by Paige Toon
Now they leave me alone. The girl who keeps to herself. The shy girl.
To give them credit, they tried. But how could they know? I wasn’t shy. I was heartbroken. I’m still heartbroken. It’s a permanent state of being.
I hate it when my parents come to visit, which, thankfully, isn’t often. I have to pretend that I’m fine, otherwise they’ll worry. It’s the same when they ring me. I’ve stopped charging my mobile phone now. It’s in a drawer in my bedroom, the battery permanently flat. I can’t bear putting up the pretence on a regular basis.
At least no one knows me here. No one knows what I used to be like. Before Joe. Before love. Before loss.
At first, my room was my refuge. But as time has gone on it’s felt like my prison. It’s been a bitterly cold winter, but today the sun is shining. Something stirs inside me. Something I haven’t felt for such a long time that I’m not sure if I recognise it. Could it be . . . happiness? No. Hope? Maybe.
I have a sudden urge to get out, so before the deep sadness sets in again I turn and hurry out of the door, grabbing my bag as I go. I jog down the four flights of stairs to the ground floor, keeping my head down so that I don’t have to speak to anyone, and then I’m outside in the bright sunshine. The positive feeling inside me grows stronger, and I desperately don’t want it to dissolve. So I walk, fast, towards the main road. On autopilot, my fingers curl under and I press my nails into my palms, causing me to wince. I flex my hands and try to stop myself from doing it. Pain has become so natural to me, but I don’t want it, not today.
The Fitzwilliam Museum is straight ahead, the two stone lion sentries guarding the neo-classical building with its row of Corinthian columns. I turn left, away from the city centre. I take a right onto Fen Causeway, but the traffic is too noisy so I step off the pavement and cautiously climb over the cattle grid into the marshy parkland beside the river. I choose the grass path instead of the asphalt one, preferring the feel of its spongy softness under my feet. It reminds me of walking on the cliffs at Dancing Ledge, and then I’m transported back there with Joe.
I love you . . . I love you . . . I love you . . .
I halt in my steps as the pain debilitates me. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to push out the memory of him.
It turns out that my instincts were correct. I knew that he would hurt me. I just didn’t know how.
When I came downstairs that day to find him gone I bolted, running out of the door and down to the road. I thought he might be waiting at the bus stop, but he was nowhere to be seen. In a panic, I tore back to the cottage and snatched Mum’s car keys, but my dad stood in front of her car, blocking me from leaving. I screamed at him to move, but he wouldn’t. Eventually my mum climbed into the car beside me and attempted to calm me down. I begged her to let me go to the train station, but she tried to convince me that Joe could be anywhere by now. I sobbed my heart out the whole way home. I still can’t speak about Joe to my dad. I know that he was only trying to protect me, but I don’t feel that I will ever be able to forgive him.
I spent every day of the next two weeks searching fruitlessly on the streets of London, knowing that my chances of seeing Joe were next to nothing. I never did find him. Never did see any trace of him or sense that I was on the right path. Now any reunion is in his hands.
He still hasn’t come for me. And I’m still waiting.
I force my eyes open and the blurry yellow shape of a daffodil comes into focus. I concentrate on the flower, and slowly the pain dispels. I look around and see that I’m surrounded by the first flowers of spring. Winter has gone, and I’ve only just noticed. I wipe the hot tears from my eyes and then I straighten up and keep walking.
I come out onto a road that leads to Silver Street Bridge and one of the main punting stations on the River Cam. I look down at the rows and rows of long, narrow wooden boats chained to each other. I still haven’t been punting. But as usual I put my head down to avoid being accosted by any of the scouts touting for business. I don’t know why. I should take a tour. Maybe I will. One day.
I cross over the bridge, again heading away from the city, and then I follow the path that runs adjacent to Queens Road, with the backs of the colleges – known simply as the Backs – on my right-hand side. The sun is warm on my body and I’m hot from walking so fast, so I take off my black cardigan and tie it around my waist, before forcibly concentrating on slowing my pace to a wander.
