The sun was shining in a watery way as I walked down the hill. I thought I was early to meet Wim but he was already there, sitting in the table at the window eating a toasted teacake and drinking coffee. He always looks so relaxed and at home wherever he is, I don’t know how he does it. He was wearing a blue turtleneck just one shade darker than his eyes. I was conscious that I was, of course, as always, wearing school uniform. He looked like a student, like an adult, the way I would so much like to be, and there I was in a stupid gym-slip and a stupid hat, looking about twelve. I ordered and paid for tea and a honey bun, like always. I admit I did think of ordering something more sophisticated but I resisted the temptation.
“I’m surprised you came,” he said, as I sat down next to him. His lips were greasy with the butter from the teacake. I’d have liked to have wiped it away. While I’m cataloguing what I’d have liked to do, I’d also have liked to feel his pullover to see if it was as soft as it looked. I don’t often have to suppress this kind of urge.
“I said I’d come,” I said.
“I thought Greg would have told you about me.”
“So that’s why you did it. I couldn’t work that out.” It came out before I thought about whether saying it was a good idea or not.
“You already knew?” he asked. “About Ruthie and all that?”
“Janine told me, ages ago, and also Hugh told me, rather more sympathetically.” The waitress put down my tea and bun.
“Hugh’s all right,” he said, wiping his lips on his napkin. “Janine hates me.”
“Greg did tell me as well, in very general terms.”
“It’s the trouble with a place like this. Everybody knows everybody’s business, or thinks they do. I can’t wait until I can shake the dust of it off my feet. I won’t ever look back.” He stared out of the window, stirring his coffee without looking at it.
“When will that be?” I asked.
“Not until after I take my A Levels. A year next June. Then I’ll get a grant and be off to university.”
“What A Levels are you doing?” I asked. I wanted to eat my honey bun, but on the other hand, I didn’t want to have my mouth full. I took a smallish bite.
“Physics and chemistry and history,” he said. “You wouldn’t believe the flap there was. It’s ridiculous only studying three subjects and trying to segregate arts and sciences.”
“I made them rearrange the entire timetable so I could do chemistry and French,” I said. “At O Level, that is. I’m taking my O Levels next year. Every time we have a French class in what is technically the lunch hour, the teacher blames me, apologises to the others for the fact that I’m inconveniencing everybody.”
Wim nodded. “That must have been an impressive fight.”
“I couldn’t get them to do it for biology too. And Daniel, my father, backed me up. And I suppose he is paying for it.”
“My parents don’t give a damn.”
“I wish we had the education system they have in Doorways in the Sand,” I said. “Here it is, by the way.” I got it out from under all the library books and handed it over. He held it for a moment before putting it in his coat pocket. It looked very purple against his blue jumper. “Did you know, there’s a new Heinlein? The Number of the Beast. And he’s borrowed the idea of that education system, where you study all those different things and sign up and graduate when you have enough credits in everything, and you can keep taking courses forever if you want, but he doesn’t acknowledge Zelazny anywhere.”
Wim laughed. “That’s what they really do in America,” he said.
“Really?” My mouth was full, but I didn’t care. I felt embarrassed that I’d been so stupid, but also thrilled it was true. “They do? They really do? I want to go to university there!”
“You can’t afford it. Well, maybe you can, but I never could. It costs thousands every term, every semester. You have to be rich. That’s the downside. You can get scholarships if you’re brilliant, but otherwise it’s all loans. Who’d give me a loan?”
“Anyone,” I said. “Or if it’s real, maybe they have universities here that do it where you could go for free.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Imagine studying a little bit of everything you wanted to,” I said.
We just sat there for a moment, imagining it. “How come you’re reading Heinlein?” Wim asked. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d like him. He’s such a fascist.”
I sputtered. “A fascist? Heinlein? What are you talking about?”
“His books are so authoritarian. Oh, his kids’ books are all right, but look at Starship Troopers.”
“Well, look at The Moon is a Harsh Mistress,” I countered. “That’s about a revolution against authority. Look at Citizen of the Galaxy. He’s not a fascist! He’s in favour of human dignity and taking care of yourself, and old-fashioned things like loyalty and duty, that’s not being a fascist!”
Wim help up a hand. “Hold it,” he said. “I didn’t mean to stir up a hornet’s nest. I just wouldn’t have thought you’d be the type to like him, with liking Delany and Zelazny and Le Guin.”
“I like them all,” I said, disappointed in him. “It isn’t exclusive, so far as I know.”