DAY ELEVEN — THE QUIET ROOM
Sunday 16 April 1978
“We didn’t touch. But it felt closer than a kiss”.
Robbie sat opposite Donna Carr in a corner booth, warmed by the radiator and the rare comfort of having nothing expected of him.
Donna didn’t flirt. She didn’t tease. She didn’t ask questions she already knew the answers to. Her mood was priestly—settled, deliberate, kind without fuss. She held her pint of shandy like it had history. She stirred her chips with a fork, letting them cool without comment. Robbie found himself mirroring her stillness, as if fidgeting might break whatever spell held the quiet between them.
They talked, but not about Cece or India or any of the mayhem that had coloured the last fortnight. Donna asked about The Changeling at Youth Theatre. Robbie said he hadn’t learned his lines yet. She nodded. “You’ll get there.” As if that settled the matter.
He couldn’t tell her that she was the result of throwing a dart at a form photo, that his sister Kizzy had put him up to it. That she had made some calls and got him invited over that night. She was dart four. Cece had been first, followed by Helen then
Later, as the dusk folded over Whickham and the streetlights began their lonely vigil, Donna stood and said, simply, “You can stay.”
No explanation. No smile. Just that. And Robbie, uncertain of the offer’s depth, didn’t ask. He followed.
Her room smelled of lavender and worn books. The radiator clunked every so often, like it had its own opinion. Donna flicked on a lamp, then knelt to unlace her boots. Robbie hovered near the edge of the bed, waiting for something—an invitation, a cue. None came.
She didn’t undress, only unbuttoned the top of her blouse and slipped out of her cardigan. Then she climbed into bed and shifted over, leaving space. Robbie lay beside her, both of them on their backs at first, uncertain where to place their hands.
They talked a lot. Conspirators. He hadn’t known what to expect.
That was the truth of it. He had followed her warmth into this still room thinking perhaps something might happen—something he could remember, or fumble through, or later claim had happened even when it had not. But what unfolded was stranger. Richer. More real.
When they weren’t talking they lay awake. Robbie didn’t ask Donna what she was thinking about, not at first. But rather he mulled over what had brought him to her bed two weeks into the holidays. They’d done and improvisation together at Youth Theatre. But there was more to it, there always ways. The Form Photo was why he was here.
Two weeks in.
Three darts down.
Four kisses—depending how you counted.
What was this? This hush? This calm with elbows nearly touching and no one performing?
Donna had always stood a little to the side of things. At Youth Theatre, she’d chosen quiet roles. Shopkeepers. Chorus girls. Narrators. Characters who watched while others unravelled.
And maybe that’s what made her the best scene partner of all.
He turned slightly and studied her silhouette. Her hair, already loose from its plait. Her breathing, steady. Her stillness, deliberate.
The Form Photo hadn’t aimed him at Donna. Not directly. She hadn’t even been one of the early darts. It was Kizzy who arranged it—nudged it. Said there was a party. Said he should go.
And here he was.
In this small bed, in this quieter story.
He thought of Cece. Of India. Of Fen. Of girls who left sparks or smoke or silence in their wake.
Donna gave him none of that. She gave him…rest.
That’s what startled him most.
She hadn’t asked for anything. Not a kiss. Not a confession. Not even a future.
Just warmth.
And a little peace.
And here he was, staring up at the ceiling, in her bed. Nothing on the cards, and he liked that. There was a beauty to it. He could tell Kizzy enough to tick each required box required of their Form Photo challenge to a) speak to her (there’d been plenty of that already), b) make her laugh (often, already and more to follow), and c) a kiss if permitted. There are kisses, and kisses. He knew at this time that Donna would not kiss him that way, which was good. The way it should be. The way she wished it. He was all for mutual agreement on such matters. Though he’d never had the never to ask if he could kiss, just leant in hopefully.
It was more intimate than anything he’d shared all Easter.
There was beauty in it. The kind that hums beneath the noise.
When he woke, early grey light crept under the curtains. Donna was sitting up now, brushing her hair with her fingers. She hadn’t left the room, just changed her orientation to morning.
“We don’t kiss and tell, do we?” she said, lightly.
“There’s nothing to tell,” he replied, and sat up too.
Donna’s eyes caught his in the mirror.
“You know what I mean, Robbie. Really.”
He nodded. “We slept together.”
“No,” she said quickly, softly. “That’s exactly what you’re not going to say. Don’t diminish it. Don’t twist it. Don’t make it into something it wasn’t.”
He opened his mouth, then shut it again.
“I’ll hate you if you turn this into a story,” she said. “This was ours. Let it stay that way.”
She kissed him on the forehead—like a priest, like a sister, and then left the room. There were things to do. Early deliveries to the pub. Organising the rota to clean the place. She worked even if her parents paid her f*** all. The door clicked shut behind her.
Robbie lay still.
He didn’t feel rejected. He fel recalibrated. Like someone had taken a measure of him and found him worth kindness—but not desire.
And maybe that was rarer.
Later, when the diary was found, the entry beside her name was short. Smudged. Half a sentence.
“Sunday 16 April. Stayed at Donna’s. Peaceful. Slept.”
And that was all he ever wrote.
But he never forgot
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