by Paige Toon
‘WATCH OUT!’ he shouts.
Too late.
‘OW!’ I cry as he crashes into me and comes off his bike.
‘WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?’ he screams, stumbling to his feet. ‘Watch where you’re going, you fucking tourist!’
I’m about to scream back that I’m not a fucking tourist, but suddenly there’s a man right in front of me, blocking my view.
‘HEY!’ he shouts over his shoulder at the cyclist as I angrily rub my sore arm. I’m about to hurl abuse at the cyclist when the stranger puts his hands on my arms. I look up at him in surprise.
He turns his head to the cyclist and says in a calm, foreign-accented voice: ‘You were going too fast. You should watch where you’re going.’
‘Piss off, you wanker!’ the cyclist snaps, mounting his bike and pedalling away from us.
‘Juvenile delinquent,’ the stranger mutters under his breath. ‘Are you alright?’ he asks me. His hands are still on my arms and he’s too close, way too close.
‘Yes, yes, I’m fine. Thank you.’ I take a step backwards, out of his grasp. His hands fall to his sides. He’s young – early twenties, I think – and well turned out in a smart grey jacket and white shirt. His hair is short and dark blond. He has very blue eyes.
‘You’re going to have quite a bruise, I think.’ He studies the mottled red patch on my arm. ‘You should put a cold compress on it.’
He sounds German, but he doesn’t look it. At least, he doesn’t look like the German students that Lizzy and I used to giggle at in Trafalgar Square, with their brightly coloured parkas, blue denim jeans and backpacks.
‘Do you have one?’ he asks.
I shake my head slightly with confusion. ‘Sorry, do I have what?’
‘A cold compress.’
‘A cold compress?’ What’s he going on about?
‘Yes. For your arm,’ he says. ‘ To stop the swelling.’
‘Oh, no, it’s fine. I’ll be fine,’ I say again. Weirdo. What does he think I’ve got, an ice pack in my handbag?
‘I can get you one, if you like. My room is only around the corner.’
I can’t help it: I start to snort with laughter.
His brow furrows. ‘What’s so funny?’
‘Sorry, no, thank you, I’m fine. Bye, bye!’ I hurry away from him before I completely lose it. Who the hell has a cold compress in their room? And why is he calling it a ‘cold compress’ and not just ‘ice’?
It occurs to me that maybe he’s a doctor or a medical student and then I feel a bit mean, but I still make a mental note to tell Jessie about him later.
I arrive back at halls and climb the stairs to the 100s on the top floor. The rooms to the left and the right of the landing as you come up the stairs are named after decades: the 30s – i.e. Room 31, Room 32, etc., and then the 40s, 50s, 60s, etc., all the way up to the 100s. Since I’ve been here there have been at least three decade-themed parties. Last night there was a 70s party, judging by the Afro wig and the bright pink feathers from a feather boa strewn halfway down the stairs.
I walk to the end of the corridor and unlock the last door on the left. My room is cast in a murky orange glow, courtesy of Nightingale’s infamous crappy curtains, so the first thing I do is draw them back and then open up the window to let in some fresh air. One of my fellow students is having a jokey slanging match with the residents of the neighbouring King’s College Hostel. We can shout ‘Toffs!’ and ‘Commoners!’ at each other for ages. It passes the time. Time that I don’t have today. With great effort I pick up Volume One of the ‘small child’ and delve into its three thousand pages. My shower will have to wait.
‘What did you do to your arm?’ Jessie asks with concern later down by the Silver Street punting station. Sometimes we start our tours from here, the rest of the time from Magdalene. It’s so busy that I’ve been roped in to help out after my lecture.
‘Bloody cyclist crashed into me,’ I explain. ‘Oh, it was funny . . .’
I start to tell him about the foreign stranger, but guilt appears out of the blue and pricks me. My voice trails off.
‘Go on,’ Jessie urges.
I shake my head dismissively. ‘He was only trying to help.’
‘What’s so funny about that?’ He looks confused.
‘Nothing. It wasn’t at all, actually. I don’t know why I thought it was.’
‘Freak.’
‘That’s me.’ I look past him to see Sammy beckoning me. My next tour is about to start. ‘See you later.’
