Chapter One
(Wednesday 16th October 2002)
The university surroundings were, to say the least, student-friendly. Most retail outlets within a couple of miles of campus were happy to give discount on sight of a current Students' Union card, regardless of the goods being purchased. Canned curry, carrots, carpets, computers and crayons; they qualified all without question. So too did meals at most restaurants. Penniless or not, students comprised a big part of the market; one that couldn't be ignored. If a vendor wasn't prepared to play ball he was going to lose out.
Or she was.
Or whoever called the shots was.
End of.
The local pubs had a different take on the same scenario, perhaps because knocking twenty percent off a pint for some but not others would cause riots. Avoiding "favoritism" a lot of them went for happy hours instead, some of which ran from midday to four or five in the afternoon. Others went for cheaper drinks over the teatime and early evening period, between four up until six, seven or even as late as eight o'clock. Good, reasonably-priced meals were also commonplace, usually in the form of pie and peas or sausage and egg butties . . . and usually for little more than a pound.
Growlers with gravy were almost as popular as meat 'n' tattie. And some of the chip shops tried hard to compete.
Come to think of it, it was a miracle your average student in those parts didn't have a record-breaking gut.
In fact it was a miracle the girls weren't as obese as most of the guys. But obviously they weren't, girls being cleverer, more appearance-conscious and all that.
Like everywhere else in the land, Wetherspoons had the cheapest tariffs in town, but even they didn't go to war with all the limited-time promotions. As a result it was quite possible to trawl the streets from sunrise to sunset, downing the most reasonably priced beer in venues determined solely by the tick of the pub clock.
Not that any student would drink all day. Heaven forbid! They were all there at university to learn, and not just the ins and outs of barroom economics.
Well, weren't they?
Heather's favourite boozer off campus was Ye Olde John of Gaunt, an outlet that really did know how to entertain a thirsty academic. But it didn't feature on tonight's map. Tonight she wanted somewhere completely different, preferably with no students in it at all. And being seen didn't matter one whit. She never did have qualms about being seen out with a date of any gender or description. The difference tonight was that she needed to talk.
Spectators would only get in the way.
So, dragging Viola out of the Union Bar, away from curious eyes and waggling ears, she escorted her somewhere well off the beaten track.
And The Star was certainly off the beaten track. Buried as it was in a vast maze of red-brick terraces it was a large, stand-alone building that seemed to belong in two different worlds. First through the door was the lounge (commonly called "the best room") which was thickly carpeted in red, ram-packed full with oak tabletops and flaunting shiny horse brasses on its walls.
To be fair the best room was magnificent. If teleported down from (say) the USS Enterprise a drinker might have supposed she had landed in one of the better, parts of northern England; the Lakes or the Yorkshire Dales, even. One of those well-to-do places where Whigs and Tories still held sway and the Labour Party was no more than a distant rumour.
Tony Blair? Wasn't he some sort of tap dancer?
Well, maybe not (to some points of view the tap dancer was better looking and infinitely less gay), but the very idea was interesting.
At least it was in variously localities, if not The Star.
Of course Tony wasn't gay. If he'd been gay he'd have been a Tory, wouldn't he . . . Or more likely, a Liberal.
Like in the good old days: Vote for us or we'll shoot your dog.
Speaking of which . . .
The Star's taproom was rather different. Separated from the lounge by a very open, open-plan bar it was all bare, unvarnished floorboards, crudely chipped Formica tabletops and had sketches of a few pre-historic champion whippets on the (patchily) whitewashed walls.
Or were they greyhounds?
Country lass as she was, Heather struggled to decide. She knew dogs. Greyhounds ran on tracks and were extensively reported on in the T&A, sometimes accompanied by blurred photographs. Whippets ran anonymously on Sunday mornings in Myrtle Park, Bingley, down in the bottom meadow, often as not with hordes of men in wet raincoats cheering them on.
After-the-race drinks in the Ferrands Arms were not unknown. Come to that they were de rigueur.
Well, in a wet-raincoat, doggy-smelling sort of a way.
Entering The Star via its front door the two girls found themselves in the lounge.
'Oh look,' cried Viola, speaking for the first time since they'd left the Union, 'They have the Cream of Manchester. It must be my round.'
Without pausing for endorsement she headed for the bar, her aim unwavering, the very definition of a determined, single-minded woman.
Heather shrugged. She was as determined and unwavering as anyone on the planet, male or female. But sometimes even leaders had to become followers. Leastways, they did when they had Viola's so-sexy ass to follow.
Still early Wednesday evening, the lounge was about halfway full. The male-female split was roughly even apart from a crowd of guys at the bar. Judging from their attire and demeanour Heather classed the guys as white collar, mostly office workers. She supposed they had stopped by for a quick one on their way home. And hey presto, here they still were, two hours and five "quick ones" later.
Not that she frowned upon them. Guys were off her current agenda but stopping off for a drink was a human nature thing, wasn't it? She regularly did it herself.
Not so often in here, though. This time of an evening she was more of a Union Bar girl.
Tonight's barman looked to be, in Heather's considered opinion, maybe twelve. Seeing as he had to be eighteen to be employed here, he was probably a sixth-former, earning himself some beer money. Up until Viola's arrival he'd seemed cool and in control. But something about the tall, beyond beautiful black woman distracted him.
Suddenly he didn't seem cool at all.
Heather tittered. Because she was on a date she'd ditched her usual student gear for low heels and a short denim skirt, which revealed her tanned, athletic legs and a white and mostly unbuttoned gypsy-style blouse, which revealed a lot of her tanned, firm and very attractive breasts.
And Viola looked even better. Her white, gypsy-style blouse was off-the-shoulder and far sexier than heck. Her simply divine ebony skin shone under the overhead lights, sending out signals which were unmistakable. Like Heather, she hadn't bothered with lippy or makeup. Like Heather, she needed no help at all.
Good grief but she was a sight!
'Hello,' the barman stuttered, 'c-can I h-help you?'
'Two Boddies please,' Viola replied easily.
The barman nearly died and the crowd of guys sniggered around him.
'Go on,' some indistinguishable individual prompted, 'give the girl what she wants. You give her your body.'
'As if he could,' said a second, equally indistinguishable person. 'He wouldn't know where to begin.'
'I bloody-well would,' another added, cuing storms of laughter.
Shameless as ever, Heather laughed along
Blushing, his eyes seemingly controlled by external forces, the hapless barkeeper shifted his attention from Vi's chest to Heather's and back.
'Two Boddingtons,' Viola said helpfully, 'pints in straight glasses. And I'll have a packet of scratchings as well, if you please.'
By now crimson-faced and dithering the youngster fulfilled her order. Still laughing, Heather pointed to a secluded table by a window. 'Let's sit there,' she said. 'Let's be girly and talk.'
Chapter Two
The window seat was as secluded as it got in the lounge of The Star. Heather took the cop's seat, her back to frosted glass advertising a long-gone brewery, facing the barroom, and was pleased when Viola took her place beside her. And she was even more pleased when a very hot palm landed on her bare leg.
Under the table dealings did have a lot going for them, after all.
Not to mention quite a bit of history.
Resisting a powerful strong impulse to reply in kind, Heather swigged beer.
