A week later, I stood in front of Mr Treadwell’s desk in the slightly shabby office where he’d interviewed me all those years ago. It was the last day of college for the term.
‘Keats? Absolutely, feel free to spend as much time with him as you like, Rebecca. Good idea to get a head start over summer.’
‘I’ve read “Bright Star”.’ Or, rather, someone read it to me.
‘Thoughts?’
‘It’s a lovely poem. A star isn’t just a star. I don’t understand how he finds such meaning in things.’
‘Subtext, metaphor and meaning. That’s the job of a poet.
To articulate their experience and allow that to speak through the work. After that, it’s all subjective, finding what speaks to you. Who you like or dislike.’
‘I feel like Byron’s playful, poking fun at people—especially in the Dedication. Some of his poems to his sister are really beautiful, though.’
‘Yes, but don’t forget he pokes fun at himself as well.’
‘I think Byron really fancied himself, and didn’t know when to stop. But there’s a real difference between his poems to Augusta and Don Juan. And I prefer the intimate, shorter poems. They’re real. Poignant. They get me here.’ I put my hand on my heart.
‘Wow. Poor old Keats then.’
‘No. Not poor old Keats. Sometimes his language is a bit old-fashioned.’
‘Context, remember, Rebecca. Understand the framework of the language of the nineteenth century, because that’s when he was living.’
‘Yes I know, but when I read Keats I can’t think of any better way to say what he has said. His words sink into me and stay there.’
‘That, Rebecca Budde, is the power of language. If I were you, I’d start with the odes. Sounds like you’re halfway there already. He wrote most of his best poems in a very short space of time. One concentrated burst of energy. If anyone should be feeling sorry for themselves, it would have to be Keats. No money, poor health, impending death, classic poet. I think you’ll really like him.’
‘Yeah, I think so too.’
‘Keep reading, Rebecca. That’s all you have to do. Maybe try writing something yourself. I think you could. Plus one essay, first week of next term. And of course, enjoy your summer.’
‘Thanks, Mr Treadwell. I will. And you.’
‘Cheers, Rebecca.’
Mr Treadwell saw what I might do, which was clever of him because I didn’t yet know that myself. I knew it was July. I knew I was avoiding Alex March, and I assumed he was avoiding me. Warm days, skies lazy and blue. I was back working at the pub. I needed the money. I needed the distraction. I didn’t glance in the direction of the manor house. I didn’t open the wardrobe door. I didn’t know what to say to Algie. I kept my eyes on the heavy white plates in front of me covered in glistening food. Every five minutes I was in and out of the swing doors which took me down to the sweet grass of England.
I hadn’t seen Alex March for days. For two whole weeks, but I wasn’t thinking about him now, was I? I was collecting the glasses and taking out plates full of food. The beer garden at the back of the pub filled up quickly with families and couples out for lunch in a nice old English pub.
‘Rebecca, take this. Come on, hurry up, they’re waiting.’
‘Okay.’
‘Don’t forget the mustard. Pickles in the fridge. Leave them out, we haven’t got time to keep putting them in and out, in and out.’
‘They’re on the table.’
‘Have we run out of cheese and onion crisps already? There’s a new box under the table.’
‘We need more glasses.’
‘Well get behind the bar and wash some up.’
I hadn’t noticed the group sitting at the table furthest away, close to the wild grass. Now full with dirty glasses the tub felt impossibly heavy in my hands. I wasn’t going near anyone I could see sitting there laughing, having a good time, but through the long grass there was a voice I recognised. A hand running through a head of dark hair. It was him, him. How well I knew that head, that voice. And it was her, Lucy Rutherford, and next to her a fair-haired boy who even sitting down was head and shoulders above her, and I’d bet I’d heard his voice before and seen the weight of his body on the bed above my head.
Sophie and Sebastian were there and in the middle of this fine summer tableau sat Alex March, a king with his courtiers, with one arm around the shoulder of the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She was eating a mouthful of crisps. Sipping the shandy.
My heart was beating uncontrollably fast. My stomach heaved and nearly threw itself into the plastic tub which was, by now, half killing me. What did it matter to me who she was? Alex March saw me standing there watching them. He turned and raised his glass to me. Walk, you idiot, walk. I headed straight for the swing doors.