In my six months here, I have been looking, but not really seeing. Now I take in my surroundings. Small green buds have formed on the trees, and some are drenched with blossom. A female jogger in purple shorts and a matching vest heads in my direction. I automatically avert my gaze as she passes. Up ahead a man walks his dog. I try not to look away and, sure enough, he nods and smiles at me. Feeling strange, I nod and smile back.
That’s it, Alice. That’s the way forward.
The next time someone passes I even go so far as to say good morning. The corresponding friendliness of these strangers feels oddly like a reward instead of a punishment, and soon I’m smiling for real.
King’s College Chapel with its grand spires comes into view and I pause for a moment to admire the view. Mottled brown cows graze in the meadow in front of me and I can see punters gliding through the water beyond it, with King’s as a backdrop. They’re visible only from the chest up as they lift their poles and drop them down again. For the first time I’m genuinely struck by how breathtakingly beautiful it is here. Until now I’ve felt too deadened inside to appreciate it. I walk a little further before it occurs to me that I haven’t yet used my Student ID pass that allows me free access through the colleges, regardless of the fact that I don’t go to the university. On a whim, I turn into the black wrought-iron gates belonging to Clare College, stopping when I reach the bridge. I stand on the cobbled pathway and lean on the stone wall, small circular patches of yellow lichen rough underneath my arms.
Lizzy hasn’t come to visit yet I haven’t encouraged her to, because I haven’t felt up for visitors, nor for visiting her in Edinburgh. Her mum is in remission, thankfully. I’m so relieved for my friend and her family. I can’t imagine what it has been like for all of them. I tried not to let Lizzy witness the extent of my pain after Dorset, but it wasn’t always possible. I still remember the look on her face when she saw me on one particularly inconsolable afternoon before we set off for university. She couldn’t understand it. It was as if I was a stranger to her. As with my parents, I have to pretend that I’m fine when I speak to her now. Christmas was hell, putting on an act when we were face to face, and I’m dreading going home for Easter. I can’t bear to witness Lizzy’s disappointment in me on top of everything else. But back to the present . . .
The sunlight reflecting on the river is almost blinding and it hurts to look at King’s College Chapel now, which is there in front of me behind a perfectly manicured lawn. A cloud momentarily passes over the sun and the water ripples beneath a cool breeze. The gate to the manicured Fellows Gardens to my left is closed, although I can see striking red and yellow flowers decorating the banks.
I turn to see a lone punter drawing nearer. He looks to be in his late teens or early twenties and is wearing a black T-shirt and black trousers. The only colour on him comes from his hair, which is jaw-length and dark red. He’s standing on a square wooden platform at the back of the punt, lifting his long pole clear of the water, before letting it slide between his hands until it hits the riverbed. He pushes down and away so the boat glides effortlessly through the water. I continue to watch as he punts towards the bridge that I’m standing on, oddly unable to tear my eyes away. And then he looks right at me. I try to avert my gaze, but I can’t. He grins and salutes me, and I find myself smiling and saluting him back. His boat starts to pass under the bridge, but he’s still looking up at me. I gasp with shock as his head hits the underside of the bridge, causing him to cry out in pain. I run to the other side.
‘Are you okay?’ I call out with horror.
The punt a
ppears from under the bridge and thankfully he’s still on it. He glances up at me and grins. I realise then that he was having me on.
‘You bastard!’ I shout to the sound of him laughing.
I hear a young woman’s voice and curiously drag my eyes away to see a much larger punt full of tourists appear from behind me. She’s wearing navy-blue shorts and a waistcoat over a white shirt. I eavesdrop as she approaches.
‘Clare College was founded in 1326, making it the second-oldest surviving college in Cambridge,’ the tour guide says. ‘Clare Bridge is the oldest bridge in the city,’ she continues. ‘You’ll notice that one of the stone balls adorning it has a missing wedge.’
A few of the tourists murmur their acknowledgement and I look around and find that the ball in question is right in front of me. It resembles Edam cheese with a slice cut out of it.
‘Nobody quite knows why,’ she says, ‘but one theory is that the original builder of the bridge was not paid the full amount, so he cut out the segment to balance the difference in payment.’
