You Must Be Sisters by Deborah Moggach Read Free Book Online Page B

to state their presence down the street. Round a corner they turned and into a square.
    ‘Never mind the rain,’ cried Claire. ‘Let’s get out and walk.’
    It was a pure pleasure to walk down the street. Up above them four storeys of golden stone faced each other across the trees whose trunks were glistening in the rain. The street was deserted. It was nice to be alone and talk about sisterly things without boring anyone else; nice, too, just to wander at will and not have to point out places of interest, as one would with anyone but a sister.
    Just then they stopped. They had turned a corner and there in front of them stood a figure tugging at a cigarette machine. He was hunched over it, in his long flapping overcoat from the Army Surplus shop.
    ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘This thing sticks.’ The drawer shot back and he staggered, then he looked at them, pleased. He had very, very gentle eyes and a droopy moustache. Droopy hair, too. Everything drooped.
    ‘Goodness, this is Andy,’ Laura told Claire. ‘He does psychology like me, but he’s second year.’ He’d been at that table in the Berkeley Café; she prayed that John had told him nothing about the episode that had followed that meeting. Andy’s vague, benign look told her he hadn’t; no little spark there.
    Andy looked through Laura vaguely. ‘You and your friend want to come inside or something? It’s pissing down.’
    ‘Well …’ Laura hesitated. He’d think they were mad, but actually they’d been enjoying their damp wander through the streets. And yet … curiosity triumphed. So did his unsuitability, with his long and matted knots of hair.
    They followed the stooping figure down the street and arrived at some basement steps. Andy went down and disappeared through a door. Laura halted, struck by another thought.
    ‘Do you really want to?’ she whispered.
    ‘Yes. Why not?’
    Laura had never been to Andy’s place before, but as all his conversations seemed to revolve around the subject of cannabis, she presumed that his Sundays would revolve around its consumption. The fact was, to her terrible and secret shame she’d never actually had any of the stuff. And what about Claire?
    They went inside. Andy seemed to have forgotten about them and was sitting down in the middle of the room. Claire and Laura hovered. The curtains were half drawn and a light bulb was lit, as if the room couldn’t quite choose between day and night. Five or six people were sitting about on mattresses, and in the air was a damp bedsit smell mingled with a faint farmyard scent that must be It. Pot. Laura found a space and sat down.
    ‘Come on,’ she whispered to Claire, who suddenly looked foolish standing up there, clutching her handbag. ‘Sit down next to me.’
    A girl with lots of tiny plaits came in carrying a tray of tea. ‘Oh,’ she said when she saw Laura and Claire.
    ‘They’ve come,’ said Andy, ‘to join us for the Sunday joint.’
    ‘But we’ve already eaten, thank you,’ said Claire.
    Laura blushed. Someone laughed. The girl rolled large black-rimmed eyes at Claire, took in the woollen suit and proper handbag, and wordlessly squatted on the floor. She started pouring the tea. Andy had taken off his coat and was emptying the cigarettes out of their packet.
    ‘Well, Laura and Laura’s Friend,’ he said, ‘so you’d like to have a smoke, would you? Join the merry band.’
    ‘When I was fourteen,’ said Claire, ‘my father gave me twenty-five pounds not to start and I was so miserly I never did.’
    Laura hid her burning face. How could anyone, even
Claire?
    ‘Hey, hey.’ Andy smiled at Claire, eyebrows raised. ‘Not smoke – Smoke. Grass. Dope. The good weed.’
    ‘Oh.’ A pause. ‘Oh, I see. Well, I don’t think I could. I can’t inhale, you see.’
    Andy looked round at the others. ‘Hey, hear that? Well, Laura’s Friend,’ he said, turning to her, ‘just watch Uncle Andy. He’ll show you how.’
    By now he’d taken some papers