Impossible to Forget(12)

‘Everyone, this is Maggie,’ said Angie. ‘She’s doing law, though God only knows why anyone would want to.’

‘You do know that the law is a social construct designed to . . .’ began another who was wearing a heavy donkey jacket with a Coal not Dole badge on the lapel. The halls of residence were notoriously warm and he must have been roasting hot dressed up like that, Maggie thought.

‘Oh, shut up, Dave,’ said Angie. ‘Leave her alone. And anyway, it’s far too early for that kind of talk.’

She gave Maggie a wink and Maggie felt a rush of gratitude. She could more than hold her own in a debate, but she would rather get the lie of the land before she marched into battle.

‘We were just discussing whether I should stand for something in the Student Union elections,’ continued Angie. ‘If you want to be president in the third year then you have to have had a couple of other jobs under your belt before then, to get a bit of a track record so that people will vote for you.’

‘And do you want to be president?’ Maggie asked incredulously. The idea of standing for office wasn’t something that had ever crossed her mind, but even as she spoke her brain was considering whether it might be a useful thing to have on her CV.

Angie tipped her head to one side whilst she considered. ‘I haven’t really decided,’ she said, as if the taking of the position was entirely in her own gift and not the outcome of a highly competitive election, ‘but I just think there are issues that need to be addressed that aren’t being. Getting kids from non-privileged backgrounds to uni for a start. Making sure that everyone gets a bite at the cherry no matter who they are and where they’re from. I mean, most people made it here because their parents supported them, gave them aspirations and encouragement.’ She pulled a face that Maggie couldn’t quite interpret – anger, maybe, or bitterness, and then continued. ‘But there are loads of others who are perfectly smart enough to get the grades, but no one backs them. It probably never occurs to them to even try to get into uni, and they just end up doing the same as everyone they know, so nothing ever changes. Unless someone shakes things up, of course.’

Maggie listened intently. This was the first time she had heard Angie talking like this. Yes, there was plenty of political chat around campus – the plight of the miners, what people would do to Margaret Thatcher if they ran into her on a dark night – but this was the first time Maggie had heard anyone talking from the heart about something that really mattered to them. And this was important to Angie; that much was clear from the conviction in her voice.

But then, as if she had let more of herself show than she’d intended, Angie changed the subject. ‘Get out here, Tiger,’ she called behind her into her room, ‘and bring that bloody guitar. You must have found it by now. It’s not like there are many places it could be hiding!’

At the mention of his name, Maggie felt her heart lurch and she took another swig of her wine, more to disguise the lurch than anything else.

And then Tiger appeared.

It was the first time Maggie had seen him since the towel incident and she had forgotten just how very sexy he was. This time he was wearing battered 501s and a plain white T-shirt that showed off his out-of-season tan to perfection. Maggie almost gasped at the sight of him. He was holding a guitar that was almost entirely covered with stickers of all shapes and sizes and he looped the strap around his neck and strummed a couple of chords as he lowered himself to the ground.

‘When did you last play this baby, Angie? She sounds bloody awful.’

Angie shrugged and Tiger began to tune the guitar, working his way down each string in turn until he was satisfied.

‘Any requests?’ he asked the group, but when no one spoke he began to pick out the first few arpeggios of ‘The House of the Rising Sun’. He was surprisingly good, and his fingers moved confidently across the frets. Then he began to sing. He sang less well than he played, but it was still good to listen to and Maggie was transfixed. There was something magical about a person who could play an instrument whilst their peers watched. It wasn’t so much the skill itself – she had piano to Grade 8 – but the unflustered self-confidence that it took to display their abilities to others. In Maggie’s experience that part was rare and, she discovered now, extremely attractive. Then someone else began to join in, but their contribution was more of a wail than an actual tune and the moment was spoiled. Tiger kept playing the melody but he stopped singing to allow the others their comedy moments.

After that they worked their way through a repertoire of Doors and Beatles classics, although it was rare that anyone knew the words to an entire song. Tiger would play the opening chords of something to great enthusiasm, but then moved on when it fell flat due to a lack of lyrics.

‘Where did you learn to play?’ Maggie asked him when he finally stopped to take a drink.

Tiger shrugged. ‘Just picked it up, I suppose. I spend a lot of time in hostels and there’s not much to do in the evenings. It just kind of rubbed off.’ He looked at her as he spoke, his eyes meeting hers and Maggie felt it again – that indefinable something.

‘You’re really good,’ she said, with a smile that she hoped expressed her thoughts. She was going to have to create an opportunity for them to be by themselves, and she thought wistfully of her beautifully tidy bedroom just the other side of the door. Maybe when the party started to break up a little, or if the others went off in search of more fun elsewhere . . . He winked at her and her insides wobbled a little.