Time Will Tell: A Tale of Friendship

By Patricia M. Smith

Five students meet on their first day at college although they are all studying different subjects. There is Fliss, a dyslexic, brilliant artist whose academic family have rejected her ; Bridie, an Irish girl far away from her own family, there to study catering in England ; Jules, a handsome, charming homosexual studying design whose family doesn't want to understand him ; Gustave, a German financial wizard in England to improve his English and finally there is Claudia, beautiful, elegant daughter of rich parents who have no time for her. She begins studying design with Jules but changes to journalism.

They pal up first of all by meeting up at lunchtimes and in the evening. At the end of the first year they decide to rent a house together. They all pay a share of the rent and food but Claudia, who has unlimited funds, provides all the luxuries - mainly wine for their ‘orgies’ - Bridie practices some of her recipes and they drink unlimited red wine. They get to know each other thoroughly and tell of their past life realizing that they all need a new family who really cares about them and the ‘gang’ provides that.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris UK
• Release date: Jun 23, 2020
• ISBN: 9781984593733

Patricia M. Smith

Born in London 69 years ago, a widow with two grown-up sons, one of whom lives in America and the other in Devon, she divides her time between the UK and her house in USA where she can write peacefully by Lake Whitmore. After working as a language teacher and living in France, she studied creative writing under Sandie Traveller and at Winchester University, writing short stories at first, one of which was broadcast on the radio, then graduating to novels, of which, to date, she has written four. Patricia also enjoys painting and has travelled widely visiting all five continents.

Book preview

Prologue

Was there ever a time when I didn’t know them? I suppose there was, but it feels as if they’ve been a part of me forever. I have difficulty thinking back to a time when they were not there.

My parents had long given up on me. My clever brother and sister supplied all the gratification they needed. Both siblings were at their separate universities and were top dogs at everything. Well, of course they would be. Hadn’t they always been? Then there was me. My parents simply couldn’t make head or tail of me.

‘Why can’t she learn to read? For heaven’s sake, she’s 10 years old now. She’ll never learn anything if she can’t read.’

‘But she can draw and paint, Mr and Mrs Burgess. She’s extremely talented in that respect.’

‘What good is that?’

They dismissed it with distain.

‘What is this dyslexic thing? Can it be cured? Oh well. Send her off to art college. Only possible thing we can do for her.’

I felt as though I’d been gotten rid of—they had washed their hands of me. But as it happened, without their knowledge, it really was the best thing they’d ever done for me.

Chapter One

They looked daunting, the huge, wrought-iron gates of that college. On my very first day, I hesitated, but other students were chatting cheerfully and strolling in, so I tagged on behind a group of them. Once I was just inside the door of the vast entrance hall, I sat on the nearest chair and waited. The others milled around more or less aimlessly, looking at the various signs and meandering off in one direction or the other. Signs were not of very much use to me, so I continued to sit, staring absent-mindedly into space.

‘Hello there. Mind if I sit here?’ A fresh-faced girl with rosy cheeks, a clear complexion, and shiny chestnut hair sat down next to me. ‘Do you know what we’re supposed to do?’ she continued without waiting for my response.

‘I haven’t the vaguest idea,’ I replied. ‘I’m waiting for someone to come and direct me.’

‘Sounds like a good idea. I’ll join you. I’m Bridget Donoghue, by the way. Bridie to my friends.’

‘Hello, Bridie. I’m Fliss.’

‘Jesus, but that’s a strange kind of name.’

‘It’s Felicity, really. Felicity Burgess. But I’m Fliss to my friends.’

‘I guess we’re friends, then. Pleased to meet you, Fliss. What are you here for?’

‘Art of some kind. And you?’

‘Catering. My parents think the world will always have to eat, so catering is a worthwhile career.’

‘That makes sense. My parents think art is useless and so am I, but it’s the only thing I know how to do.’

‘Oh, Fliss. How wrong can they be? You have to be born with real talent to do art well. You can’t be taught talent—techniques, perhaps, but talent, no.’

