by Diana Finley
‘Hello! I’m Karen. I’m your next-door neighbour, on that side.’ She pointed to the left of the door, and strode into the room with her hand outstretched, first to Mother, who shook it hesitantly, and then to me. I managed to return the handshake and smile at the visitor. She gave a snorting laugh.
‘Wow! You’ve certainly got yourself organised!’ Karen exclaimed, looking around the room. The three of us were standing in an awkward huddle in the tiny space between the bed, the cupboards and the desk.
‘Do sit down, dear,’ Mother said indicating the upright wooden chair, which she pulled from under the desk and turned to face the bed, making even less space. Karen sat and turned to me.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Oh … sorry … I’m Alison and this is Mo … I mean my mother …’
‘Dorothy,’ Mother said.
‘Alison … and Dorothy. It’s very nice to meet you.’
‘Of course, I won’t be staying long,’ Mother said. ‘I’m just settling Alison in. I need to get home soon.’
I looked at her, feeling panic start to creep up my spine again.
‘Why don’t I make us all a cup of tea?’ said Karen. ‘The kitchen’s just three doors down the corridor. Have you seen it yet? It’s very nice, very well equipped. Well, I’ll just go and make us some tea … oh, or would you rather have coffee?’
‘Tea would be very nice, dear. We both take milk, if you have it, no sugar.’
‘Right-oh. I’ll bring three cuppas here – my room’s an awful tip! Be back in a minute!’
Karen stood up and stomped noisily from the room.
‘What a nice, friendly girl, wasn’t she? Polite too. How kind to bring us tea.’
‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘very thoughtful. I wonder what sort of tea …?’
‘Now then, don’t forget what we talked about, dear. We’ll just enjoy it, whatever sort it is.’
* * *
Later that evening I sat in the darkening room alone. Mother had gone back home to Nottingham. Karen had cheerfully said she’d call for me at around seven, so we could go across the yard to the refectory together and have supper. After she had picked up her mugs and left my room, I heard her voice and several other excited female voices in the corridor outside and in nearby rooms: greetings, exclamations, comparing rooms, shrieking and laughter. I could hear them asking each other questions and making conversation – just as Mother and I had practised many times. I knew I should join them, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t open the door.
Karen didn’t call for me. I suppose she must have forgotten – she had so many other people to talk to. I couldn’t bring myself to walk across the yard by myself, so I stayed in my room. I had a biscuit and an apple for supper.
Much later, when all was quiet apart from a few sighs and murmurings from behind some of the closed doors, I crept down the corridor in my dressing gown to the toilets and washroom, clutching my wash bag and hot-water bottle. After washing I filled the hot-water bottle from a kettle in the kitchen and hurried back to my room. I tried to calm my tense stomach by holding the warmth closely and curling up, like a prawn, Mother always said.
* * *
My interview with the college principal the next morning did not begin well. I found her terrifying. Dr Bessel (one of the second-year students had informed me at breakfast that her nickname was “Dr Bestial”) was a tall, angular woman in late middle age, with lank, greying, dark hair pulled into an untidy bun. Her expression was severe and distant. Mother’s letter was visible on the desk in front of her. She nodded towards the chair opposite. I understood this to be an invitation to sit.
‘Your mother seems to think you are a frail and needy being, Miss Brown. Why exactly is that? You don’t seem to have had any problems achieving top A-level grades.’ She appeared to have a whole file of information about me.
‘I … I find it difficult to talk to other people of my own age … you know – to make friends. I get … er … very nervous, very anxious …’
‘That is not unusual in a young person, Miss Brown.’
‘Mother thought I’d be better at a university like Durham, with the collegiate system; that it would be more … nurturing.’
Dr Bessel looked at me quizzically and did not comment.
‘Um … I don’t have the same sense of humour as most other people seem to have. In fact, I don’t understand their humour most of the time. So they think I’m odd. Weird, they often say. Perhaps I’m too serious.’
Dr Bessel peered at me over her glasses. Her mouth puckered in a twitchy sort of way, as if she was trying to smile, but couldn’t quite manage it.
‘I have to say, Miss Brown, that your description of yourself accords remarkably with what has often been said about me. I do not consider a lack of the hysterical humour so many young people demonstrate to be a fault. Indeed, seriousness could be regarded as a desirable quality, particularly in an establishment devoted to learning and education, such as this one.’
‘I see …’
‘I suggest you devote yourself to study. Make that your priority for the present. Enjoy exploring your new courses. Make the most of the library and the other facilities the university has to offer. If you meet other like-minded students, all well and good – enjoy their company. If not, well you wouldn’t miss them much anyway, would you?’
