Because of their arguing yesterday, George, the landlord, had rostered Andy to work at lunchtime and Hilary in the evening, but, in the middle of the morning, Andy appeared at Hilary’s house to ask if they could swap.  “Robert’s in a bit of a state.  He’s thrown a chair at me and broken a window.  It’s my fault,” he added. “I threw his sheets down the stairs, didn’t I, when he wouldn’t get up and go to work?”

Hilary squeezed his hand.  When Andy got into one of his moods, Hilary would comfort and reassure, whereas Constance, as she had seen last night, would rebut. 

“Mum used to throw our sheets down the stairs when we wouldn’t get up for church on Sundays,” he added.

”It’s not your fault if he’s not going to work.”

“Well, it’s not his fault he’s the way he is.”  He didn’t expand on this.  He didn’t need to, as far as Hilary was concerned.  “He shouldn’t be there, at Newton & Ellis.  He shouldn’t be in any job where he has to work with the general public.  He’s not coping!  I've heard Mum and Dad talking about it.  He’s refusing to use the dictaphone, refusing to answer the telephone.  And he’s walking out of meetings with clients.”

Robert had walked out when Margaret had tried to write her will, Hilary recalled.

“I tried to tell them.  But what do I know?  I'm just a third year medical student, clinging on by the skin of my teeth, and he’s a Cambridge graduate with a First.  Dad said to me once, “A little knowledge is a dangerous thing”.  I feel like shit!  With my little knowledge, which is so very dangerous, apparently.  I know I'm clinically anxious.  I shouldn’t be talking to you – of all people - about being anxious.  I feel so useless.  I'm not helping you.”

The words “clinically anxious” alarmed her.  “Yes, you are.  You’ve been great to me over the last few weeks.”

“I wasn’t very nice to you last night at the pub, was I?  Everything’s so awful for you at the moment.  I'll try to be nicer!”  He put his arm around her shoulders and hugged her.  “All we seem to do is make love.”

“That’s OK.”

“Is it?”

“I need it.”

“Well, I need it.”  He rolled his eyes.  “I supposed we’ve disproved the theory that no one has sex in Water Langley.”

“Water Langley isn't Water Langley anymore.”

“No.  I know.”

“Anyway, you want to swap shifts?”

“Yes.  Robert says he wants to go back to Cambridge.”  Andy heaved a sigh.  “He wants to do an MPhil.  He wants me to take him, today.”

“You go.  It’s all right.”

When Hilary turned up at noon, George thought he had misremembered the arrangements.  He couldn't risk any more incidents like yesterday.  It wasn’t that his customers had been turned away by “the posh kids” arguing, more that they had shown too much interest, and, well, the organist had just died, hadn’t she, and it wouldn’t do for his regulars to start gossiping.  After her lunchtime shift, time hung on Hilary's hands.  She hated being alone in the house, where she saw her mother in every corner of every room, alone with her thoughts and, with Andy working tonight, it was going to be a long day.  She read the newspaper from cover to cover, and was just preparing her father’s evening meal when the telephone rang.  “Hilary, it’s Amy.  How are you?  How was Marbella?”

Amy had been one of her closest friends at Rushloe, yet she hadn’t contacted Amy or Bryony since early July and it had never occurred to her to inform her university friends about her mother.  She told Amy now.

“Oh shit, Hilary!  Oh shit!  That’s just awful.  I was going to ask you to be my bridesmaid, in June, you and Bryony.  Unless, you and Andy go first!”

“No, no, we’re not,” Hilary answered.  “But, of course, I'll be your bridesmaid.”

“Oh good!  It’s just so awful about your mum, though.  What are you doing now?  Have you got a job?”

“No.  I don’t know what I'm going to do.” 

“I'm doing PGCE, starting in three weeks.”

“Andy says I should do PGCE.  Are you doing it at Rushloe?”

“Yes.  The thing is, Hilary, I’ve just, today, taken this two-bedroomed flat, in Glover Road.  And I was wondering whether you’re coming back to Rushloe.”

“Um… I'll think about it.”

“Hilary, I don’t want to rush you, but I’ve got to get someone into this room.  Can you let me know, within the next few days?”

“OK, OK.”  Hilary could hear Frank’s key in the door.  “Amy, I've got to go.  My dad’s just come home from work.”  She was just replacing the telephone when a middle-aged woman walked in through the front door, with.  Frank following behind her.  “Oh!” Hilary exclaimed, in astonishment.

The middle-aged woman tipped her head on one side and simpered at Frank.  “I think I've startled your daughter.”

“I thought you’d be working!” stammered Frank.

“Andy and I swapped shifts.”

“Oh.”