What a boost to my nonexistent self-esteem that was. I warmed to Bridie at once.

The bustle continued all around, students buzzing like bees around their hive, when a fair-haired young man approached us.

‘Do you two young ladies have any idea where I should go to find the design department?’

‘Join the bewildered and lost brigade. We’re thinking of setting up a special department,’ Bridie quipped.

He laughed and sat down. I noticed how very handsome he was. His fair hair, slightly wavy, fell lightly over one eye, and his features would have graced any film screen. My mind’s eye was sizing him up already for a portrait. I couldn’t help it; I did it all the time when I looked at people’s faces. I had him posed as a Greek god, although there was something else about him which I couldn’t quite decipher.

He held out his hand to Bridie, who took it. ‘I’m Julian. Jules to my friends.’

‘Great, Jules. You’ve mastered the entrance password. You’re now a member of the club. I’m Bridget, pronounced Bridie, and this is Felicity, pronounced Fliss.’

He laughed again and shook my hand. ‘Pleased to meet you both. God, but this is a daunting place, isn’t it?’

Just then, a figure entered carrying a batch of papers, looking flustered, and wearing a black gown flapping all around him. He set down the papers on a nearby table, and they promptly slid to the floor, scattering all around.

Jules leapt to his feet and gathered them up as the perplexed figure began clapping his hands and shouting. ‘Get off to your various departments, ladies and gentlemen, or you’ll miss initiation.’

‘Ooh—ooh!’ I heard Jules whisper. Then all three of us got to our feet and said in unison, ‘Please, sir, where is the art/catering/design department?’

He looked annoyed. ‘What, what? One at a time, please.’

He directed us one by one, and we set off, but not before agreeing to meet at lunchtime wherever we were meant to eat or, failing that, back here in the entrance hall. In this vast place, we felt it would be only too easy to disappear without a trace and never see each other again.

Hopefully I’d be allowed to get on with some painting soon. I always lost contact with the outside world when I was painting. They could drop a bomb, and the house could fall down around me, but if my easel was not affected, I would go on painting and notice nothing.

I was feeling confused and wanted to lose myself in my happy world of oil and canvas, where I felt completely safe and needed absolutely no one. But it was not to be. The art students were led to a giant art room and sat around in a circle while lists of rules and regulations were read out. What didn’t go over my head went straight through my ears without registering.

The words went on and on until lunchtime, when we were released and told to make our way to the refectory. What is that? I’d never heard of it. The others herded off together, so I followed like the weakest baby buffalo of the pack—just a prime target for a predatory lion or leopard.

‘Gotcha!’ Hands grabbed my shoulders. It was Jules. ‘You look lost, love. Come with me. It sounds like they’re going to feed us.’

He virtually scooped me up, and I felt safe under his proverbial wing as we made our way to an extremely large dining room. So that’s what they meant by refectory. It was probably on a sign—no use to me. We queued, filled our trays with nourishment, and found a table.

Before long, Bridie found us, and we recounted our varying morning activities. Apparently no one had achieved anything but assimilate a batch of rules—or not assimilate any, as in my case. I didn’t need to identify the individual rules; I’d simply follow the crowd. I was used to doing that. It turned out that we each had a room in the college hostel that they insisted on calling the halls, although there was certainly nothing vast or hall-like about the various rooms we’d been allocated. We chatted happily until called away again, having agreed to meet at the hostel and go for a drink later.

I did very little painting that first term. There always seemed to be something else on the master’s agenda. I was beginning to feel something like withdrawal symptoms and had taken to using my sketch pad and pencil at odd times to compensate. I’d sketched Bridie and Jules several times, and they had said they were impressed. It was kind of them, I know. I never cared how impressed people were, but I didn’t ever tell them so. I simply needed the fix of drawing something. My fingers and brain demanded it, and like any kind of addict, I could not resist for long.