‘No …’
‘Make an appointment with my secretary to see me again in four or five weeks, and let me know how you’re getting on, will you? Good luck, Miss Brown.’
‘Thank you, Dr Bessel.’
* * *
Karen and some of the other girls in my corridor did their best to “take me in hand”. This appeared primarily to involve encouraging me to dress differently, to develop an interest in some of the male students with whom they had become friendly, and to join a number of clubs and societies. I was regarded as a sort of “work in progress”, not unkindly, but slightly despairingly. Just like the girls at school, the other students expected me to participate in the current “youth culture” as befitted 1962, and to share with them a particular taste in fashion, music, films and politics. Their suggestions were delivered in good humour, and without the malice I’d experienced at school, but with some determination nevertheless.
‘Oh, Alison,’ Karen would exclaim as I emerged from my room, ‘haven’t you got some jeans to wear?’ or ‘What about taking that skirt up a couple of inches, or six …?!’
Karen even took it upon herself to turn up the hem of my favourite skirt – cutting off the excess, so there was no going back. I agreed to wear it only with my thickest tights, and even then felt dreadfully exposed.
Durham was far too cold for wearing miniskirts.
* * *
I didn’t enjoy that early time at university, but in some ways I did learn to adjust to the routines and expectations, and felt proud of myself for “settling in”, as Mother called it. Yet, however friendly the other students tried to be, I felt their friendship to be superficial. Mother and I wrote each other long letters at least once a week. Every fortnight or so, I would wait for one of the telephones next to the Junior Common Room to be free, and would ring Mother. It wasn’t very private.
‘How are you getting on, Alison dear?’
‘Oh all right, I suppose. Durham’s very beautiful when it’s frosty.’
‘How lovely. And what have you been doing?’
‘Well … working a lot, of course. Going to the library. Walking by the river. I love doing that.’
‘That sounds nice … not too cold, I hope? You must remember to wrap up warm … and what about friends?’
‘Karen’s always friendly – and the other girls here too. There are some quite nice people in my Maths lectures. There’s this boy called Phil who does the same subsidiaries as me and he’s in my tutorial group. He bought me a cup of coffee in the library the other day.’
‘Well that was good of him. Is he a … nice boy?’
‘I think so – he
was talking about calculus with me. The other girls say he’s cool.’
‘Cool? What does that mean?’
‘I’m not sure. I think it means they like him.’
‘Well, just be careful, dear.’
‘Mother?’
‘Yes, dear?’
‘I miss being at home. I miss you, Mother.’
‘I miss you too, Alison, but you’re doing very well. I’m so proud of you. It won’t be long ’til the Christmas holidays, will it?’
* * *
Towards the end of the first term (they called it Michaelmas term), Karen told me there was going to be a party at one of the boys’ “digs” and we were all invited.
‘I’m not very keen on parties.’
‘Oh come on, Alison! This will be brilliant – a proper party – for grown-ups, not a kiddies’ party. There’ll be fabulous music, and dancing, and booze, and gorgeous boys of course. You’ll love it, you’ll see.’
‘I’m not sure …’
‘Now, I absolutely insist. We’ll help you dress just right. You’d look beautiful if you weren’t just a little bit … square. You’ll see, the boys will love you.’
Penny, who was slightly built like me (I learned that “square” did not refer to my shape, but to the way I dressed), lent me a pair of close-fitting, deep-blue crushed velvet trousers. These clung tightly to my hips and thighs like a second skin, flaring out below the knees. I quite liked them, and at least they kept my legs warmer than the miniskirts. I had a white gypsy-style shirt of my own that the others approved of. This was topped by an embroidered waistcoat provided by Helen. Karen undid my ponytail and brushed my fair hair out to its full length. The girls all crowded around me watching their handiwork progressing.
‘I know!’ shouted Lisa, and she rushed off to her room. She returned a few moments later clutching a long, silky purple scarf. I had worn hair bands as a child, in the style of an Alice band, but Lisa fastened the scarf around my head, crown-like, its loose ends flowing over my shoulders. The other girls shrieked with delight, as excited as if I were a snowman they had just created and decorated to perfection. They dragged me to the bathroom to look in the full-length mirror. I was astonished. I hardly recognised my reflection.
‘You look amazing, Alison, absolutely gorgeous!’ said Karen.
We tripped down the wooded pathways alongside the river, overshadowed as always by the cathedral – trying to avoid stepping in muddy puddles with our unsuitable shoes. They hadn’t allowed me to wear socks. Helen was even wearing sandals – in December! The others linked arms and giggled about nothing in particular. We’d shared a bottle of wine brought by Lisa’s visiting brother before setting out. Drinking wine always seemed to precipitate somewhat silly jolliness. I felt a little light-headed and dizzy.
