As my butchered mane tumbled around me the horrifying enormity of what we were doing engulfed me like a paralysing illness. I wanted Karl to stop but couldn’t speak, I wanted to get up and run away but couldn’t move, I wanted to cry but the tears wouldn’t flow. I stared ahead while Karl continued his dreadful work. Towards the end, I felt his confidence leaking from him. At last he finished and stood behind me without uttering a sound. Not a word and no more laughter. And I, frozen and deadpan, felt like a lamb shorn of its precious fleece and prepared for slaughter.
I never spoke to Karl again. It was as if we had committed some unforgivable crime of which we were both so ashamed that we could never face each other afterwards. His last words to me were, ‘It’s time for my tea.’ I didn’t see him go.
Sometime later, I don’t know how long, Doris found me. By then I had retreated so deeply inside myself that I didn’t see her coming. I became aware of her only when her shadow fell over me as she blocked out the evening sun, and I heard her exclaim, ‘O my darling Cordy, whatever have you done!’
I remember trying to speak and not being able to and shaking my head and Doris kneeling down in front of me and taking me in her arms and both of us bursting into tears.
‘I did wonder why, to be honest.’
‘Another big question for another day, if you don’t mind. It’s more important today to sort out you and your poetry and me.’
‘So why did you tell me?’
‘Because I hope it shows that I’m not talking to you here, now, as your English teacher. Just as someone you like and who likes you. A companion, let’s say. And because I hope it shows you can trust me. Which is what’s worrying you, isn’t it? Whether you can trust me with your secret.’
‘That’s part of it.’
‘Another thing. When you, when anyone, finds the thing they are meant for, the thing that is you, the thing that identifies you – which is what I think you’re telling me about you and poetry, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m quite sure nothing anybody says will put you off. It might upset you for a while. You might never speak to that person again. But it won’t stop you. You’ll go on writing poetry whatever anyone says because it matters so much.’
I knew as she said it that this was true.
‘But keeping your poems to yourself, never letting anyone see them, someone you can trust who can talk to you about them, well, that’s not a wise thing to do.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you won’t grow. You won’t develop. As a poet I mean. And maybe as yourself. Your poetry is you, you say. Which means you’ll grow as much as your poetry grows and your poetry will only grow as much as you grow.’
‘But why? Why won’t I develop?’
‘Because we don’t really know who we are, or what we are, or what we could be, until we see ourselves, and the things that matter to us, through the eyes of someone else. Someone you—’ She looked away as if startled.
Dad was furious. He didn’t speak to me for two days.
There was a post mortem of course. And Doris went to see Karl’s mother, who blamed me, saying her son would never have done such a thing if I had not egged him on.
Doris took me to her hairdresser, who made a good job of what poor Karl had done badly. So I had my short hair, just as I’d wanted, and I hated it.
In the unhappy days that followed, I made a clear decision. Two, in fact. Never again to do anything just because it was the fashion. And never again to allow myself to be hustled into anything in order to gain someone’s approval, no matter how much I liked or fancied or loved them.
My hair never grew long again, nor was ever as beautiful as it had been before that bad hair day.
2. Bad nose day
We had finished exams. Immediately afterwards Will had to go away for a week’s tree-climbing course. This annoyed me. We didn’t have time to celebrate together. I knew he couldn’t help it, but I felt let down, as if he’d abandoned me. (Little C in the ascendant.)
After he’d gone, whisked away by his mother in her black BMW, I felt I just had to do something to mark the end of my days as a schoolgirl. Though I’d still be going to school, the next two years would be different. I’d be a student, not a pupil. I’d be helping run things and not just being run. So I wanted to do something just for me, something I wouldn’t normally do and hadn’t done before, and something that would remain part of me and not be temporary.
Lots of the girls, especially the chavs, were having tattoos. But that didn’t appeal to me (not least because the chavs liked them). I wanted something permanent but also something that I could change or remove – like a ring or a brooch, but those were too obvious.