‘Bye.’ He gives my arm a squeeze and I wince.
‘Ouch!’
My arm continues to feel tender as I navigate a punt full of people away from the punting station. There’s a young family seated directly below me: a man, a woman, a little boy and a baby girl. They live in Cambridge, from what I can gather, but it’s hard to concentrate on giving the tour because their young son has the patience of a gnat and is climbing all over the place.
‘If you could just keep his arms out of the water and inside the boat,’ I suggest at one point on the approach to Trinity Bridge. The bruise on my arm would pale in comparison to the bruise their son would get if he got sandwiched between two punts.
‘This is the Wren Library,’ I start to say before I’m swiftly interrupted.
‘Me and Daddy have willies, don’t we?’
‘Yes, yes,’ the little boy’s mother replies quietly, her face turning red as the ears of my other passengers prick up.
‘And you and baby Molly have got chinas.’
China? Vagina? Jessie’s nickname for me? Everyone laughs, and then – BANG! – I crack my head on the underside of the bridge. I cry out in pain and instinctively clutch my hands to my head, accidentally letting go of my pole as we continue to drift. My passengers stare up at me, some in shock, some with smiles on their faces because they’ve witnessed my joker colleagues do this. But there’s no joking today. My head is throbbing like crazy.
‘Are you alright?’
I recognise that voice. I look back at the people standing on the offending bridge and instantly spot the foreigner from earlier. A kind man on a self-hire punt comes to my aid and guides my boat towards the bank with help from his wife or girlfriend, who pushes the front end of the punt in with her oar. And then he’s there – the foreigner – holding down his hand to me and motioning for me to climb off the boat. I’m utterly mortified and I wave him away.
‘You should sit down,’ he insists. My passengers murmur their agreement.
I notice yet another self-hire punter with a boat full of people attempting to retrieve my pole. I’m surrounded by concerned strangers and I’m so embarrassed I could die.
‘Come,’ he urges again, his hand still outstretched. I take it, not really knowing what else to do because I’m hemmed in without a pole, so I can hardly punt away from here. But I have feet. Maybe I could do a runner?
‘Sit down,’ a voice says firmly.
I give in and collapse on the bank, while he studies my head.
‘You’re going to have quite a bump,’ he tells me.
‘To add to my bruise from earlier.’
‘How’s your arm?’ A small smile has formed on his lips.
‘Better than my head,’ I reply, and then I can’t help myself: ‘I could really do with a cold compress right about now.’
‘Are you making fun of me?’ he asks quietly.
I immediately feel bad and turn to murmur an apology, but then I notice that the smile hasn’t left his lips. My eyes meet his, and, to my surprise, I feel my face heat up. His right eyebrow rises with amusement and I quickly get to my feet.
‘Whoa!’ He steadies me when I wobble.
‘I feel a little faint.’
‘Sit back down,’ he commands, then, to my passengers: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I’m afraid the tour is over.’ A couple of people groan and the little boy whinges that he’s bored, but most of my passengers amiably accept their fate. The foreigner calls out t
o a young man crossing the bridge in the direction of Trinity. ‘Kevin! Can you take these people through the college?’
Kevin hesitates, warily looking over at the scene, and then he nods abruptly and comes our way.
‘That should keep them happy,’ the foreigner says as an aside to me, stepping forward to help my now perky passengers off the boat. A free tour of Trinity – that wasn’t in the package.
When they’ve been ushered up onto the bridge to join Kevin the foreigner turns back to me and nods at the self-hire punter who has been hemming me in.
‘We’ll moor it here for the time being.’
‘Are you sure?’ the man asks. ‘It says “no mooring”.’
‘I think the Fellows will accept that we have extenuating circumstances,’ the foreigner replies, climbing down the slope to secure the chain to the bank.
How does he even know a phrase like ‘extenuating circumstances’? He clearly speaks fluent English. Perhaps he was brought up bilingual?
‘Where are you from?’ I ask, unable to contain my curiosity, because I can’t keep calling him the Foreigner forever.
‘Southern Germany,’ he replies over his shoulder. ‘Upper Bavaria.’
