Read Online Red Alert by Margaret Thomson Davis - Free Book Online
Authors: Margaret Thomson Davis
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dress as well. She couldn’t afford an expensive, fancy dress. She was lucky, of course, to have the flat and no rent to worry about. She hadn’t liked to ask Tommy but she didn’t think his parents were helping him financially because he’d taken a part-time job at weekends in the local supermarket.
His parents were English but had retired and bought a house up in the north of Scotland, in Wester Ross. As far as Sandra knew, they had never been down to Glasgow to visit Tommy. She didn’t think much of them at all. For a start, why didn’t they change their name? Who in their right mind would want to go through life with a name like Pratt? She certainly didn’t. Before she’d even think of marriage to Tommy, she’d have to persuade him to change his name. Of course, maybe it didn’t have the same connotations in England. Maybe even in Scotland nobody bothered about it. Certainly none of the other students had said anything. It was just that evil bastard, Simon Price.
Anyway, Tommy seemed much happier once he’d moved into Charing Cross Mansions. Apart from the view of the motorway and the ugly modern building on the other side of Sauchiehall Street and the equally awful coffin-shaped Union building, the flat had a good situation.
Sandra and Tommy liked to walk down Sauchiehall Street to their favourite café in the CCA, the Centre for Contemporary Art, where they could sit for ages over a cup of herbal tea and admire all the artwork. Sometimes they met some of the other students there. Everyone among their group was friendly and sociable, except Betty Powell.
‘She’s a loner, a right odd-bod.’
Quite often she could be found on her own, standing in the ‘hen run’, staring out over the city at the carpet of rooftops that undulated in waves away from the Art School, down towards the hidden Clyde. The occasional steeple stabbed the grey skies that loomed overhead. The hen run was one of the brilliant ideas of Charles Rennie Mackintosh. A dark stone staircase twisted and turned, punctuated by little archways like an Escher drawing all the way to the hen run. The hen run clung precariously to the edge of the massive stone building, a transparent floating capsule with its slanting glass roof and huge wall of glass.
Betty would just be standing there on her own. She never even turned to smile and say hello when a crowd of them passed, their feet clattering noisily along the old and increasingly rickety planking of the floor. She was an unattractive, bespectacled girl with her old-fashioned clothes, her pale unmade-up face and mousy frizz of hair. At first, they’d all tried to be friendly with her but she’d shrunk away, avoiding their eyes and saying very little, if anything. Eventually everyone gave up and just let her be.
Tommy had only been living in the flat for a few weeks when Sandra had the idea of being his life model. They had rigged up one of the spare rooms as a studio and they both worked there. They couldn’t afford a television but painting passed their time happily enough.
Tommy liked the idea and so each night, Sandra stripped off and leaned against the cushions of the small settee in the room, carefully draping her limbs into a pose of elegant casualness. She enjoyed the freedom and sensuality. Tommy, confident now that he was in his element, directed and painted her nakedness.
She could see, as he worked, the love in his eyes fading away, and total professional concentration taking its place.
But the love in her eyes never wavered.
11
When Kirsty returned to the living room after getting a very drunken Johnny into bed, Greg was standing in the middle of the hearthrug, feet planted firmly apart, hands gripped behind his back.
‘One day, Kirsty, you’ll be forced to face facts.’
‘What facts?’ Her voice sharpened with protective anger. Johnny had come in with three of his Goth pals, all of them very drunk. Greg wasted no time in getting rid of the three pals. ‘He’s just
His parents were English but had retired and bought a house up in the north of Scotland, in Wester Ross. As far as Sandra knew, they had never been down to Glasgow to visit Tommy. She didn’t think much of them at all. For a start, why didn’t they change their name? Who in their right mind would want to go through life with a name like Pratt? She certainly didn’t. Before she’d even think of marriage to Tommy, she’d have to persuade him to change his name. Of course, maybe it didn’t have the same connotations in England. Maybe even in Scotland nobody bothered about it. Certainly none of the other students had said anything. It was just that evil bastard, Simon Price.
Anyway, Tommy seemed much happier once he’d moved into Charing Cross Mansions. Apart from the view of the motorway and the ugly modern building on the other side of Sauchiehall Street and the equally awful coffin-shaped Union building, the flat had a good situation.
Sandra and Tommy liked to walk down Sauchiehall Street to their favourite café in the CCA, the Centre for Contemporary Art, where they could sit for ages over a cup of herbal tea and admire all the artwork. Sometimes they met some of the other students there. Everyone among their group was friendly and sociable, except Betty Powell.
‘She’s a loner, a right odd-bod.’
Quite often she could be found on her own, standing in the ‘hen run’, staring out over the city at the carpet of rooftops that undulated in waves away from the Art School, down towards the hidden Clyde. The occasional steeple stabbed the grey skies that loomed overhead. The hen run was one of the brilliant ideas of Charles Rennie Mackintosh. A dark stone staircase twisted and turned, punctuated by little archways like an Escher drawing all the way to the hen run. The hen run clung precariously to the edge of the massive stone building, a transparent floating capsule with its slanting glass roof and huge wall of glass.
Betty would just be standing there on her own. She never even turned to smile and say hello when a crowd of them passed, their feet clattering noisily along the old and increasingly rickety planking of the floor. She was an unattractive, bespectacled girl with her old-fashioned clothes, her pale unmade-up face and mousy frizz of hair. At first, they’d all tried to be friendly with her but she’d shrunk away, avoiding their eyes and saying very little, if anything. Eventually everyone gave up and just let her be.
Tommy had only been living in the flat for a few weeks when Sandra had the idea of being his life model. They had rigged up one of the spare rooms as a studio and they both worked there. They couldn’t afford a television but painting passed their time happily enough.
Tommy liked the idea and so each night, Sandra stripped off and leaned against the cushions of the small settee in the room, carefully draping her limbs into a pose of elegant casualness. She enjoyed the freedom and sensuality. Tommy, confident now that he was in his element, directed and painted her nakedness.
She could see, as he worked, the love in his eyes fading away, and total professional concentration taking its place.
But the love in her eyes never wavered.
11
When Kirsty returned to the living room after getting a very drunken Johnny into bed, Greg was standing in the middle of the hearthrug, feet planted firmly apart, hands gripped behind his back.
‘One day, Kirsty, you’ll be forced to face facts.’
‘What facts?’ Her voice sharpened with protective anger. Johnny had come in with three of his Goth pals, all of them very drunk. Greg wasted no time in getting rid of the three pals. ‘He’s just
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