I take the rapier out from behind the cupboard and sling my bag across my shoulder.
What words of comfort can I offer her? I can’t think of anything, and I suggest that she could read to pass the time whilst I’m gone.
I pull a pile of slim books about film stars out of the cupboard: Mozzhukhin, Pat and Patashon, Nata Vachnadze, Douglas Fairbanks… My mother’s favourites.
It’s even harder to explain to the other girl.
She meets me after training as usual. A pale, confident face, with slightly raised cheekbones. You couldn’t exactly call her brainy, but she is beautiful.
“Where did you get to?”
“Didn’t the lads tell you? We had a lot of work on…”
She carries on standing there at the entrance to the “Storm Bird” club.
“Where shall we go?”
“I don’t know.” Somehow I don’t feel like goin