I was right! Well, about the Germany part. I didn’t ask him to be specific.
‘Thank you,’ he says to the self-hire punter.
‘No problem,’ the man replies.
The forei— I mean, German, turns around and comes back to join me. ‘How are you feeling?’ he asks.
‘My head hurts,’ I reply honestly.
‘You know, you really could do with a cold compress,’ he says with a smile.
‘You and your frigging . . . Go on, then,’ I snap with a trace of humour.
He grins. ‘I’ll be back shortly.’
What a character. My eyes follow him as he jogs across the bridge towards Trinity. He must go to the college. Maybe my ‘medical student’ theory is correct.
‘CHINA!’
My head whips around – and painfully throbs in response – to see Jessie punting towards me with a tour boat. ‘What happened?’ he asks with a frown.
I point to my head and then at the bridge.
‘You didn’t!’ he gasps, his mouth falling open.
I nod wryly as his punt glides up to the bank. He anchors the boat with his pole.
‘Hop on. I’ll give you a lift back.’
‘Oh, I . . .’ I glance towards the college.
‘Come on,’ Jessie says impatiently. ‘I’ll send someone back for your boat.’
‘I was just waiting . . .’ My voice trails off.
‘What?’ Several of his passengers shuffle in their seats.
I feel bad about running off, but, really, what’s going to happen if I stay? A German stranger is going to press something cold to my head and then set me on my way. He’s not going to carry me over his shoulder, and nor would I want him to, but I could really do without walking right now.
I stand up. Jessie’s tourists make room for me. We punt under the bridge and I stare back at Trinity with a twinge of regret. I do feel guilty. I should say thank you. But it’s too late now.
‘I can’t believe you bumped your head on the bridge!’
I’m sitting outside the Anchor with Jessie and a few others, nursing a lemonade. I daren’t drink in case it makes my head feel worse than it already does.
‘I won’t be the first person to have done it,’ I reply defensively as they all guffaw.
‘Yeah, but you’re always going on about how you could punt blindfolded,’ Jessie teases.
‘I’ve said that once!’ I exclaim and he cracks up laughing.
‘Aah, China, you’re too funny,’ he chuckles.
Suddenly it all comes flooding back: the reason why I took my eyes off the bridge in the first place. The little boy! China! Vagina! Argh!
‘Maybe you should start calling me Alice,’ I suggest offhandedly.
‘What? Why?’ He looks offended.
‘It sounds a bit . . .’ Dare I play the racism card? No, that’s mean. ‘Juvenile,’ I decide, as déjà vu strikes me.
‘Juvenile delinquent . . .’
The German stranger muttered that under his breath about the cyclist. Yet another phrase that you wouldn’t expect to come out of the mouth of a foreigner. He must be bilingual. Again I feel a pang of guilt for leaving before he came back with the cold compress.
‘Juvenile,’ Jessie snorts with disgust. ‘You’ll have to do better than that.’
I’m tempted to tell him about the little boy, just so we can all have a laugh about it . . .
BIG mistake, I realise a few minutes later, when the whole table is chanting for the newly-christened Vagina – that’s me, folks – to get the next round in.
‘Oh, bugger off, the lot of you!’ I snap jokily, before heading inside to the bar.
Jessie joins me. ‘Thought you might need a hand,’ he says with a grin.
‘What can I get you?’ I turn to see the blonde he has the hots for leaning towards him across the bar. He motions to me, so I relay the order. She doesn’t look quite so happy to be serving me. I give Jessie a look and discreetly nod in her direction.
‘Can you take these to the others? I’m going to nip to the loo.’
‘Sure.’
‘Talk to her!’ I whisper as I walk past.
He’s still at the bar when I return. She’s laughing at something he said. ‘Do you want me to take them?’ I gesture to the pint glasses on the bar.
‘Yeah. I’ll be there in a minute.’
In the end, it’s more like ten minutes, and when he does re-emerge it’s with a big grin on his face. ‘Got her number,’ he says, jiggling his mobile.
Chris and Mike whoop. Hurray, something to take everyone’s minds off the China fiasco. But inside I feel a touch sombre. I want the best for my friend, but I don’t want to lose him. I call it a night soon afterwards.
