1000 SHIPS

Kate Weinberg

The window seat had the perfect view across the college quad. Right now, in the late-autumn morning light, it looked too pretty to be real. The paving stones glistened from last night’s rain, the tall sundial column in the centre of the courtyard threw its skinny shadow towards the ivy-fringed archway by the porter’s lodge, and the sun striking off the honey-coloured limestone buildings bathed everything in a golden glow.

Lorna retied the slithery silk dressing gown (which, being his, was baggy around the shoulders and too long) and wrapped it about her bare legs, before leaning back against the folds of the curtain. She could still hear his footsteps echoing down the stairwell beneath. Any moment now he would reach the heavy door that led onto the courtyard, she’d hear the thud of itshutting… and there he was, swallowing up the large courtyard with his long, purposeful gait, the wine-coloured scarf she’d given him for his birthday flying behind him, his dark hair lifting with every stride.

She watched as he paused to turn up the collar of his black coat, against the chill, or perhaps just because; along with the single earring, skinny black jeans and trainers, this was his trademark look. No pipe and tweeds, or corduroy jackets with elbow patches for the forty-year-old, handsome Dr Chris Chase (dubbed “Kisschase” by most of the student population, although since this latest incident an article had published in one of the student magazines with a headline calling him Dr Death).

Even from this bird’s eye view he emanated his usual confidence. No sign at all that this was judgement day, that his career and reputation were on the line. “Not remotely worried,” he answered as he leaned down to kiss her goodbye, smelling of toothpaste and aftershave, so that she’d closed her lips, feeling self-conscious of her gritty morning breath, last night’s red wine furring her teeth. “They have nothing on me apart from a bit of malicious gossip and some wild accusations from grieving parents. They are barking up the wrong tree. If the old farts could see what I’m looking at rightnow…” he planted little kisses between her breasts, then on her neck, “they’d sack me, then have an existential crisis and leave their wives and jobs.”

There was no doubt the situation made the sex better, thought Lorna. It felt like they’d started sleeping together ten days ago, rather than ten months. After last night’s debacle, they’d woken up early that morning (they never slept long in his teaching room, it was a single daybed after all) and lying side by side, ran through everything he was planning to say to the board. How Chris had done quite the opposite of putting pressure on this poor young man who was clearly overwhelmed, despite being very gifted, and struggling socially. How he entirely refuted any rumours that he had made this sensitive young person feel worthless or inadequate in class. On the contrary he, Chris, was the one who had urged him to seek professional advice, who had told him to take as much time off his studies as he wanted, to read purely for pleasure. Every college has their own politics, he would tell the old farts. Indeed, he would like to suggest that alongside supporting this unfortunate young man’s family, and student mental health in general, the college would do well to focus less on the mythology around his teaching methods and more on the vested interests within the faculty itself, about who may stand to gain from stirring up scandal around a teacher who had delivered more First-class honours in the last six years running than at any other time in the college’s history.

As he was rehearsing Lorna rolled on top of him, legs straddling his groin, feet flexed and asked him what would happen, worst case, if they decided he had in any way contributed to his suicide? Would the case become criminal – she felt him growing hard beneath her – and if so, could they link it to what happened four years before with the other student? So that when he had lifted himself slightly to jerk her towards him, his fingers biting into her upper arms, she’d felt the thrill of his urgency for her that she hadn’t felt so shar