Bridie said she’d not done any actual cooking at all in her classes; it had been all bookwork and taking notes. We allowed her to get her particular fix by cooking us delicious meals from the few cheap ingredients we could provide. We dined like kings every evening thanks to Bridie. Jules got his fix by reorganizing the furniture in our rooms and stealing flowers from front gardens and arranging them beautifully for us.

During that first confusing term, we were together one lunchtime in the refectory, as I insisted on calling it; having assimilated the new word, I used it on every occasion. A tall young man with dark hair and a very smart suit approached our table.

‘Pliss, here may I sit?’ One could cut his accent with a knife.

Jules jumped up and pulled out a chair for him. ‘Oh, please do. Be our guest.’ Jules was very welcoming as his eyes thoroughly checked out the newcomer.

The stranger sat next to Bridie, who said, ‘I’m Bridie, this is Fliss, and that is Jules. What are you called?’

‘Pliss.’ He looked confused.

‘What—is—your—name?’ Jules said very slowly.

‘My name is Gustave Heinrich Altmann,’ said the stranger.

‘God,’ said Jules, ‘that’s a mouthful. You have to have a nickname to join us. We’ll call you Gus. OK?’

The foreigner looked completely confused and stared at each of us with a blank expression.

I took pity on him and said slowly, ‘We—will—call—you—Gus.’

‘You—will—call—me—Gus,’ he repeated slowly, obviously endeavouring to understand what it meant as he said it.

‘What—are—you—studying?’ I asked.

‘Bloody English, I should hope,’ said Jules.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I study English.’

‘Bloody good job too,’ said Jules.

‘Pliss?’ said Gus.

Bridie put her arm on Gus’s shoulder. ‘Never mind. Eat up.’

‘Eat up?’ Gus looked up at the ceiling.

‘No, no.’ Bridie smiled. ‘Just eat.’

‘I eat.’ Gus smiled too.

And that was how Gus joined us. He was German and obviously was studying English, but only as a desirable asset to his accountancy qualifications. He meant to get on in the world of finance and, with typical German precision, had set out to give himself every possible advantage. We helped him with his English and taught him a great many words and expressions that he would never have come across in his language class. We assured him they would come in very useful in the real world. Gus was in digs outside the college which had been found for him by someone in Germany, but he spent all of his evenings with us, occasionally providing some German delicacy that his family had sent him. Usually this took the form of some giant sausage or other, which he called wurst.

‘You know what’s the worst of wurst?’ quipped Jules. ‘It gives me indigestion.’ But he would tuck into it like the rest of us.

Then Claudia arrived amongst us.

She had been part of Jules’s design group but had changed her mind midcourse and switched over to journalism. He introduced her to us, and it wasn’t long before she took us over completely. She was tall, slim, and elegant. Her sleek blonde hair fell seductively to her shoulders, and she was immaculately dressed for a student. She and Jules made a very handsome couple. It seemed she was accustomed to getting her own way, and in no time at all, she was leading us about like a flock of obedient sheep. We were all in awe of her, and it was obvious that she was well used to being the centre of attention. Claudia wouldn’t accept a nickname like the rest of us, so Claudia she remained.

Besides being tall and elegant, she was beautiful and rich—very rich. Or at least, her parents were, and they seemed to indulge her every whim as long as it kept her out of their way.

‘They both lead very busy lives,’ she said, ‘and are very seldom in England.’

She went on to explain that she had spent most of her life so far in boarding schools or with an elderly aunt. I felt a certain sympathy with her because I too was safely out of my parents’ way. Jules had said that his parents ‘just didn’t understand him’, and I wondered why in those early days. As I got to know him better, I came to know exactly what he meant.

Thanks to Claudia’s generous allowance, the ingredients that Bridie got to work with now for our evening meals improved tremendously, and from then on there was always wine and plenty of it. Claudia saw to that, and Claudia drank most of it. I wondered whether this was her form of escape, like mine was painting. We all joined her, though, and soon acquired quite a habit.