The thought came in a flash and I said it before I could stop myself. ‘You were going to say love, weren’t you?’
She got up.
‘Let’s have some soup. It’ll be just right now.’
Do mobiles always go off at the wrong moment or do we only notice when they do? Mine went off then. Annoying, because I wanted to know Ms M.’s answer, and embarrassing, because I knew she’d disapprove. I said, Sorry, it’ll be Will, an emergency, d’you mind? and fled to the front room.
But it wasn’t Will.
– Cordelia? Hello? This is Helen Blacklin. – I’m sorry? – William’s mother? – O yes, sorry, wasn’t expecting – William gave me your number. – He did? – Look. Sorry to intrude. But could we meet? – Meet? – This afternoon? – This afternoon? – Can you manage that? – Is something wrong? – No no. – Is Will okay? – He’s fine, fine. There’s something … Hell … Hello? – Hello? – You’re breaking up. – Sorry. I’ll move. Is that better? – That’s better. Look, Cordelia, there’s something I must talk to you about. Something very important. And quite urgent. – This afternoon? – If you could. About three? – Three o’clock? – At the café in Market Street. Jenny’s. You know it? – Jenny’s, right. – At three then, I’ll see you at three at Jenny’s. – Yes. Okay. – Bye.
The Venetian blinds were almost closed. Thin daylight filtered through. (What was going on?) The icon looked at me, speaking its déjà vu language. (What did she want to talk about?) The smell of soup lingered in the air, mingling with – what was it? – incense? (Did Ms M. burn joss sticks? Why had Will given my number to his mother?)
Back in the kitchen. Ms M. ladling soup into white bowls. She took one look and said, ‘Trouble?’
‘Not sure.’
I sat down. A spoon and a paper napkin for each of us. Chunks of brown bread in a basket.
She placed a bowl of soup in front of me. Carrot, green and
It was Izumi who suggested a nose stud. She said it would suit me and I’d be able to wear it or not and change it for another whenever I wanted. And a nose stud was definitely not usually me.
Izumi came along to lend moral support and advise me on the choice of stud. The piercing hurt more than I’d expected, but I was glad because it made the experience more special and significant. I chose a stud with a very small diamond set in its little head, which gave it sparkle. Izumi thought it looked pretty, though she would have preferred a chunkier statement. Doris (I hadn’t consulted her beforehand) approved. To Dad it was just another teenage fad. But I didn’t really mind what they thought. I tended the hole carefully, making sure it didn’t get infected while it healed. And time and again during the next few days I examined my face in the mirror from every possible angle. I decided my stud was a definite improvement. It was discreet, not shouting for attention, but added a subtle highlight to my features. I was proud of it, I liked knowing it was there and kept touching it with my finger, I liked people noticing it and observing their reactions, which were mostly favourable. And of course I couldn’t wait to show it off to Will.
The day he returned I decided to wait and see how long it took him to notice. As soon as he came through the door we clamped ourselves together, more limpet-like than ever after our week apart. But quite soon, as usual, his
hands were stroking my hair, and his fingers began to trace the contours of my face as we kissed, and one finger snagged on the sharp diamond of the stud, and stopped, and flickered at it, thinking perhaps that it was a piece of grit, but couldn’t remove it. He pulled his head back and inspected what his finger had found.
I hadn’t for a second expected his reaction. He let go, took a step back, and with a look of revulsion, as if he’d seen a festering corpse, he said, ‘What’s this?’
yellow courgette, swede, celery, onion, all cut quite small, the size of the nail on my little finger. (What did Mrs Blacklin want? And why was it urgent?) Peas, tomatoes. (Why had Will given her my number? His mother!) I wasn’t hungry all of a sudden.
I picked up my spoon and stroked my soup.
‘Want to talk about it?’
‘Mrs Blacklin. Wants to see me. Urgent, she said.’
