Hilary went to London on Friday evening, because she had said she would.  Her train arrived thirteen minutes late at St Pancras and Andy was waiting for her on the platform.  He immediately led her down a very long escalator, with lots of small, colourful advertisement posters for shows, magazines and what were coyly called “pregnancy advisory clinics” along the sides.  By the Tube turnstile, an ordinary-looking teenage boy, whom Andy referred to as a “busker”, was playing “Bridge Over Troubled Water”, badly, with his guitar case open for donations, his reedy voice echoing down the white tiled corridor.  The Tube hurtled and rattled into the station, preceded by a rush of air, the carriages full, buzzing with the voices of cheery people doing Friday night on the town, so Hilary and Andy had to stand, clinging on to leather straps. 

They went to eat at a tiny Italian restaurant with red and green checked tablecloths on tiny, wobbly, tables, a looped tape playing “The Carpenters” in the background.  Bearing in mind that “everything is more expensive in London”, Hilary ordered the cheapest pizza on the menu, cheese and tomato, priced £1.89.  Andy asked her if she would like wine, but, at 75p per glass, she decided on orange juice.  He asked her after her family and she after his.  Then she enquired about his holiday in Marbella, even though, several weeks ago, he had, sent her a post card telling her that it had rained.  Surreptitiously, Hilary looked at her watch and wondered how soon she could take herself off to Caroline's. 

 The pizzas, when they arrived, were hot and dripping with this weird stringy cheese, and the waiter offered them grated pepper from a pepper pot measuring at least two feet high.  Hilary ate hungrily, even though she had eaten sandwiches on the train.  Margaret didn’t normally buy pizzas, as Frank said they weren’t a “proper meal”.  Gradually, as they ate, Hilary and Andy thawed.  She told him that she now had her own room.

 “So Christine won't be able to convert you,” he said.

“No.”  

“Do you go to church in Rushloe?”

“No.  I believe, of course, but I just don’t go.”  She wasn’t going to give Christine that satisfaction. 

“I believe too, but don’t go.  Please don’t tell anyone in Water Langley!” he added, sweeping his ever-longer black fringe from his grey eyes.  “I thought we’d go to Westminster Abbey on Sunday, though.”

“Fine.”  She could, very piously, tell her mother that they had gone to Westminster Abbey.  

The waiter brought the bill to their table.  “I’ll pay!” said Andy, quickly.

“No, that’s not fair.  I'm paying for mine!” Hilary retorted.  They both reached for the bill, but ended up grabbing each other’s hands instead. 

“All right then,” he said, still holding her hand.  She didn’t want to let go either, but they had to, because the waiter was hovering over them wanting his money.

He picked up her overnight bag and her rolled-up sleeping bag and they set off for Caroline's, which, he said, wasn’t very far away.  She wished he would hold her hand again, but, clearly, he couldn’t, with both hands full with her stuff.  “Are you coming in?” Hilary asked, when, after a little difficulty, they located Caroline's hall of residence.  It wasn’t at all like Crofton Hall just a modern-looking block of flats, a complicated numbering system and identical glass doors. 

He shook his head.  “Caroline, she’s, sort of, scary.”

“No, she isn't!” exclaimed Hilary at once, then, “You don’t find me scary, then?”  She had always assumed that everyone, male and female, would always prefer poised, vibrant Caroline. 

“No,” Andy replied.  “OK.  I must go.”

Caroline answered her door in her coat.  “Just got in,” she explained.  “I've been out with the LSE Tories, planning our election strategy!”

Hilary had hardly thought about the forthcoming General Election, but, as Caroline cleared a space on her floor and blew up a lilo for Hilary (which she had borrowed from someone called Jake), she talked politics non-stop.  The way she spoke, she and her student group could win the election hands down, if only the rest of the Conservative Party, the MPs and Mr Heath, would move over.  Caroline didn’t used to be so political, Hilary reflected.  Caroline's room was more untidy than Hilary had expected it to be, hair-dryer, brushes, bras and tights on the floor, three textbooks open, and notes on index cards higgledy-piggledy all over her bed.  Stuck inside one of the textbooks was a letter from the LSE Economics Department with the heading “Completion of Outstanding Academic Work”. 

“Bloody Marxist!” said Caroline.  “That’s why he’s doing it to me.  I mean, I'm not the only one behind.  If I were with the Trots, or the SWP, he wouldn’t be doing this to me.”

“Did you ever do that second essay which you were going to do over Christmas?” Hilary asked. 

“God, Hil, you sound like my mum!  I'm doing it now!” she replied, grabbing a handful of index cards.  “And I've got to do this term’s essays … All by 28 February!  Does that date ring a bell, Hil?”

“General Election?” 

“You’ve got it.  Marxist shit!  Hil, I'm not going to be able to do much with you this weekend.  I'm really sorry.”