The punter ducks her head and disappears under the bridge, appearing on the other side soon afterwards. I notice a novice in one of the smaller, slimmer punts heading upriver and coming straight towards the tour punt. Everyone gasps as the novice tries to correct himself, while one of his pals at the front of his boat madly paddles in the wrong direction. The experienced punter on the tour boat calmly punts herself and her boat full of chattering tourists away from the mayhem.
I assumed all the punters would be male. Clearly not. I can’t help but feel a little in awe of her as she and her boat disappear from sight.
I cross the bridge and pass through the tall stone arch into Clare College. An army-green bicycle with an old-fashioned wicker basket is propped up against the wall. Then I find myself in a courtyard surrounded by a magnificent stone building. I walk along the grass-lined path and come out onto a narrow street to see that King’s College Chapel, to my right, is open. My feet carry me in that direction and the sound of the organ fills the chapel as I queue to go inside. I wander through the doors and gaze upwards to see the masonry of the fan-vaulted ceiling. It’s almost too stunning to contemplate, as are the enormous stained-glass windows towering overhead. I make my way up the aisle and under the intricately carved dark oak screen which houses the organ and its golden pipes. The leaflet in my hand reveals that it was a gift from King Henry VIII and his Queen Anne Boleyn during the three years of their marriage, before he had her executed. I shiver. The history surrounding me is mind-blowing.
This is my city now. And for the first time I’m starting to realise how incredibly lucky I am to be here.
I return to the river the following day, strangely addicted to it now after my winter of discontent. This time, armed with a takeaway coffee and a brand-new tourist leaflet, I use my student card to gain access to St John’s College. I try not to gawp as I pass through the awe-inspiring Great Gate into what the leaflet tells me is First Court. I cross over Kitchen Bridge to the expansive lawns on the other side, pausing to admire the pretty, enclosed bridge on my right. I take a left and wander beside the river before sitting on the grassy bank with the vast neo-Gothic ‘wedding cake’ building of New Court behind me. A willow tree on the bend in the river elegantly dips its branches close to the water.
I open my bag and pull out Virginia Woolf’s Orlando, with the intention of reading it. I take a sip of my coffee. It tastes good. I feel good. It’s been a while. I lean forward on my elbows with the book in my hands and just let myself be for a while. I finally feel like I’m making the most of this city, making the most of the sunshine, making the most of my life. Maybe it’s not too late. It had felt like it was.
It’s even sunnier than yesterday and it seems like the whole of Cambridge is competing for space on the water. I smile to myself as I witness punts resemble bumper cars, crashing into each other as novices unsuccessfully attempt to navigate the river.
A tour punt comes along and I forgo my reading for a minute and listen with interest to the guide, a tall, broad, blond guy in his early twenties, who’s dressed in a uniform of white shirt, cream-coloured shorts and canvas boat shoes, minus socks.
‘St John’s was founded by Lady Margaret Beaufort, the grandmother of Henry VIII, on the site of a twelfth-century hospital. Up ahead you can see the Bridge of Sighs, which bears little resemblance to its namesake in Venice, aside from the fact that they are both enclosed. Some say that it’s called the Bridge of Sighs because the students have to pass over it to go from their halls of residence to their examinations . . .’
Another tour punt comes along and it takes only a moment for me to recognise the guide, the red-headed guy from yesterday who pretended to bang his head on the bridge. This time he’s manning one of the larger punts and has a boat full of Asian tourists.
‘You again!’ he calls out cheerfully, thrusting his pole into the riverbed and coming to a steady stop. He nods at the unread book in my right hand and then behind me at New Court. ‘Do you go to John’s?’ That’s how the locals refer to it; John’s not St John’s.
‘No,’ I reply as several sets of eyes regard me from on board his punt. ‘I’m at Anglia Ruskin.’
‘Nice.’
‘What about you?’ I ask, awkwardly aware of his boat full of tourists, but not wanting to seem rude and uninterested. ‘Are you studying here?’
‘Hell, no. Not bright enough for that. Where are you from?’
I glance at his passengers again. He looks down at them and shrugs. ‘They can wait. It’s not like they can understand a word of what I’m saying. So where are you from?’
