The Unquiet Heart by Gordon Ferris Read Free Book Online

her. I just hoped they harboured no hard feelings as they stirred their pots. We took
a corner table, and I had to ask the stupid question: “Do you come here with your boyfriend?”
    She looked amused. “That’s very personal.”
    “You’re joining my gang. I need to know a bit about you.” It was only half a lie.
    “No boyfriend. Too busy. And even if I had the time, not enough good men to go around. Single men. Why aren’t you married?”
    Back to her defensive tricks again. “I’ve been busy too.” I tapped my skull.
    “Before the war.”
    “There were girls.” I shrugged, and thought of the sparky mill lassies in Kilpatrick on a Saturday night, mad for dancing, mad for men. Get a man, get pregnant, get married, get old.
Not like the cerebral ones I met at university who were more interested in the meaning of life than living it. “And you?” I asked.
    She looked distant for a moment, and I was about to change the subject. “There was a boy. I don’t know what happened to him.” She shook her head.
    “Sorry. Any sisters? Brothers?”
    “Someone you can invite to the funeral?” she parried.
    “It’s not going to be that risky.”
    “Shame.” She relented. “No, no family. Only child. Mum and dad both gone.” Her jaw tightened and for a second, I glimpsed a different Eve Copeland. Then the barrier came
back up. She picked up her fork and jabbed the back of my hand, hard enough to leave a mark. “This really is a job interview, isn’t it? Next it’ll be hobbies and interests. Then
why do I want this job and what my qualifications are, and…”
    “OK! Enough! I give in.” I laughed and rubbed my hand.
    We broke off the swordplay and ordered some lasagne and a glass each of red wine. I took her lead on the food. The Tally caffs in Glasgow only served fish suppers and ice cream. The wine was
better than the camel piss I’d tried in North Africa when I had a forty-eight-hour pass, but not much. I’m a Scotch drinker through and through. But the acid red seemed to mellow
her.
    “Danny, I’m very boring. I work hard at the paper. Any spare time I have, I read. I read till my eyes bleed. That’s my life.”
    “That’s not boring. What do you read?”
    “Anything. Everything! There’s so much.” Her face glowed.
    “Library?”
    She shook her head. “I love being the first to open a book. It is a complete indulgence. But at sixpence a go…”
    “Penguins!” Without thinking, I stretched out my hand and laid it over hers. She didn’t seem to notice, just nodded sheepishly as though admitting to a cocaine habit. I left my
hand over hers.
    “You too?” she asked.
    “I’ve had to put up a new shelf. Who do you read?”
    “Hemingway, Linklater…”
    “Mackenzie, Christie…” I raised her.
    She riposted with, “Orwell, Priestley…”
    We were showing off. But isn’t that what you do when you find a fellow clan member? In the excitement, our fingers seemed to become laced.
    “OK, OK. Here’s the test.” I squeezed her hand. “Steinbeck.”
    “ Tortilla Flat, Of Mice and Men …”
    “ Grapes of Wrath ! What did you think of Grapes of Wrath ?”
    “I wept,” she said simply.
    “Will you marry me?”
    “And share my Penguins? Never!”
    They tried clearing our table and sweeping up around us. Finally they put upturned chairs on the tables, so that we sat in a forest of thin columns. We took the hint at last
and I walked her home through Bloomsbury to her digs in Russell Square. It felt companionable and right to hold hands all the way. Her fingers were long and slim and hot. We weren’t sure what
to do on the doorstep and ended up with a brush of lips on lips. It was enough to get a taste of lipstick and wine and cigarettes, and I wanted more. But she seemed to blink, as though coming out
of a dream. She backed away and slipped inside. Yet something had begun. It was easy to involve her in my business. Easy to get involved with her, period. That’s my