Magpie Tales, 18th July

Oh, How Lovely Is the Evening!

  I was invited for drinks and canapes in the Principal's Residence along with other post-graduate students from the Departments of Mathematics, Computing, and Anthropology. Must have added up to fifty or sixty of us. The Residence is in the South Quadrangle in the mock-Gothic part of the University. It's Grace-and-Favour, of course, but the Principal was forever quipping that "Margaret and I have to put up with living in a tied cottage!" Some stonework renovations were in progress and right in front of the windows facing onto the quadrangle, a tastefully placed rubbish skip with a wide plastic chute from an upper floor of the cottage, for conveying debris.
   The Principal - a really nice man, it must be said - and his tiny wife, so welcoming, so friendly, from time to time hosted gatherings for all the post-grads in the University, and - fair do's - they didn't tap some slush fund to pay for them, but bought in the stuff themselves.  I used to see them on a Saturday mornings in Tesco, a trolley each, groaning with liquor and frozen sausage rolls, in their padded anoraks. They sort of knew me and nodded and they were, yes, really nice, friendly guys.

   "Come away in, dear," said Mrs. Principal, very Scottish, when I pressed the door-chime. "Montgomery tells me you're Computing?  Lauren . .  ?"
   I had to decide whether to be Lauren for the evening, and compromised. "But everyone calls me Lucy."

   "I see you in your pixie, don't I?"
   I guessed she meant my Peter Storm kagoul with the hood up against an East Anglian blizzard. There's really nothing between here and the Urals and we got some rare blows. I decided she was sweet.

   She led me into their big ground floor lounge. The rubbish chute was right outside the window. The Principal in shirt sleeves, chinos and loafers was pouring out and handing drinks.  A tall guy took one and passed it in to me.
   "Thanks!"
    "Zack Chesters," he said. "Anthropology. Masks."
    "Lucy. But Mr. and Mrs. seem to think I'm Lauren.  Masks what?"
    "Say again?"  He had a nice beard and a pleasant grin and seemed an O.K. guy.
    "You said anthropology masks. But not what."
    "Let's start again, Lauren or Lucy. . . "
   So we got him sorted out. Zack Chesters. Researching African war masks in the Anthropology Department.  He made a mock-leery face and said how he had lots of masks scanned into his PC and I must come up and see them some time.  We talked about war masks and wars and argued whether the International Space Station was a waste of money. He said you shouldn't put a price on human curiosity and so on, the usual earnest discussions that students have before life and writing their dissertations start beating them up. And we had a few glasses of wine, or a few too many, Tesco's finest, until the Principal tapped a glass with a spoon to call for silence. I leaned against this interesting Zack and he said "Sshhh!" rather too loud, drawing glances, and I had to stifle giggles.
   The Principal made us welcome and then turned to face the window and apologised for the rubbish chute spoiling the view.
     Years on, and I still go hot and cold when I think about it.
     I said, "You can chute the drunks straight into the skip."
     Oh, the horror! The horror!
    The silence stretched. I staggered slightly. Zack said in a TV sort of voice "I'll get her coat!" and at last everyone laughed and Mrs. Principal fetched me a chair and the evening went on its cheery way.
    Later, Zack said "I'll see you again, Lauren or Lucy?"
   I had a post-it in my bag. I scrawled my extension in the Computing Department. He put a hand on my shoulder. "It's O.K, Lucy. Everyone was a bit . .  they won't remember in the morning."
   Maybe not. But I will never, ever, ever forget.

(My response to Tess Kincaid's prompt which you'll find with many others HERE)