One Secret Summer

by Lesley Lokko

  Fifteen minutes later, having forced herself to calm down, she opened the wardrobe door and looked at herself in the inside mirror. She smoothed down the stiff, unforgiving fabric. It was no use. She looked like a meringue. The pale yellow dress that had seemed so right in the shop window suddenly looked overdone, too fussy and frilly by half. She pulled her lower lip into her mouth in dismay. Fuck it, she muttered to herself, pulling a brush through her hair. She had no time to change, and besides, she’d nothing to change into. It was the yellow meringue or nothing. She thrust her feet into her new white shoes and grabbed her handbag. She hurried down the stairs and pushed open the front door, wondering where everyone was. It really was rather odd. Apart from the odd Chinese student who’d looked at her blankly as she walked down the stairs in her frock and already uncomfortable shoes, she hadn’t seen a single person in Holywell Manor. As she hurried down Broad Street, she noticed that all of Oxford seemed strangely quiet. There appeared to be no one around.

  She stopped outside the wooden door leading to Balliol College and pushed it open. She stepped into the domed archway and caught her breath. It was her third visit to the college, but there was something about the golden stone buildings and immaculate lawns that sent a shiver of excitement down her spine. The beadle looked up from his post as she approached. ‘Can I help you?’ he asked briskly.

  ‘Er, yes, I’m here for High Dinner,’ Julia said, wondering why he was looking at his watch.

  ‘High Dinner? Started half an hour ago,’ the beadle said. ‘You’re late.’

  ‘Half an hour ago?’ Julia felt a cold ripple of embarrassment. ‘I thought it was at eight? It said so on the prospectus …’

  The beadle shook his head. ‘Dinners always start at seven thirty. You can slip in the back, I suppose. There’s a door over by the north side.’

  Julia looked across the quadrangle, following his finger. She’d have given anything to turn around and run straight back to Holywell. But the beadle was looking at her expectantly. She couldn’t chicken out. Not on her first night. There was nothing for it. She had to go in.

  ‘Thanks,’ she muttered, walking off with as much dignity as she could muster. Her shoes were killing her and her stomach was churning with nervous embarrassment. She peered through the small window in the doorway. The dinner was indeed in full swing. The hall was vast and filled to the brim with students, mostly in black evening jackets and long black dresses, stunning in their simplicity. Not a soul in yellow or a frill in sight. She suddenly longed for the cosy friendliness of Nottingham. Although she’d always been something of a loner, especially after what had happened, she missed being known, having a friendly face almost everywhere she turned. She was the only one from the small group of friends she’d made who’d gone on to do a postgraduate degree. Here she knew no one, and what was worse, no one seemed in a hurry to know her either. On the raised platform at one end of the hall were the Fellows and Masters, all dressed in long black and purple gowns. Someone was giving a speech. Her heart sank even further. She pushed down on the handle, hoping to creep in without making a sound, but the door was jammed shut. She tried it again, harder this time – perhaps it was locked? She pushed a third time, there was a loud crack and the door suddenly gave way. She stumbled into the hall, all hopes of making a quiet entrance dashed. Several hundred heads turned her way. Crimson-faced, her heart thumping so loudly she was sure everyone could hear it, she only just managed to stay upright as she hurriedly closed the door behind her and slid on to the end of the nearest bench. The speaker, who’d stopped as soon as she came crashing into the hall, resumed his speech. She looked down the table and suddenly caught the eye of someone she dimly recognised. It was the man who’d been standing behind her in the queue at Holywell earlier that afternoon. His expression then had been one of disdain. Now it was disdain mixed with amused incredulity. He turned his head and murmured something to his neighbour. They both looked at her and sniggered. She’d obviously got it all wrong. She looked back down at her plate. She’d lost her appetite, and not just for food.

