‘Well, you never talk to anyone.’
My fault, of course. She unlocked her door.
‘Look, if you just unbent a little, Princess, it would be all right. Come and have coffee.’
This left her with no easy way of refusing. She could see that this new nickname was going to be like a ring in the nose of a fierce bull. Anyone who dared come near enough to grab it could force her to do anything. She followed him into his room and sat down. The smell of coffee filled the air. I bet he buys it in Fortnum and Mason’s. Hand-roasted and ground by Guatemalan peasants. ‘What’s so wonderful about you that you can afford to despise everyone else?’ I’ll never be free to think a single thought again. Her anger roused itself. The polecat was watching her.
‘ “Your face is as a book where men may read strange matters.” ’
Macbeth. How appropriate. Come in, Duncan. Sit yourself down. Everything all right? Sleep well.
The polecat handed her a cup of coffee. Her sense of general outrage sharpened and focused on him. ‘Why is everyone calling me “Princess”?’
She saw a flicker of amusement. ‘Who knows where these sobriquets originate? It’s like speculating why everyone calls me “the polecat”.’
‘You can dish it out, but you can’t take it.’
Then unexpectedly he smiled. ‘Have you thought of apologizing?’
‘What – to you?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he said, as though he were above such things. ‘To the others. To your erstwhile friends.’
She looked stubbornly down into her coffee. Apologies were the fines levied for social misdemeanours. Pay up, or we’ll punish you in other ways. The idea that she might voluntarily apologize had not occurred to her. And yet she had done once already to Rupert, months ago, for calling him a prick. He had responded generously then. But she could not believe that this time so much damage could be undone by the word sorry.
‘It ought to work,’ said the polecat, as though he were suggesting a method of starting a car on a cold morning. ‘It’s the currency these Christians deal in, after all.’
She felt herself recoil from his cynicism. ‘You think they’re stupid?’
He considered. ‘Well, I suppose it’s a better system than escalating retaliation and reprisals. I just find the nicey-nicey atmosphere in this place so cloying.’
‘Which is why you like me, I suppose.’
Don’t presume, said his look. ‘Why I sometimes enjoy your company, possibly.’
She looked at the rain running down his window. I don’t have the energy to fight him any more.
‘You’re getting soft,’ he said.
‘I know.’
The polecat reached out and took her mug. ‘Look, go and find them and say sorry, for Christ’s sake.’ She started to protest, but he held out a hand to help her out of her chair. ‘Just do it.’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Come on. The longer you leave it the worse it’ll get.’
He was right, damn him. She took his hand and let him pull her up.
‘You’re such a fool, Mara.’
‘I know,’ she said again. Then she caught sight of his expression. ‘Piss off, you posturing little git,’ she snarled and stomped out of the room.
As she walked through the college towards Coverdale Hall, she found herself thinking of a dozen things she really ought to do first. I never used to be such a coward. Her heart was pounding as she approached Rupert’s door. I’ll go from here to Johnny, then to Maddy and May. She paused before knocking. There was silence. Oh, let him be out! She tapped gently. The door opened. It was another Coverdale student. The room was full of people sitting with bowed heads. Oh, hell. I’ve interrupted a prayer meeting.
‘I’ll come back,’ she whispered, and started to walk away.
‘Mara.’ She turned. It was Rupert. He came out into the corridor and shut the door behind him. For a moment they stood looking at one another. Her prepared words deserted her, but she would have to say something, now she was here.
‘Sorry,’ she blurted out. She felt the urge to rush away, but was held back by the thought that above all else, she must not behave like a spoilt princess.
‘Thank you for coming, Mara.’ He half smiled. ‘I’d almost given up hope.’ The idea that he’d been waiting for days for her to creep penitently back was too much.
‘Well, you know where my room is. You could have come to me.’ I’m doing it again. Her thought was mirrored in his face.
‘Hardly. You told me you didn’t give a toss.’
‘I was upset.’
‘You were upset?’ She saw he was going to start all over again. ‘I can’t think why you should be. I don’t suppose you heard one word in twenty.’ She stared past him, saying nothing. ‘Look – you’re not paying attention now, either! What is the point?’ They were trapped in an endless destructive cycle.