“Don’t worry.  I'm going to be out during the day tomorrow, but I'll be back early tomorrow evening.  I won't disturb you if you want to work.  Andy’s got some work to do for next week, and he’s going to do it.” 

“All right!  All right!” Caroline snapped.  “And, for God’s sake, don’t talk about this in Water Langley.  You know what it’s like - round the whole village in half an hour””

This was the second time that evening that someone had told Hilary not to mention something in Water Langley.  

“But I'll get there!  I'll bloody get there!  I'll have all that Commie’s essays written for him, even if I have to stay up half the night!”

She would too, Caroline, former Head Girl of the Queens Grammar School, Chenham.  Getting Grade 4 in Chemistry O Level had, hitherto, been the worst thing that had happened to her. 

“And I'll go canvassing!”  Caroline put down her tea cup.  “Now, what’s going on between you and Andy Newton?”

“Nothing!” Hilary retorted.  “It’s not like that.  His family and mine have been friends for ever!  And girls can have boys as friends, ordinary friends, can't they?” 

She was about to make a big fool of herself, Hilary thought, as she lay awake that night, trying to make herself comfortable on the ridges of the lilo.  He was Andy Newton, of Water Langley.  She had known him since birth - literally!  It was going to be really embarrassing.  And what did he feel about her?  OK, in the café, he had held on to her hand for a millisecond.  If he liked her, she supposed, he would make a move.  It may be 1974 but you still expected the boy to make the moves. 

The following morning, Andy showed Hilary around St Luke's Medical School and it was quite interesting to see another university.  At first, like yesterday, they had been very shy with each other, but, as they relaxed, Andy seemed to want to talk and talk (as if he were writing her a letter, Hilary thought) about St Luke's, how the other students were all posh, from public schools, sons of consultants, and mad keen on rugby.  Andy himself preferred football and he and his brother, Robert, liked to go to Highbury to see the Arsenal every so often.   

“My dad likes football,” said Hilary.

“Oh, Robert’s the real football nut in our family.”  

Hilary recalled Robert Newton at the village school, baggy football shorts almost down to his pallid, mottled knees, always the last to be picked for any team. 

“He could tell you the result of virtually every Arsenal match this season, and for several seasons back.  And who won the FA Cup since the year dot.” 

Hilary reflected that Robert also knew page numbers in “Carols for Choirs” from four years ago.  “He’s really clever, your brother!  You can see why he’s at Cambridge.  He’s doing law, isn't he?”

“Oh, he’ll get a First.”  Andy rolled his eyes under his fringe.  “That’s what he’s predicted.”  He heaved a heavy sigh.  

They had now reached the entrance to the National Gallery.  Hilary hesitated.  She wasn’t sure about Art.  Did Andy like art, she wondered, or did he feel that he “ought” to take her there?  The Gallery café sign pointed invitingly towards the basement.  “Shall we have a drink?” she suggested.

They sat in the National Gallery café amidst arty middle-aged ladies, in thick tights, plaid skirts and flowery silk scarves - directly opposite each other.  She wished he would come and sit beside her, reach over the table and grasp her hands again, but his arms were threaded around the back of his chair, something he had used to do at the village school, she recalled.

“Do you want to go and look at the pictures now” he asked at last.

“Let’s have another cup of tea?” she said, getting up.  

“All right.”

She queued to order more tea.  There were four chairs at their table, she noted.  When she sat down again, she would take one of the chairs next to him - an adjacent chair, to put it geometrically, not an opposite chair.  She was not going to sit on the hypotenuse chair.  

As she was walking back, balancing their teas on a tray, four ladies in Alice bands were setting down their handbags and Harrods carrier bags on the next table.  One was asking Andy, “Do you mind awfully if we take two of your chairs?”

“No, of course not,” said Andy. 

So she had to sit on the hypotenuse chair after all. 

In the early evening they returned to St Luke’s where he made scrambled egg on toast with bacon.  As he was cooking, some other lads sauntered into the kitchen, well-oiled and quite loud, having been at Twickenham all afternoon and now looking for more alcohol.  They seemed pleased to see Andy and he pleased to see them and, for a few minutes, Hilary felt dwarfed by their loudness and male-ness.  When they went into Andy's room to eat, one of the boys, Nick, followed them, wanting to borrow Andy’s notes on the colon.  “Are you really going to work tonight?” Nick asked Andy. 

“Got to do this anatomy,” Andy replied.

Nick leant against the radiator, sliding down it until his bottom almost touched the floor.  “I really can't be fucked with anatomy tonight,” he said, in a posh voice, Hilary noticed.  

“It’s got to be given in on Monday,” said Andy.

“Do it tomorrow!” urged Nick.  “I'm going out tonight.” 

“It’ll take me more than one evening,” said Andy.

Nick jerked his head towards the noise coming from the kitchen.  “You’ll get Rugby songs all evening!” 