  An hour later the whole interminably pompous, stuffy dinner was over. She hadn’t spoken to a single person other than to ask someone where the toilets were. She walked back alone down Broad Street, fighting back tears, limping slightly from the blister that had formed almost as soon as she’d put on her new shoes. She turned left on to Parks Road and was almost halfway down when she realised she’d taken the wrong turning. She stopped at the corner of Parks Road and Museum Road – which way was it? She tried to remember how she’d come. Left or right? She turned left on Museum Road and then right on Blackhall Road and then suddenly found herself at a dead end. She walked back, turned left on to Keble Road and stopped. She was well and truly lost. Her shoes were killing her. Where the hell was Holywell Manor? She turned round to face the direction from which she’d come and began limping back towards the traffic lights.

  ‘Lost?’ someone shouted out cheerfully. Julia looked up. Christ … it couldn’t be? Him again? She put up a hand to touch her hair in exactly the sort of self-conscious, girlish gesture she despised in others.

  ‘No, I’m … I’m just taking a stroll,’ she said as nonchalantly as she could.

  ‘Yeah, right. Turn right at the end of the road. There’s a sign. You’ll find life a lot easier if you follow them.’ The two men laughed indulgently and rode off without saying another word.

  Julia stared after them, fists clenched. She hobbled to the end of the road and looked at the sign he’d pointed out. Holywell Manor. An arrow pointing straight ahead. How the hell could she have missed it? She walked back down St Cross Road, her cheeks flaming and the horrid taste of tears already in her throat.

  5

  MADDY

  New York City, September 1991

  Her head still throbbing from the pain of the cut on her forehead and with a bruise the size of Iowa beginning to show up on her knee, Maddy got out of the cab at Gramercy Hall, the NYU residence hall for freshmen students, and looked nervously around her. Washington Square was full of cars and cabs. There seemed to be hundreds of students being dropped off and arriving, just as she was. The cab driver helped her with her cases and soon she was given a room number, a key and a swipe card, which, the Resident Adviser told her, was worth more than her life. Without it, she wouldn’t be able to attend classes, borrow books, eat, sleep or study. ‘Don’t lose it,’ he said sternly, waggling it in front of her face. ‘What the hell happened to you anyway?’ he asked, looking askance at her forehead.

  ‘I … er, tripped,’ Maddy mumbled, taking the swipe card from him. ‘It’s nothing … just a scratch.’

  ‘If you say so. You’re on the sixth floor. Lifts are over there. Next.’

  Maddy beat a hasty retreat. She lugged her suitcases over to the lifts and waited alongside half a dozen other new students, all studiously avoiding each other’s eyes. She got out on the sixth floor and walked down the corridor of identical-looking doors until she reached Room 617. The letter from the accommodation office had told her she’d be sharing the room with another first-year drama student, Sandra Zimmerman. She wondered what Sandra Zimmerman would be like and if she’d already be there. She took a deep breath and pushed open the door. There was a girl standing near the window. Tall, dark-haired, in a smart, super-stylish black coat with a fur collar. She turned as Maddy entered the room. Maddy’s heart sank. Not only was she beautiful, she was without a doubt the most fashionable person Maddy had ever seen. In her sensible black duffel coat Maddy felt like the proverbial country hick. She swallowed nervously. ‘Hi,’ she said in what she hoped was a steady voice. ‘I … I guess you’re Sandra?’

  ‘Yeah, but everyone calls me Sandy. I guess you’re Madison?’

  ‘Yeah, but everyone calls me Maddy.’ They looked at one another warily, sizing each other up.

  ‘What the hell happened to your forehead?’ Sandy asked finally.

  ‘I … I tripped. Over my suitcase,’ Maddy stammered,
her cheeks reddening.

  Sandy raised one perfectly shaped brow. ‘No wonder. Where did you find them?’ she asked, looking pointedly at Maddy’s two large, falling-apart suitcases.

  Maddy’s face turned even deeper red. ‘They … they belonged to my mom.’ She glanced across the room at the two smart black suitcases standing next to the window. She and Sandy Zimmerman were clearly worlds apart.

  ‘Well, I’m going downstairs to get a bottle of wine,’ Sandy said, moving towards the door. ‘It’s our first night – might as well get wasted. What d’you prefer? Red or white?’

  Maddy could only stare at her. Wine? She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a glass of wine. ‘Er, whatever,’ she said as nonchalantly as she could possibly manage. ‘Should … would you like me to … how much?’