His voice rang out, ‘Come and say hello!’ He could have been talking to anyone.
I was going to drop the tub. Instructions to self: keep walking. Sweat trickled down my face.
‘Rebeccah Budde!’ Words streaking through the sky, burning my shoulders. I could hear my name echoing around the pub. I had to shut him up. I was sweating over the plates. A pair of hands and a voice held the door open for me. He was far too close.
‘Aren’t you going to say hello, Rebeccah?’ That familiar voice. The weight of the plates was making my knees shaky.
‘I’m working.’
‘So you are. Come and have a drink after.’
I placed the plastic tub on the kitchen bench and started unpacking the dirty glasses and plates. My hands were sore. He stood there, staring at me with his dark eyes.
‘Everything all right?’
‘Fine.’
‘How have you been?’
‘Well.’
‘Come and join us?’
‘I’m busy.’ You’ve got to be joking.
‘When you’re not busy.’
Amanda bustled into the kitchen, looking from me to him and back to me. ‘It’s mad out there. Come to give us a hand, Alex? Francesca’s back then?’
She glanced at me. ‘We need more ham. Get it out and I’ll slice it. How is Francesca then?’
I slowly unwrapped the large leg of ham from the fridge.
‘She’s great. Just telling Rebecca she should come and meet her.’
‘Meet who?’
‘His fiancée, Francesca. She lives in Italy, but pops over from time to time. Doesn’t she, Alex?’
‘Yes she does, absolutely.’
His fiancée. Of course. Absolutely.
Beads of sweat rolled down my face.
‘Pass me that please, Rebecca.’ Amanda gestured to the long sharp knife gleaming on the table with its freshly washed blade.
Alex’s dark curly hair flopped over his face and he put his hands in his pockets, leaned casually on the bench. Had he forgotten everything so easily? Had he forgotten the cold hard floor? His hands on my face? The slow walk home?
Amanda picked up the knife and I watched her carefully carve a thin slice of ham clean away from the bone.
‘You’d like me to come and meet your fiancée?’
‘Why not? She likes meeting my friends. Those who inspire me.’
‘She doesn’t speak English very well yet, does she, Alex? Bit of a struggle sometimes making sense,’ said Amanda, slicing more ham.
‘I haven’t finished your drawing yet, Rebecca. Come on over, later. Say hello. Have a drink with us.’
I picked up a glass half full of beer with bits of crisps and grass floating in it, intending to wash it.
‘Come on, Rebeccah, say yes.’ It was all so easy for him, standing there, in his summer clothes, with his beloved in the garden. ‘Jojo’s missed you.’
‘Poor Jojo.’ I threw what was left of the beer at his dark curls, at his brown eyes.
‘Rebecca! For goodness sake!’ Amanda handed him a tea towel.
He stood there wiping his face. ‘I probably deserved that.’
‘You’re still a customer, Alex. He’s a customer, Rebecca,’ Amanda hissed at me. ‘Alex, this will have to wait.’
He threw the tea towel at the pile with all the other dirty ones. I poured myself a glass of tepid water and stood at the sink drinking it.
‘I’ll take that as a no. If you change your mind, you know where to find me.’ Alex March walked out of the pub kitchen.
‘It’s the heat, none of us are used to it,’ said Amanda. ‘He had it coming. There’s someone who’s never had to clear away the plates.’
‘I never knew he was engaged. Why didn’t he tell me?’ I drank the water slowly.
‘And spoil his fun? Come on, let’s get this place sorted. Rebecca, make sure we’ve got everything in.’ Amanda smiled at me. ‘I would have thrown this at him.’ She picked up a half-eaten pie from a plate and all the pastry crumbled through her fingers.
‘Next time I will.’
‘There isn’t going to be a next time, is there, my girl? Is there?’
I shook my head. She handed me the white plastic tub which had been emptied of all its dirty cargo. ‘Let’s get things finished now.’
If I took my time, they would all be gone and I could collect up the glasses. His glass. Her glass. The ones they’d their hands around so easily in the sunshine.