Andy shrugged.

Nick pulled himself upright.  “It’s a stupid game, Rugby, don’t you think, Hilary?  I've never played it, thank God.” 

“Did you play football at school then?” she asked.

Nick rolled his eyes.  “You don’t want to know what we played at my school, or which school I went to!” 

“He went to Eton,” said Andy.  “They played something called the “Eton Wall Game”.”

“Oh,” said Hilary.  She had never met an Etonian before.  She stood up.  “I’d better go now back now.  Thanks for supper, Andy.” 

Andy walked back with her, almost to Caroline's.  ”Will you be OK now?”

“OK.” 

“OK.”

“See you tomorrow at half nine.  I'll meet you here.” 

“OK.”

“Sorry about having to work tonight.” 

“That’s OK.”

“OK.” 

“OK.”

Still, he was standing about a yard away from her.  It really was possible for boys to have girls as friends, as she was discovering and right now.  Frustrated and cross, she climbed the stairs to Caroline's room, to find her friend sitting on her bed drying her hair and reading Cosmopolitan.  “We’re going out!” she announced.  “Pol Soc disco, in Sussex Hall.”  

Hilary looked at her askance.

“All right!  I’ve done one of my essays.  You can't work all the time!” 

The Pol Soc disco was just like Rushloe discos, very hot, lots of loud music, very little space, and the usual bevy of snogging couples at the sides.  For several hours, Hilary danced around her handbag, to all the usual numbers, “See My Baby Jive”, “Rocket Man”, “Saturday”, with Caroline and her university friends.  Released from the tension of the last twenty four hours, Hilary let herself go, laughing with Caroline as they sang the chorus of “High-ho Silver Lining”.  Towards the end of the evening, she found herself dancing with a boy called Rod, from Caroline's economics class, who spoke in a North Country accent.  While Hilary and Caroline were visiting the ladies, Caroline told her that Rod was the son of a Labour peer and had attended Eton.

The second Etonian of the evening!  

It was midnight before Hilary realised, the disc jockey was playing the slow music and Rod grabbing her around the waist to slow dance to Diana Ross’s “I'm still Waiting”.  Yes, I am still waiting, she thought, resting her hands ever so lightly on Rod’s sides.  I’ve waited all weekend.  But I wasn’t five when you were ten:  we were both born on the same day.  At the end of the song, Rod put his arm around her waist and started walking her towards the snogging couples.  For a moment, she was almost tempted.  She had never done it.  What would it be like? 

He reached down to kiss her, bringing his shaggy hair and sweaty face to hers, but, at the last minute, she said abruptly, “I’ve got to go.” 

At the other side of the room, Caroline was standing talking, politics as usual, with someone who had his back to Hilary.  “Hello, Hilary – again!” he said, in a plummy voice, turning round to speak to her. 

“How do you know him?” Caroline asked, as they walked from the muggy heat of the disco into the bitingly cold night air. 

“How do you know him?” Hilary demanded.

“Nick Woolfenden?  London University Con Soc.” 

“He’s in Andy's hall.  I saw him this evening, asking for notes on the colon.”

“Intestines … Tories … all going down the pan, Hil!” 

Hilary slept again on the lilo, really slept this time, as she was now really tired.  She woke to Caroline telling her it was nine o'clock and wasn’t she going to Westminster Abbey with Andy.  Hurriedly, Hilary made a cup of tea, showered and dressed.  She was nervous now.  She had a strategy.  It had seemed a good strategy last night as she was extricating herself from Eton Rod, but now she had to do it for real.

At 9.35, Andy was waiting outside, shivering in the bitter cold.  “Hello,” he said, his hands stuffed in his duffle coat pockets.  “It’s so cold we’d better take the bus.” 

“OK,” she said, threading her arm around his waist.  

For a moment, all she felt was his thick duffle coat, then, awkwardly and jerkily, he put his arm around her back, holding her so tightly that they could hardly put one foot after the other.  They didn’t look at each other, and, after all the talking yesterday, they didn’t speak either.  There was no need.  When the bus arrived, they sat cuddled up on the seat together, his arm across her shoulders and her head against his arm.

They arrived at the Abbey early.  Red Routemaster buses beetled around Parliament Square and the twin Hawksmoor Towers of Westminster Abbey, black with a century’s grime, loomed above them, beyond these, the Houses of Parliament and the tall, familiar structure of Big Ben.  Hand in hand, now so warm that they no longer felt the bitter cold, they walked over the ancient cobbled stones of the Sanctuary into the Garden of Remembrance, stepping amongst tiny white crosses.  Only now, they turned and faced one another.  They kissed, tentatively at first, the toggles of their duffle coats and his long dark hair getting in the way, then confidently and deliciously.  

“I love you, Hil,” he said.  “That’s why I dragged you to London, to tell you that I love you.”

“I love you too.”