‘London.’
‘No, I mean, where originally?’
‘London,’ I reply with a smirk. I know what he’s getting at. He gives me a wry look. ‘My grandmother was Chinese,’ I explain.
‘Can you speak any Chinese?’ he asks eagerly, jabbing his thumb in the direction of his passengers.
A pang goes through me. Joe suggested I take Mandarin as a language module if the university offered it. It turns out that they do, but I felt too raw to follow through with it, so I chose Introduction to Imaginary Writing instead.
‘I’m afraid not,’ I reply.
‘Never mind. Hey, do you want to hop on?’
I’m taken aback. ‘Really? I just told you I won’t be able to translate for you.’
‘Come and keep me company, anyway.’ He holds out his hand, but sees me hesitating. ‘What have you got to lose? I’m hardly going to commit first-degree murder in front of all these people.’
I don’t know what it is about him, but I’m drawn to him. I’m aware of how strange that sounds, because I’m in no way attracted to him, but he seems so affable, so unthreatening, and I know that this isn’t a come-on. Impulsively I stand up and gather my things. ‘As long as you don’t push me overboard.’
‘Can you swim?’
‘Yes.’
‘There goes that idea.’
He grins and I take his hand, cautiously stepping onto the end of the punt.
‘You won’t tip it over,’ he assures me. ‘It’s got a flat bottom.’
‘Oh. Okay.’
‘Budge up,’ he barks at the man and woman seated below him. They seem to understand that command, at least, as they swiftly move over for me. I smile apologetically at the other passengers and sit down as he punts away from the bank.
‘Have you been doing this job for long?’ I ask.
‘A few years. It started off as a school-holiday gig and became a profession.’
‘You must enjoy it.’
‘Not in the middle of winter. But that’s okay, because I go snowboarding then.’
I smile up at him. ‘Sounds like a pretty good life.’
He shrugs. ‘I like it.’
It’s been a while since I’ve conversed so easily with anyone. I stare out of the boat at the jaw-droppingly beautiful buildings lining the river.
‘What’s that?’ I ask c
uriously.
‘The Wren Library,’ he replies.
‘Wren as in Christopher Wren?’
‘I didn’t invite you aboard so I’d have to work,’ he jokes, before adding in a sing-song voice: ‘Designed by Sir Christopher Wren and completed in 1695, the Wren Library houses many special collections, including over a thousand medieval manuscripts, early Shakespeare plays, books from Sir Isaac Newton’s own library and –’ he pauses for dramatic effect – ‘A.A. Milne’s manuscripts of Winnie-the-Pooh.’
‘Wow,’ I say in awe. He looks unfazed. ‘Don’t you find it interesting?’ I ask.
‘I did the first ten times.’
‘How many tours do you do in a day?’
‘Depends on how busy it is. Once I did twelve.’
‘Twelve?’
‘That was in the height of summer, though. It’ll be a while before it gets that busy.’
We continue to chat amiably until we reach Clare Bridge.
‘I’d better let you off here,’ he says, punting close to the bank. He digs his pole in to anchor the boat. ‘I don’t want my boss to give me a grilling for inviting a non-paying passenger aboard.’
‘Sure, of course. Thanks for the ride,’ I say with a smile as he helps me onto the grassy bank. I quickly look to check that the gate leading to Clare Bridge is open so I’ll be able to get out.
‘You’re welcome,’ he replies. ‘Same time tomorrow?’
‘Really?’ I hesitate. ‘Isn’t it supposed to be tipping it down?’
‘Aah, see, I’m here whatever the weather.’
‘You’re committed.’
He rubs his thumb and middle finger together. ‘No, I’m broke.’ He pushes off from the bank. ‘See you later, China Girl.’
I grin. ‘It’s Alice.’
‘Don’t care. China Girl sounds better.’
‘What’s your name?’ I call after him.
‘You decide!’ he calls back, as his boat starts to go under the bridge.
‘Watch your head!’ I shout, and sure enough he pretends to bash it, to the shock of his passengers. They may not speak English, but they certainly get the joke because I can hear their raucous laughter travelling down the river towards me for ages afterwards.