‘Needn’t be bad news.’
‘She’s never done anything like that before. Will gave her my number. Why would he do that?’
‘How well do you know her?’
‘Not that well. I’ve been to Will’s quite often, but she wasn’t there most times. She runs a dress shop.’
‘Madame Gigi’s. Very smart.’
‘Not exactly my style.’
‘Nor mine.’
‘I’ve had a few meals. A bit formal. You know, everything properly laid out and you have to be on your best behaviour.’
‘But she’s always been nice to you?’
‘Yes. But nice nice. You know? Put on. We’ve never really talked. I’m not that keen on her, to be honest. She totally adores Will. But who doesn’t?’
‘She is his mother, after all.’
‘Always calls him William. Looks down her nose when I call him Will.’
We exchanged complicit smiles.
Ms M. said, ‘I’ve met her at parents’ evenings. Very organised. Very bossy. Very formidable. Wouldn’t want to cross her.’
‘That’s what worries me.’
‘Have you done anything that would?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Well then! Maybe she wants to offer you a job. Part-time sales assistant at Madame Gigi’s. Right up your street.’
‘Does moddom have any other bright ideas?’
I said with hope against doubt, ‘You like it?’
He said, ‘I hate it.’
Tears of course arrived at the gates.
He said, ‘Why?’
I tried to explain, stumbling over my words, and in the face of his disapproval, unconvinced by my own reasons.
‘It doesn’t matter, does it?’ I concluded. ‘It’s not that important, is it?’
He looked more puzzled now than repelled.
‘I can take it out,’ I said, burbling on as you do when someone is angry and silent. ‘I can change it for one you do like. Why does it matter, Will, why does it matter so much?’
He drew a breath and said, ‘We didn’t talk about it.’
‘No. No, we didn’t. I didn’t think of it till after you’d gone.’
‘But every day. On the phone.’
‘I know! I know! It’s just – I didn’t think of it being about us. About you and me. I’ve told you. I was just doing something for myself. And I thought you’d like it anyway. And I wanted it to be a surprise.’
‘You’ve succeeded.’
‘I thought you’d like it.’
‘It’s not about that. It’s about not asking me.’
We were in the hall at Doris’s, at the bottom of the stairs, where we’d stood in comic disarray the day of the facials. I couldn’t help remembering, and glanced again at the mirror, as I had that day, and this time saw pathetic confusion.
Little C took over.
‘Why should I ask you?’ she mewled. ‘Why shouldn’t I do something just for myself? I don’t have to ask you for permission to do everything I do. It’s only a little thing. Do you ask me about everything you do?’
Will didn’t reply, didn’t blink, just stared. Little C wanted to hit him.
‘Yes. That you should let me read some of your mopes.’
I gave her a pert look.
‘I’ll think about it.’
She reached across the table, laid her hand over mine, and smiling, said:
‘Come out and climb the garden path,
Luriana Lurilee.
The China rose is all abloom
And buzzing with the yellow bee.
We’ll swing you on a cedar bough,
Luriana Lurilee.
I wonder if it seems to you,
Luriana Lurilee,
That all the lives we ever lived
And all the lives to be
Are full of trees and changing leaves,
Luriana Lurilee.’
Which put a silence on us. I didn’t know what to do or what to say.
Her hand matched mine almost exactly in size and shape.
Ms M. said, ‘A forgotten Victorian poet. Charles Elton by name. When you read To the Lighthouse you’ll find it quoted there. Don’t know why it came to mind just now. Must mean something, I suppose … And all the lives to be Are full of trees and changing leaves … I think that’s it.’
She took her hand away and went on eating her soup.
As I watched her, the strange feeling came over me that we were the same age and the same kind, she my age and I hers, not teacher and pupil, but just two people who were drawn together as friends because they were similar and oddities and not typical of other people. I knew then – I mean I said it to myself at the time – that deep down we recognized each other, and were similar souls. And there welled up in me again such a strong liking for her that it brought with it a desire to give her something, as you do to mark a friendship
Big C tried to take over but over-did both the emphasis and the volume.
