Freewriting (30 Jan 06)

Coffee, toast and three paracetamol did little to alleviate my pounding headache and feeling of nausea. I was struggling to remember the previous evening – had I really had that much to drink? It was only a few glasses of wine with friends – not exactly a night out on the town. I faintly remembered having a chat with Duncan – something about a seaside town. St. Ives – that was it. He was planning to move there, to become an artist.

I was surprised at the way that thought landed in my stomach, cold and hard like a whole tin of cold baked beans. I’d miss Duncan. Thinking over my first term, he’d always been around, his warm humour lightening the homesickness that I still felt. Duncan dropping out? It didn’t seem possible. He was easily the most talented artist among us. But it was a heavy financial commitment to make, studying for a Fine Art Degree. Most of us were struggling, and Duncan more than any of us I suspected.

I poured myself another coffee from the jug still hissing on the percolator, and went to sit in the shabby old armchair by the window. Very little light seemed to find its way into our second floor flat, but this was the lightest spot I could find. I curled up with my coffee and mused over the idea of Duncan moving to St. Ives. He had some wild plan of camping out in a draughty old barn and setting up his studio. How he would make a living, I couldn’t imagine. But he was good, no doubt about that. And he could paint the kind of stuff that sells.

A corner of a piece of paper caught my eye, sticking out of my bag from last night. I reached over and pulled at it. Out came a folded sheet of newspaper – the properties page. An advert was circled. It read ‘Flat to share, St. Ives’. Next to it, in smudgy pencil, was written ‘Helen. Come with me.’

The coffee stain spread unnoticed on the arm of the old chair, as the sounds of the street below receded behind the rushing that filled my ears.