  ‘How much?’ Sandy’s brow wrinkled.

  Maddy’s stomach was twisting itself in knots of embarrassment. ‘I just meant … would you like to share? The cost, I mean.’ It was one of the things Martha had lectured her sternly about. Always pay your way, Maddy. You may not have much, but it doesn’t cost you anything to be generous. Remember that.

  ‘It’s only a bottle of wine,’ Sandy said, shaking her head. ‘Don’t worry about it. Besides, Daddy’s paying.’ She waved her credit card at Maddy and disappeared out of the door.

  Maddy sat down on the edge of the bed as soon as she’d gone, overwhelmed and suddenly very lonely. She’d been in New York all of three or four hours, she’d fallen over, hurt herself, found her way to her new home and was now confronted with a roommate who was so far removed from anything or anyone she’d ever encountered before … It was all too much. She got up, wrapping her arms tightly around her, and pushed open the door to the adjoining bathroom. She stood in the doorway, slightly dazed by the white tiles and the scent of industrial disinfectant. She locked the door behind her and leaned against it for a moment, her eyes closed. She missed her mother; she missed the farm; she missed the animals and the view from her bedroom window. She missed everything. She opened her eyes and looked at the toilet bowl in the corner. Gleaming white, solid, pure. She stumbled towards it and knelt down, breathing deeply. It took her a few moments to ready herself. Then, in one smooth, much-practised gesture, she tucked her hair behind her ears, leaned forward and stuck her fingers down her throat.

  Five minutes later it was all over. She straightened up, a profound sense of relief flowing over her, calming her immediately, bringing back a sense of order and control. Her eyes were streaming with tears but her head was clear and sharp. She got up and walked over to the sink. She rinsed her mouth and scooped up a little water in the palm of her hand. She passed it over her face, wincing as her fingers brushed the cut. It really was nothing – a crust of dried blood, a little bruising, nothing to worry about. Her face stared back out at her, startlingly white in the harsh bathroom light. She looked at herself, trying to imagine herself as others might see her. Lightly freckled alabaster skin; a wide, full mouth; brown eyes set fractionally too far apart. She wasn’t even pretty. Certainly not beautiful. Not like Andrea Halgren or Lindy Myerson – or Sandy Zimmerman. ‘Unusual’ was what people usually said. ‘Striking’, if they were pushed. And in a good mood. She had the sort of face that showed everything, every emotion, every thought, every nuance. The sort of face that told its own story, hid nothing, left nothing unsaid. She desperately wished it weren’t so. ‘You’re so damned sensitive,’ was what her father always said. Sensitive. Temperamental. Moody. Highly strung. He had a long, detailed list of negatives, which generally began with her character and ended with her looks. Fat. She was fat. That last comment had tormented her for the past few years. She could still feel the heat rise in her cheeks every time she remembered it. ‘Just look at them damned thighs, Madison Stiller. You’ll be bigger than the cows if you don’t watch out!’ She’d been helping him with the early morning milking. In summer. In shorts and a T-shirt. She’d looked down at her thighs in horror and promptly burst into tears. ‘What the hell’s the matter with you?’ her father had shouted after her as she ran from the shed. ‘It’s only a joke. Where are you going? We ain’t done here!’ She fled upstairs to her room and peeled off her shorts, anxiously examining herself in the mirror. Fat? Was she really fat? She looked at herself in distress. She had to be. If her father said so, it must be so. She’d eaten almost nothing in the days that followed, much to Martha’s distress.

  ‘I don’t know what’s got into you,’ she said crossly, removing yet another almost untouched meal from the table. ‘It’s hanging out with those two, that’s what’s done it. I never liked Lindy or Andrea, for that matter. Will you look at her, Frank?’ She appealed to her husband. Frank looked up from the newspaper he was reading and grunted. When he looked back down again, the subject was closed. Maddy’s worst fears were realised. She was fat. He thought so.

