Among Others

last summer.”
    “ Er’ perrhenne ,” I said, with my best guess at pronunciation.
    I am used to people being afraid of me, but I don’t really like it. I don’t suppose even Tiberius really liked it. But after a horrible instant his face softened. “It must have just found us for you. You couldn’t have changed all that,” he said, and picking up his Vimto, drained the bottle.
    “I wanted to tell you, because there’s an ethical question about why you like me, if you like me because of that,” I said, to make it perfectly clear.
    He laughed, a little shakily. “I’ll have to think about that,” he said.
    We walked back through the wet streets to the station, not holding hands. But on the train, which was much emptier going back, we sat together, and our sides touched and after a moment he put his arm around me. “It’s a lot to take in,” he said. “I always wanted the world to have magic in it.”
    “I’d prefer spaceships,” I said. “Or if there has to be magic, then less confusing magic, magic with easy rules, like in books.”
    “Let’s talk about something normal,” he said. “Like, why do you have such short hair? I like it, but it’s really unusual.”
    “That’s not normal,” I said. “We used to have long plaits. Gramma used to plait it, and then after she died we used to do each other’s. When Mor died, I couldn’t do my own, and in a fit of, well, furious grief I suppose, I cut them off with scissors. Then my hair was horribly uneven, and my friend Moira tried to even if off, cutting a bit off each side, until I had practically none. Since then, I’ve kept it short. It’s only just got to be the same length all over. It used to be really spiky.”
    “You poor old thing,” he said, and gave me a squeeze.
    “Why do you have long hair? For a man, I mean.”
    “I just like it,” he said, touching it self-consciously. Hair the colour of honey, or anyway, of honey buns.
    In Gobowen, he unchained his bike. “See you on Saturday,” he said.
    “In the little cafe by the bookshop?” I asked.
    “In Marios, so I can get some decent coffee,” he said.
    I think it’s important to Wim to be seen in public with me. I suppose it has to do with the Ruthie thing and his feeling of being a pariah.
    We kissed again before I got on the bus. I could feel it right down to my toes. That’s magic too, in a way, the same as the “chi” is.
    F RIDAY 8 TH F EBRUARY 1980
    Aujourd’hui, rien.
    People were telling riddles at lunch today, and I asked the question about whether you’d rather meet an elf or a Plutonian. Deirdre didn’t know what a Plutonian was. “An alien from the planet Pluto,” I said. “Like a Martian, but more so.”
    “An elf, then,” she said. “How about you, Morwenna, which would you rather be?”
    It was a typical Deirdre mix-up between “meet” or “be,” but in a way it’s a more challenging question. Which you’d rather meet is about worldview, past and present, fantasy and science fiction. Which you’d rather be is—I keep thinking about Tiptree’s “And I Awoke and Found Me Here on the Cold Hill’s Side,” which manages to be both.
    Doctor’s appointment made for Monday.
    S ATURDAY 9 TH F EBRUARY 1980
    Wim seems to be inherently early, except for the time when he had a puncture and was late for book group, the first time. He was waiting in Marios when I got there, and had even ordered me a coffee.
    He looked through my library books, tutting or nodding at them. Mary Renault’s The Persian Boy had come in, and he wanted to know what I saw in historical fiction, and when I said I’d already read it, what I saw in re-reading. Several girls I knew were in the cafe, with local boys, including Karen, who kept looking over at us and smirking.
    “Could we go somewhere else,” I said after a while, when Wim had finished his coffee.
    “Where?” he asked. “There’s nowhere to go. Unless you want to go ghost-hunting again?”
    “I don’t mind, if you do,” I said.
    Just then Karen came over to the table. “Come to the toilet with me. Commie,” she said.
    Wim raised his eyebrows at the name, but I was just relieved she hadn’t called me “Crip” or “Hopalong” in front of him.
    “Not right now,” I said.
    “No, come,” Karen said, making faces. She put her hand on my arm and pinched me quite hard. “Come on.”
    It was easier to go than to make a scene. Karen wasn’t my friend, exactly, but she was Sharon and Deirdre’s