The day before he left, Marcia planned a farewell evening for him. They were to have supper together and spend the rest of the evening in the pub. Their last meeting. But it was not to be. Everybody invited themselves for supper. Marcia felt resentful. Joyce, who alternated between frigid silence and occasional friendliness, wanted to be invited too and even offered her own supper of grilled chicken as a contribution. Marcia could not understand her. She would sit every evening, having her high tea of hot, baked potato and grilled chicken alone, absorbed in the act. The table was often not cleared. Her dishes stacked, unwashed, in the sink. She was a pretty-looking girl, slim with curling, brown hair; her eyes were like water-washed pebbles at the edge of a loch. She was difficult to live with. For one thing, she never volunteered to take the black bag with all the food leavings down to the courtyard, even if the flies buzzed round it. Either Lam, Catherine or Marcia would do it. Joyce felt pressurized if anyone offered her food, even an apple. Lam and Marcia, with their different cultures, felt it was alien to eat alone. Sheila, the English girl, often shared their food. But Joyce felt that all of them could afford to feed themselves so there was no need for sharing.

Everyone shared Marcia’s TV. Not just the TV but her friends as well. When her friends came, Joyce, who seldom had anyone but a single girl friend visiting her, would want to speak to Domingos. She was attracted to him, to his macho good looks. Yes, everybody was crazy about Domingos—the Algerian French girl with the blond hair; Joyce, the Scottish girl; and the Moroccan girl. Lam’s sister, Shirley, from Hong Kong, was different. She was truly delightful. Generous and hospitable. On Marcia’s first lonely evening in the University Village, she had walked over to Shirley’s flat where she had at once set about cooking a meal for Marcia—rice, soup, stir-fry with pork chops and mushrooms. She was lively, open-hearted and amused everyone by going about proclaiming that she was the only virgin in Glasgow.

Marcia had to prepare supper for everyone on the day of Domingos’ farewell—chicken, stir-fry, rice, salad, with wine and fruit. After supper—and Joyce was so pleased and happy that she offered to do the washing-up—Marcia felt a sense of loneliness and emptiness and went back to her room, switched on her cassette and began to write letters home. Snatches of Scottish dialects came to her ears—voices, music. She fell into one of her reveries.

Walking on the grey Glasgow pavements one morning, she had been interviewed by Scottish television. One of those on-the-street interviews.

‘What are your impressions of Scotland? Of living in another country?’