She made one last effort. ‘Well, I’m sorry.’
He gave his slight bow. ‘All right. Let’s just forget it, Mara.’ But she knew he was thinking, That’s all very well.
What more do you want? she thought. Blood? She felt tears rising, and turned away. Walk slowly. Not like a spoilt princess. She heard him going back into his room.
Her resolution to go and apologize to Johnny wavered. Supposing he shouted and swore again? She stood dithering in the corridor. Besides, she didn’t know where his room was. But this sounded so pathetic that she stepped forward purposefully. How difficult can it be to find a room, for God’s sake? It was up in the attics, somewhere. She turned a corner and caught sight of a notice tacked to the wall. Johnny Whitaker’s room, it said, with an arrow pointing to a doorway. Another hand had scrawled underneath One at a time, please, girls. He was always the butt of college humour. And he never seemed to mind. Maybe he would greet her with that same easy tolerance now. She went through the door and up a narrow, twisting set of stairs. Her fingernails were digging into her palms as she approached his room. He was definitely in. She could hear music, and a brief snatch of whistling.
‘Come in!’ he called before she could knock. He must have heard her footsteps. His was the only room on the corridor. She went in. He was at his desk.
‘Just a second,’ he said without turning round. She waited while he finished the sentence he was writing, trying to use the time to gather up the right words. He turned, and she saw surprise, followed by his characteristic look of suppressed amusement.
I hate them both, she thought. This is the last time I apologize to anyone.
‘I came to say sorry,’ she said tightly.
He laughed. ‘I could tell from your face. Come here.’ He put out a hand.
She hesitated, then thought, Princess Mara, and went across to where he was sitting. Before she could stop him, he had pulled her down on to his lap as though she were a tavern wench.
‘You’re completely mad, Mara, you know that? What made you do it?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said witlessly, not knowing anything at all, in fact – whether to struggle up from such an undignified position, what to do with her arms and hands, where to look, or what to think. Or whether she liked it. He wrapped his arms round her and gave her a crushing hug.
‘Well, I’m sorry, too.’ He let her go, and she retreated nervously to another chair and sat back in it with her arms folded. He put on a serious expression and cleared his throat. ‘I’m sorry for forgetting myself and my calling.’ He sounded so exactly like Rupert that she was torn between laughing and bursting into tears. ‘I’m sorry for losing my temper so appallingly. No, no’ – he raised his hand to ward off a possible contradiction – ‘I’m responsible for what I do in a fit of temper. I’m sorry for laying violent hands on you, a woman (however great the provocation), and for using that kind of language under any circumstances, let alone to a woman (however great the provocation). Oh yes – and for slamming the door.’
She sat with her hands over her mouth. He’d even got Rupert’s mannerisms right. ‘I think that just a
bout covers it.’
‘Did he say all that?’
‘Did he? But you mustn’t blame him, sweetie. He’ll be OK when he’s got a pulpit to preach from. Have you dared face him yet?’
She nodded.
‘Good. He’s been impossible to live with for days. So you’re all friends again?’ He saw her expression. ‘You’re not friends. What happened?’
‘I said I was sorry, but –’ She broke off.
‘What, like this?’ He scowled and snapped the word ungraciously.
‘Don’t mock me!’
But he was staring past her with a bored expression on his face. Her anger flipped over suddenly into amusement. No wonder it drives them wild. He grinned at her and lit a cigarette.
‘What made you do it, then? Walk on the ice, I mean.’
What had? She thought back, and saw again the white road under the stars.
‘I don’t know. Because . . . because you can’t normally stand in the middle of the river. It’s a different point of view.’ This was clearly making no sense at all to him. She tried again. ‘Like hanging in the air, or something. Or being on a high building looking down. You see everything differently.’
He considered her words. ‘Yes. I can understand that.’ He drew on his cigarette. ‘I’ve spent half my life messing about on scaffolding.’ There was a silence. Maybe he was thinking back to when he looked down on everything, the town below him, the streets, the women passing. ‘Have you ever been hang-gliding?’ he continued. She shook her head. ‘You’d enjoy it.’