‘Speak to me!’
Will took a step back as if I really had hit him.
And said with withering disappointment, ‘I thought we were different.’
I didn’t need to ask what he meant.
We’d always said, from the time we first got together and talked seriously about ourselves, that we liked each other so much because we were different from most (all, actually) of the people we knew of our own age – not to mention grown-ups. And we wanted our friendship – Will would never use any other word, never say ‘our love’ – to be different too. We weren’t sure what the difference would be. We’d work it out as we went along, Will said. He was such a logical person – which irritated me at times when I felt playful and wanted him to be irrational and silly – but he was also flexible and open and adaptable. He believed that nothing, nothing at all, was fixed and unchanging. He believed, as I did and still do, that everything grows, everything changes, everything develops, and that everything in the entire universe, as Will put it, is organic.
It wasn’t that we wanted to be different from other people just for the sake of it. We were different because we were different. And we were different in the same ways. By now, I needn’t tell you this. So you see, I didn’t need to ask what he meant. And the tears flooded my eyes because of the terrible accusation implied in his words and in his voice: that I had failed him in a pact we had never actually sworn, always to tell each other everything and to try and please each other in even the smallest ways. We’d not sworn this, because it hadn’t seemed necessary.
I was so upset I couldn’t face him.
‘Go!’ I said. ‘Please go. I’ll call. Em you. Whatever.’
He left without another word and closer to tears than I’d
when it’s begun. And I knew there was only one gift I could give her that was important enough to me and special enough to her to be appropriate.
‘All right,’ I said, ‘I’ll show you some mopes.’
She didn’t look up. Just nodded. And said as matter-of-fact as can be, ‘Merci, mon ami.’
After that, we gossiped about school and the magazine and cl
othes. And after lunch we sat in Ms Martin’s front room and read till it was time for me to leave to meet Mrs Blacklin. So that I could get started on To the Lighthouse Ms M. loaned me her copy. I can’t say I took to it at once, but kept going because I wanted to please her. (Since then, it’s become one of my favourite books.)
I gave myself plenty of time to cycle to Jenny’s, not wanting to be late, and feeling antsy about whatever it was Mrs Blacklin wanted to say. I was five minutes early, but of course she was already there.
‘Did I drag you away from anything?’ she said as soon as I sat down. ‘Didn’t spoil your plans, I hope? Sorry if I have. But it is important. Order whatever you like. Is tea enough? No cake or anything? I won’t beat about the bush. You’re an intelligent girl, Cordelia, and I know you wouldn’t want me to. It’s about William. Or William and you really. You’re William’s first girlfriend. His first proper girlfriend, I mean. He was a late developer in that department, judging by the goings-on of most young people these days. And to tell the truth, for a while I was a little worried that he might not be interested in girls at all. But then you came on the scene, and we were very glad, his father and I, when you and William became friends. We both like you tremendously. Really. I’m not just flattering you. And you and William have been good for each other. Well – mostly. You did get a little too wrapped up in each other for a while, as you know, which is quite understandable at your age. The first time and all that. And it
seen him before. Knowing me as well as he did by now, he knew that I needed time on my own to think about what had gone wrong between us.
It took the rest of the day. At first, I was angry. How dare he dictate what I could and could not do! When that storm had blown over, I bustled round, tidying and rearranging and throwing things out, while telling myself I’d had enough of him, let him go, be done with him, he doesn’t really love me, I can do better without him, he restricts me, wants to tie me up, tie me down, make me his creature, his slave. But that resistance didn’t last long. And then I flopped onto my bed and another bout of tears flowed at the thought of losing him. When the well was dry again, I put on the CD of ancient Japanese music that Izumi had given me and that always calmed, and lay on my back, and tried to be logical about what had happened.
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