An Indecent Obsession by Colleen McCullough Page A

didn’t dare add to the oddity of her reaction by trying to moisten it. ‘And where is Luce?’ she asked.
    Matt laughed silently. ‘He’s on the prowl, just like a tomcat.’
    ‘I hope he stays out all night,’ said Benedict, lips twisting.
    ‘I hope he doesn’t, or he’s in trouble,’ said Sister Langtry, and dared to swallow.
    Michael brought the tea in a big old pot that had seen better days, rusting where the enamel had chipped off, and badly dented. He put it down in front of Sister Langtry, then returned to the dayroom to fetch a piece of board which functioned as a tray. On it were six chipped enamel mugs, a single bent teaspoon, an old powdered milk tin containing sugar, and a battered tin jug containing condensed milk in solution. Also on the board was a beautiful Aynsley china cup and saucer, hand-painted and gold-washed, with a chased silver spoon beside it.
    It amused her to note that Michael sat himself down opposite Neil at her end of the table, as if it never occurred to him that perhaps the place was being saved for Luce. Good! It would do Luce good to discover he wasn’t going to have an easy mark in the new patient. But then why should Michael be bluffed or intimidated by Luce? There was nothing the matter with Michael, he didn’t have the apprehensions and distorted perceptions the men of X were usually suffering on admission. No doubt to him Luce was more ridiculous than terrifying. In which case, she thought, if I am as it seems using Michael as my standard of normality, I too am a little queer, for Luce bothers me. He’s bothered me ever since I came out of that early daze to discover he’s some sort of moral imbecile, a psychopath. I’m frightened of him because he fooled me; I almost fell in love with him. I welcomed what seemed his normality. As I’m welcoming what seems to be Michael’s normality. Am I wrong, too, in my first judgment of Michael?
    ‘I imagine the mugs are ours and the cup and saucer belong to you, Sister,’ said Michael, looking at her.
    She smiled. ‘They do indeed belong to me. They were my birthday present.’
    ‘When’s your birthday?’ he asked immediately.
    ‘November.’
    ‘Then you’ll be at home to celebrate the next one. How old will you be?’
    Neil stiffened dangerously, so did Matt; Nugget merely looked awed, Benedict disinterested. Sister Langtry looked more caught off guard than offended, but Neil got in first, before she could answer.
    ‘It’s none of your business how old she is!’ he said.
    Michael blinked. ‘Isn’t that for her to say, mate? She doesn’t look old enough to make it a state secret.’
    ‘ She is the cat’s mother,’ said Matt. ‘ This is Sister Langtry.’ His voice trembled with anger.
    ‘How old will you be in November, Sister Langtry?’ Michael asked, not in a spirit of defiance, but as if he thought everyone was far too touchy, and he intended to demonstrate his independence.
    ‘I’ll be thirty-one,’ she said easily.
    ‘And you’re not married? Not widowed?’
    ‘No. I’m an old maid.’
    He laughed, shaking his head emphatically. ‘No, you don’t have the old-maidy look,’ he said.
    The atmosphere was darkening; they were very angry at his presumption, and at her tolerance of it. ‘There’s a tin of bikkies in my office,’ she said without haste. ‘Any volunteers to get it?’
    Michael rose immediately. ‘If you tell me where it is, Sister, I’d be glad to.’
    ‘Look on the shelf below the books. It’s a glucose tin, but it has a label on the lid marked Biscuits. How do you take your tea?’
    ‘Black, two sugars, thank you.’
    While he was gone there was absolute silence at the table, Sister Langtry pouring the tea placidly, the men producing smoke from their cigarettes as if it were an organic offshoot of fury.
    He came back bearing the tin, but instead of sitting down went around the table, offering the biscuits to each man. Four seemed to be the number each man picked out, so when he