting, the air of conspiracy.
"Actually," she said, leaning forward in turn and glancing over her shoulder, "to tell you the truth, this was just a ploy to save you."
"To save me!" He laughed, amused by the novelty of her idea. "From who?"
She paused, then dramatically: "From them!"
Two figures went by in the corridor outside. She saw their shadows and pointed. They both laughed.
"See; they’re after us!"
"Shall we make a run for it?"
He had said it within the nature of their game, unthinkingly, automatically, but already she had picked up her bag and was beginning to stand.
"There’s a pub round the corner; they’ll never find us there!"
Two figures - a man and a woman - walk past Room 27. Whether they registered it or not, the cry of "and what do you know about literature?!" which suddenly rang out from inside made no impression on their progress.