She didn’t quite dare say, ‘Isn’t it a bit dangerous?’ She tried to imagine it – swimming in the air, looking down on the landscape as though it were the sea bed. ‘I dream of it,’ she said. ‘Flying. Walking on the air. It must be the best feeling in the world.’
‘Well . . . no.’
‘You’ve been?’
‘A couple of times. With my brother. He belongs to a club.’
‘And you don’t like it?’
‘It’s OK, but it’s not the best feeling in the whole world.’
She pictured herself wheeling on the wind against the heavens. ‘What could be better?’
He tapped the ash from his cigarette. ‘Sex.’
She gawped, then felt a burst of impatience with him. ‘Apart from that.’
‘Sorry,’ he said contritely. ‘My second favourite thing in the whole world, you mean?’ He sat thinking for a moment. ‘Mmm. Still sex, I’m afraid.’
Give me a break! She blushed. ‘I think it’s overrated,’ she said coldly. ‘I’d rather smoke a cigarette. It’s less trouble, and it generally lasts longer.’
He blew a cloud of smoke up to the ceiling and looked at her speculatively. ‘Regular or kingsize?’ She bit her lips to stop herself laughing. ‘A word of advice, sweetie. I wouldn’t go around saying things like that. It sounds like a challenge.’
‘I’m not stupid,’ she snapped. ‘I know what men think: “Ah, well, that’s because you haven’t slept with me.” ’
‘Exactly.’
‘And I don’t go around saying it. I just said it to you. You’re celibate.’ He was looking at her in undisguised wonder. ‘You said you were!’ she said in sudden alarm. Surely she hadn’t imagined it!
‘Yes, yes. You know, Mara, for an intelligent woman . . . Look, it’s like being a reformed alcoholic.’ She looked at him blankly. ‘My name’s Johnny Whitaker and I’m a womanizer. I haven’t had sex for four years, three months and six days.’ Why does he have to trivialize everything? He glanced at his watch. ‘And two hours, forty minutes.’ He went slowly cross-eyed, as if at the memory, and slumped back in his chair. ‘Apart from once or twice,’ he admitted, sitting up again. ‘But that was an accident.’
‘Surely it’s just a question of willpower?’ She saw another look of disbelieving wonder on his face. Well, isn’t it? she thought angrily. He leant forward and put his half-smoked cigarette between her lips.
‘You go away and smoke that, Princess.’ He patted her cheek and pointed to the door. ‘Out.’
She went, her face burning. His laughter followed her down the corridor. She stubbed out the cigarette in the bathroom and ran off down the stairs.
They’ve all gone mad. Everyone I know is acting out of character. The polecat’s being nice, Rupert’s being ungentlemanly, and Johnny Whitaker’s started talking about sex. Unless that’s what they’ve always been like, only I never realized. I need some fresh air.
It was still raining, but she went out of one of the back doors and on to the lawn. The air seemed mild and she walked to the terraced garden, which dropped steeply down to the river. She could see it racing far below. I shall have to go and find Maddy and May, she thought. But instead of going to their room she continued to stand watching the river. What would it be like to be part of it? To be plunged over the weirs and swept at last out to sea? Maybe I have got a death-wish. But I’m not actually trying to kill myself. I’d know what to do if I were, and this time I’d succeed. The razor blade held firmly, warm water flowing, and the blood dripping red, red, on the white enamel, then swirling away. I would have succeeded that time too, if my father hadn’t happened to come back. Hammering at the bathroom door, then the wood splintering inwards as consciousness slipped.
A branch was carried dancing downstream as she watched. Maybe she had been cheating. Not fully committed to staying alive. She thought back to that moment of fierce decision: I choose to live. For many years it had been little more than a stubborn resolution to see the thing through, coupled with an intermittent curiosity to find out what would happen next. Nothing had mattered, really, but you may as well live as die. But now – it all seemed to matter so much. Suddenly she saw what she had done. Life had taught her this – that no friend can be trusted. Whenever she had loved someone, she had lost them somehow. Enemies were more reliable. Her actions had been an unacknowledged attempt to escape before she was betrayed again. Yet there was another part of her that continued to believe and trust, and was trying to undo the damage. Why else had she stepped back from the brink and apologized? She stood a moment longer in the rain, then turned and made her way to Maddy’s and May’s room.