“I was making your meal, but…”

“That’s all right.  Your pa and I ate at lunchtime,” said the woman.  “I'm Dorrie, by the way.  We’ve spoken on the phone.”

“OK,” said Hilary, shrugging.  “I was just going out,” she lied.

Frank bent down and took two glasses from the sideboard and Dorrie, who reeked of over-sweet perfume, set her handbag down in the hall and opened the drinks cabinet, well aware of its contents.  She was wearing a yellow and black striped crimplene dress (Margaret and Mrs Rayner said crimplene was “cheap, common and nasty”), two necklaces with brassy “gold” chains, a bracelet which rattled, earrings with bright orange “stones” (which clashed with her dress) and high heeled shoes with “gold” trims.  She poured a whisky for Frank and Bacardi and Coke for herself then they clinked their glasses together, muttering, “Chin, chin!”

“Dad,” Hilary said, “I'm considering returning to Rushloe, to do a course.”

“Good idea!” exclaimed Dorrie.  “Your pa and I have been worried about you, sitting here at home doing nothing.  There aren’t the jobs for young people nowadays.” 

“Would you get a grant?” asked Frank.

“Not necessarily,” answered Dorrie.  “Grants are mandatory for degree courses but, after that, it’s discretionary.”  She nodded at Hilary, in the manner of someone acknowledging applause.  “I’ve worked in the education department at the Council.”

“It’s mandatory for three years,” Hilary corrected her.  “My boyfriend’s getting a discretionary grant for the last two years of his medical degree.”

“Well,” said Dorrie, “with what his father’s earning as a solicitor, I bet he’s on minimum grant anyway.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Hilary retorted, taken aback.

Frank and Dorrie stood in silence, very obviously waiting for her to leave, then the telephone rang – George from the pub.  “Which one of you is supposed to be on tonight?” he demanded.  “I'm getting really confused.”

“Andy.”

“Well, he’s not here.”

Never had Hilary gone to work so eagerly!  Towards the end of her shift, Andy came into the pub apologising and saying he had been delayed in Cambridge.  When she had finished, she couldn't face home and Dorrie, and Andy didn’t want to take her to his house because Robert was still, as he put it, “in a state”, so they sat on a park bench at the Recky, in the dark. 

“Robert’s going to be starting an MPhil,” Andy told her, “in October.”

“But he’s doing articles?”

“Newton & Ellis are going to release him.”  He heaved a sigh.  “Cambridge was so embarrassing, Hil.”

She tightened her arm around his waist and sunk her head into his shoulder, just thankful he was here, in Water Langley, although in another three weeks, he would be back at St Luke's.

“We didn’t get off until almost noon, because Robert takes so long to get ready.  We had lunch in a lay-by in Linton and Robert was smiling and laughing just because we were in Cambridgeshire.  Then we drove to Anselm College… There seemed to be an event going on there, “American Seniors Historical Tours”, or so the notices said, but Robert just marched straight in, up his old staircase.  He tried to open the door of his old room, but, of course, it was locked.  You’d think that someone so obsessed with locking things would have realised that, wouldn’t you?  He tried to batter the door down, first with his fists, with his shoulder, with his feet.  Mum and I, we couldn't stop him.  Eventually, he sank down on to the floor, leaning against his door.

“Then this elderly American couple came along, in plaid trousers, and with cameras around their necks.  They wanted to get into the room, didn’t they, and Robert wouldn’t move.  The husband said, “Has he got a screw loose?” (bloody peasant!) then, “I'm gonna fetch the janitor.” 

“The porters - or whatever they call them.  I don’t do Oxbridge speak -were very polite, kept saying.  “Come along, Mr Newton.  You can't sit there.”  (When has anyone ever called me Mr Newton, Hil?)  But they couldn't shift him either and the porters called the Master.  Hil, the Master was amazing!  He sat down on the floor with Robert and they talked, about the MPhil, for about half an hour.  He said to Robert, “If you do an MPhil, I couldn't let you have this room.  This is a JCR room and you’d be a member of Middle Common Room.  You’d have to have one of the MCR rooms.”  Robert got up, immediately.”

“Bloody Hell!” exclaimed Hilary, laughing.  She didn’t often laugh nowadays.

“So we all walked back down to the college office.  The Master talked to the Bursar and Robert filled in an application form.  Mum apologised for his behaviour.  We were really embarrassed.  We don’t realise how embarrassed we were until it was all over. The Master said not to worry.  He knew Robert, and lots of other Cambridge students like him.  Then Robert said, “I'm not normal.  I want to see a doctor.”  And the Master said, “All right, Robert.  We’ll see what we can do.””

“Robert’ll be happier in Cambridge, studying,” said Hilary.

“I hope so.  The Newton family is using Anselm College as an expensive psychiatric facility.  Isn't it?”