It’s the middle of June before Lizzy comes to visit and we’re on a high because we’ve both finished all of our exams. I’ve half moved into Jessie’s by the time my friend arrives.
‘Happy belated birthday.’ She chinks my glass. I turned nineteen in May, but we decided to wait until now to celebrate.
‘Thanks!’ I grin as she hands over a gift, which turns out to be some delicious-smelling bath goodies from the Sanctuary. ‘Mmm, lovely.’
She tops up my glass. We’re drinking white wine for a change.
‘I can’t believe you’re not coming home this summer,’ she moans.
‘You can see why.’ I motion around me.
Jessie lives in a Gothic terrace on Mount Pleasant, a hill. From the outside the house is dark and mysterious, but inside the walls are white and the floorboards sanded – the result of a renovation project by his parents before they went abroad.
‘It’s an amazing house,’ she concedes. ‘Incredible location. I had no idea Cambridge was as pretty as it is.’
‘You haven’t seen anything yet. Wait until I take you for a tour along the Backs.’
‘Are we going punting?’ she asks excitedly.
‘Absolutely,’ I reply. ‘But not until tomorrow. Tonight we’re going out on the town.’
She grins at me. ‘It’s so good to see you.’
‘You too,’ I say with a smile. ‘How’s your mum?’
Her face lights up. ‘She’s brilliant. Honestly, she’s doing so well. Even her hair has almost grown back.’
‘Oh, that’s great!’ I say. ‘And your sister?’ At sixteen, Tessa still lives at home.
‘She’s good. I think she misses me more than she thought she would.’
‘I bet she does. Do you miss her too?’
‘Yes. And I’ve really missed you,’ she says a little sadly.
‘Me too.’
We smile at each other across the table.
‘Let’s have a good time tonight!’ I say cheerfully.
I know she wants to ask me about Joe, but I’d rather she
didn’t. I don’t want to go back to that dark place.
I’ve still got half of my stuff in halls, but I’m slowly shifting it across. One of Jessie’s third-year tenants – Gerard – has already moved out, so I’ve taken his room, which is the second largest of the three and looks out over the back garden. I’m excited about making it mine. I never did put my stamp on my room in Nightingale. It was a great location, but it took me too long to feel settled there. It didn’t really seem worth it to put up posters and decorate for the sake of a few months. I feel much more committed about starting afresh in Jessie’s pad.
Jessie’s hooked up a few times with Blondie from the pub, but it hasn’t turned into anything serious, yet. Her name is Darcy, but Jessie calls her Blondie, so if it’s good enough for him . . . Not that she speaks to me much. I think she still feels threatened by me, which is crazy.
‘Where’s Jessie?’ Lizzy asks.
‘He’s going out straight from the river,’ I tell her.
‘I can’t wait to meet him,’ she gushes.
‘I can’t believe you haven’t, actually,’ I say, pulling a face. It’s terrible that this is the first time I’ve seen Lizzy aside from our holidays at home. With my work and studies, I just haven’t had time to visit her in Edinburgh. And I haven’t exactly pressed for her to visit me until more recently. I haven’t felt myself enough, and I knew she wouldn’t understand that I was pining for Joe.
I suddenly see him, crystal clear inside my mind. My heart automatically thuds more dully. I’m still pining for him. But I stifle my thoughts. I’ve become more proficient at doing this.
It didn’t take much for Jessie to convince me to move in. In the end, I chose happiness over heartbreak, and I feel quite proud of myself for making that decision. I know, deep down, that London is not a good place for me to be. I want to move on from my pain, even if I can’t. Not yet, anyway. Not fully.
I don’t know why he hasn’t come for me . . .
Stop.
‘Let’s go and get ready!’ I suggest brightly.
‘Ooh, check out the hottie at eleven o’clock . . .’ Lizzy says a few hours later. We’ve ended up in a nightclub. I’m wearing skinny black jeans and a silvery grey top. My long, dark hair is down and Lizzy succeeded in getting me to wear eye-shadow: silvery-grey, this time. Her chocolate-brown hair has grown a little since I last saw her. Tonight it’s wavy.