Dreaming of the Bones

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    The storm had passed through, leaving the air cool and cleansed. Vic tightened the belt on her dressing gown and stepped from the terrace into the dark garden so that she had an unobstructed view of the stars. She’d never managed to learn the constellations, and as she looked up she felt a sudden longing to put names to the clusters, to match them to the sticklike drawings she’d seen as a child. Perhaps she’d buy Kit one of those glow-in-the-dark sets she’d seen at the bookshop in Cambridge , and they could learn them together.
    Poor Kit, she thought with a sigh. Since Ian’s disappearance, her parents had taken it upon themselves to fill the gap in Kit’s life, and had succeeded in giving his hostility a new target. The more he resisted, the harder they pushed, and Vic was finding the contest more and more difficult to referee. Today they’d met him off the King’s Cross train, determined to take him to an exhibition at the British Museum , while Kit had been equally determined to cajole them into visiting the Piccadilly Circus video arcades.
    He’d come home sullen and disappointed, of course. Vic had known his wishes wouldn’t stand a chance against her mother’s agenda, but she’d made him go because she hadn’t been ready for him to meet Duncan . Not yet, not until she was sure about him, sure he hadn’t changed in the things that counted.
    Turning, she looked to the north, where Nathan’s cottage stood out of sight just round the bend in the road. She’d meant to ring him, perhaps even to slip away for a glass of wine and a half-hour’s visit before the fire in his sitting room. But Kit had needed her attention, and her guilt had dictated she spend the evening with him in front of the telly, watching some awful action film he’d begged to see.
    Now it was too late to ring anyone, but she felt restless, unable to settle. She ought to be in bed, but she knew she’d only lie awake, wide-eyed, replaying the afternoon’s conversation with Duncan in her head. Did she say too much? Did she say enough? Did he take her seriously, or was he merely humoring her?
    She closed her eyes for a moment, letting herself drift in the dark, then turned and let herself quietly back into the house. There must be something she’d missed, something conclusive that she could show him. Making her way by touch down the dim corridor, she slipped into her office and stood staring at the clutter of papers illuminated by her desk lamp. She would simply start again, from the beginning.

    Newnham
    7 October 1961

    Dearest Mother,

    Oh, how I wish you were here. It’s everything we dreamed of, yet in some ways nothing like we imagined. Newnham isn ‘t the least bit cold and forbidding; its red brick and white trim are charming, and I’ve been given the loveliest set of rooms, on the corner, overlooking the gardens. You’ll have to think of me here, once I’ve hung my prints and put my bits and pieces about, curled in my chair in front of the gas fire, reading, reading, reading... I met my Director of Studies today, Dr. Barrett, and I think we’ll get on famously. The trouble is going to be in choosing which lectures to attend and which papers I’ll do this term. I feel like the proverbial child in the candy store, overwhelmed by bounty.
    So far the other girls seem nice enough, if a bit standoffish. Daphne, the tall redhead across the hall, seems the best prospect for striking up a real friendship, as she’s from some village in Kent the size of your thumb. That gives us at least one thing in common.
    Last night I went to Evensong at King’s for the first time. Oh, Mummy, it was incredible. The voices soared, and for a little while I soared with them, imagining myself floating above Cambridge in the clear night, held only by a silver tether of sound. I sat next to a Trinity boy, very serious, who invited me to a poetry reading on Thursday in his rooms. So you see, I already have a social engagement, and you needn’t have worried about me.
    If the weather’s fine on Sunday I mean to walk to Grantchester along the river path. I’ll pretend I’m Virginia Woolf going to visit Rupert Brooke. We’ll have tea in the garden at the Old Vicarage and discuss important things: poetry and philosophy and life.
    Darling Mother. I’m sure I haven’t thanked you properly. You made me work when I felt tired or cranky; you encouraged me when I couldn’t see past some trivial setback; you built me up when I lost