  But she couldn’t go on eating next to nothing. The following morning in her science class, she’d been called on to come up to the chalkboard. She’d got up from her seat a little too quickly. There’d been a rushing, singing sensation in her head and then the next thing she knew, she was lying on the ground. She’d fainted. She’d had almost nothing to eat in a week. Ironically, given Martha’s reservations, it was Lindy who’d provided the answer. ‘My sister does it,’ she’d said airily. ‘That’s exactly what you need to do.’

  ‘What does she do?’ Maddy asked, half-fearfully.

  ‘It’s easy. You eat what you want and then you just throw up.’

  ‘How?’

  Lindy shrugged. ‘You stick a finger down your throat. It’s easy, I swear. My sister uses a piece of thread. Look, I’ll show you.’

  ‘Yeeugh! You’re so gross!’ Andrea squealed.

  Lindy was right, though. It was easy. At home that night, Maddy practised for the first time. She’d eaten a little more at supper than usual, despite her feelings of revulsion. She went to bed early, pleading a headache, and then locked herself in the bathroom. It took three or four tries before she managed to make herself sick – and then it all came rushing up. One and a half sausages, two spoonfuls of mashed potatoes, carrots. She could hardly breathe with the effort of trying to make herself sick, but the feeling of calm and control that descended upon her once she had been was like nothing she’d ever experienced. From then on, it was easy. She would wait in her room until her parents had gone to bed, then she would creep downstairs, open the fridge door as quietly as she could and stuff whatever she could find into her mouth. She would stand there savouring the taste and feel of biscuits, ice cream or anything else she could lay her hands on, and then, when she couldn’t possibly cram anything else into her stomach, she would creep back upstairs and into the bathroom to bring it all back up. When her father disappeared, it was the first thing that ran through her mind. It was her fault. She was fat and ugly and he’d finally decided he couldn’t stand it any longer. He was so sickened by the sight of her that he’d had no option but to leave. How else could she explain it?

  ‘You OK?’ Sandy was sitting on the bed when she finally emerged from the bathroom. ‘You look kinda weird. Here, have some of this.’ She held out a tumbler full of dark red wine. Maddy took the glass and took a cautious sip. Her mouth tasted of antiseptic mouthwash and bile. The wine was warm and rich. ‘Cheers,’ Sandy said, lifting her glass. ‘Welcome to New York.’

  ‘Er, cheers,’ Maddy murmured. She took another sip, trying not to stare. Sandy had tossed her coat casually to one side; she looked at it curiously. Donna Karan. DKNY. Maddy had never heard of Donna Karan. Or DKNY.

  ‘So where you from anyway?’ Sandy asked conversationally.

  ‘Iowa,’ Maddy mumbled, looking into her tumbler.

  ‘Iowa?’ Sandy’s voice rose incredulously. ‘Like, the Midwest?’

  Maddy nodded, embarrassed. Sandy made it sound like a disease. ‘Are you from New York?’ she asked quickly, wanting to change the subject.

  ‘Sure am. Upper East Side. My mom wa
nted me to stay home for freshman year but I was just dying to get away. I’m going home this weekend, though. You should come with. One of my friends is having a party Friday night. Why don’t you come?’

  Maddy hurriedly swallowed the rest of her wine. Twin surges of excitement and fear rippled through her. A party. A weekend at someone’s home. She felt as though she’d stepped on to the set of a film. She’d only been gone from Iowa for a day and a half and already her life felt as though it belonged to someone else.

  6

  NIELA

  Hartishek, October 1991

  It took the Adens almost a week to make it to Hartishek, the sprawling refugee camp just across the Somali–Ethiopian border. They drove into the camp before dawn. No one spoke, not even the driver, as they wound their way slowly through the maze. As the light came up, the sprawling mass of tents and shacks revealed itself to them, a vision of hell. A thin pall of smoke hung over everything – in front of the makeshift shelters women cooked on tiny stoves over coal fires. Hassan looked around him, too stunned to do anything other than stare. It was Niela who ordered the driver to stop. She wound down the window and asked a young man wandering aimlessly in front of them if he could direct them to the UNHCR HQ. He pointed out the dusty two-lane track that led to the centre of the camp. ‘But don’t expect them to give you anything,’ were his parting words. ‘They’ve run out of everything. Useless.’ He spat the word out bitterly.