They were subdued and embarrassed when she apologized. May began to make tea and Maddy seemed unable to find a single thing to say. Mara would have given anything to hear their normal ludicrous banter.
At last Maddy said: ‘Aren’t you frozen? You’re soaked through.’ But then she appeared to be reminded of ice and drowning, and this avenue of conversation closed abruptly. Mara forced it open again, like the widow who must speak calmly about her dead husband to set her comforters at ease.
‘I know. I was standing watching the river without my coat on.’
They were completely silenced, and then Maddy offered her a sweater. To her relief they began to regain some of their animation as they opened and shut drawers and discussed the merits of various pullovers. By the time they had fixed on a pale blue lambswool sweater of Maddy’s, they were practically themselves again. May handed her a towel and Mara took off her wet blouse.
‘Silk,’ said Maddy accusingly, pointing to Mara’s camisole. Another part of Grandma’s hoard. ‘Don’t you ever wear a bra, then?’
‘Do eunuchs wear jockstraps?’ asked May. They were back on form.
Mara began drying herself.
‘A tattoo,’ said Maddy in astonishment, pointing. ‘I suppose it’s a man-eating dragon? When did you have that done?’
‘When I was eighteen.’
‘Maybe I’ll get myself one,’ said Maddy, peering at it. ‘A nude man on my inner thigh, or something. I’ll ask Johnny Whitaker to pose for me. Does it hurt?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then maybe I won’t.’ She was moving away again when something else caught her eye. ‘What happened to your arms?’
Mara glanced down and saw the bruises. For a moment she could not think, then she realized. ‘It was . . . I don’t know. Nothing,’ she stuttered. �
�I bruise easily.’
‘It looks like hand marks,’ said May, coming over to look.
‘So it does,’ said Maddy. ‘Some great virile male clutched her to his pectorals in a passionate grip.’
She was safe. She knew that they both thought the idea ludicrous.
‘“I’ll tame your proud beauty!” he muttered hoarsely,’ began May.
‘ “Never!” she moaned breathlessly,’ continued Maddy, ‘repelled and yet strangely attracted to her would-be violator.’
‘Feeling his proud manhood thrust against her, through the delicate silk dress, now roughly torn from her shoulders . . .’
Mara began to unravel her long plait and dry her hair, smiling as the story unfolded with orgiastic speed.
She reached for the sweater, but Maddy flourished it defiantly: ‘ “You may force my body, but you will never conquer my heart!” ’ she bellowed. ‘Except he does, of course, in the end.’ She handed over the sweater.
Mara looked at it dubiously. ‘Haven’t you got anything darker?’
‘Oh!’ said Maddy in plummy tones. ‘Her Royal Highness Princess Mara of Iceland would prefer something darker, would she?’
Mara snatched the sweater and pulled it on. The others stood back to survey the effect.
‘I hate you,’ said Maddy. ‘It looks far better on you than it does on me. Why do you wear dark colours all the time? You look like the undertaker’s daughter. I’d lend you a skirt too, only you’re so thin –’
‘Painfully thin,’ interjected May. ‘Skinny, even.’
‘– that it would fall off you.’
They had forgotten about the bruises.
Mara climbed the stairs to her room several hours later. The dining-room had seemed a different place. She sat with Maddy and May, and the faces of those around her had looked benign, not hostile. The polecat came out of his room as she was unlocking her door. His eyes swept over her.
‘Good God. Have you been having sex?’
‘Get lost.’
He drew close, reached out a hand and took one of her curls.
‘I did you a favour earlier,’ he said, twining the curl in and out of his fingers. ‘At least, I think I did.’ She waited to see what he would say. ‘It must be this colour. You look beautiful.’ She stared. ‘I was in the college office and a girl was asking for the spare key to your door.’ She stood dumbstruck by both these statements. Beautiful? What girl? ‘The porter was about to hand them over, but I intervened. She said she was your friend, and that it was all right – you’d given permission.’ Joanna. ‘I may possibly have been a little unkind,’ said the polecat thoughtfully. ‘At any rate, she left with a trembling lower lip.’ It must have been her.
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