The party was in a narrow three-storey terraced house up one of the steep, cobbled streets a little out of the centre of the city. It was rented by five male third-year students. When we arrived, the house was already bursting with people and noise. There was a lot of laughing and hugging as we greeted the hosts and other students we recognised. The music pounded through my whole body like a drill. I was starting to feel shaky. I realised I hadn’t eaten since lunchtime. Karen steered me towards the kitchen, where there was a mess of dirty and clean cups and glasses and miscellaneous bottles. Phil, from my Maths tutorial group, was standing behind the table, talking to a girl I didn’t know. He turned and saw us.
‘Hi, Karen. Hi, Alison – oh wow! You look terrific! What do you want to drink, red or white – or beer?’
‘Um … is there any orange … or water?’
‘Plenty of water in the tap if you get thirsty. Here – start with this white.’
Karen disappeared upstairs with her drink. Phil kept looking at me, shaking his head and grinning, as if he’d never seen me before. He took hold of my hand and led me into the largest room, where some people were gyrating wildly to the thump of the music. Others in pairs grasped each other in tight clinches and shuffled about more slowly.
‘Want to dance?’ Phil asked and immediately started to throw his body about, as if in extreme pain. He reached his hand out to me and pulled me towards him. I sipped frantically at my glass of wine and tried to bob about in some semblance of what the others were doing. It felt ridiculous. I felt ridiculous.
The next hour or two were agony for me. My head was pounding as if keeping time with the relentless drum beat. Phil wanted to “show me off” to some of his friends, but since it was impossible to hear anyone above the noise, conversation was not an option. I wondered how soon I could reasonably make some excuse and leave. As the evening wore on painfully, Phil drew me closer and closer when “dancing”. My only escape was to rush over to the table at the side of the room, where our drinks had been parked, and periodically take further sips. Before long I felt as though my head would explode, and waves of nausea churned my stomach, as if an octopus was waving its tentacles and swimming back and forth inside me.
‘I’m feeling a bit dizzy …’
Phil clutched me tighter and whispered in my ear, ‘Just hold on to me. I’ll look after you.’
‘I’m going to be sick!’
I tore myself away from him and rushed up to the bathroom, just in time. I bathed my face in cold water, and drank its heavenly coolness.
Phil was waiting as I tottered down the stairs. He held out my glass.
‘Phil … I really need to go back. I … I … want a cup of tea, not wine, and I want to lie down.’
‘That’s a good idea.’ He grinned at me. ‘OK, I’ll take you back, but it’s still so early. Let’s go to my place first, shall we – it’s just around the corner. I’ll make you some tea and … you can have a rest. Then I’ll take you back.’
‘Oh, thank you,’ I said gratefully.
Phil’s digs were in a nearby terrace – a mean, shabby house.
‘Don’t you live in college? I thought all first years did.’
‘I applied too late. All the college accommodation had gone … This is OK. I’m more independent here. The landlady’s old and deaf – she won’t hear us. We’ll be fine.’
He opened the front door and then unlocked a downstairs room immediately on the left of a steep, narrow staircase. The room smelt of stale, burned toast. It felt damp and chilly. He locked the door, knelt in front of the gas fire and lit it with a match. I was shivering.
‘Soon warm up,’ he said cheerfully. He pulled me down to a threadbare rug in front of the fire and put his arms around me.
‘Better?’
‘Mmm …’
He grasped my chin and turned my face towards him. To my surprise he kissed me on the lips, just gently at first, as if he was being friendly and comforting. I tried to move my head away, without being rude, but he held me fast. Then the shock of his exploratory tongue horrified me. I froze and pulled away.
‘Tea …?’ I blurted.
‘Oh … OK.’
He got up and put a kettle on an electric hotplate in the corner. He pulled two mugs from a bookshelf. I hoped they were clean. The room was sparsely furnished. There was a narrow single bed with a faded, green eiderdown, a bedside table, an old wooden wardrobe, and a wooden table and chair. I headed towards the chair.
‘Sit on the bed – it’s much more comfy, and warmer.’
I sat uneasily. The bed felt lumpy and it was so high my feet only reached the floor by pointing my toes. Phil brought two steaming mugs and placed them carefully on the bedside table. It was marked with many rings from previous mugs.
‘Sorry, but there’s no milk.’
‘Oh … never mind …’
I didn’t get the chance to finish my sentence. Phil hurled himself at me, knocking me backwards on the bed. I was so astonished. I could do nothing but squirm on my back, waving my legs in the air, as helpless as an upturned beetle. I was amazed at how strong he was. He ground his mouth onto mine, his tongue pushing and searching once more. I think I made a strangulate
d squeak. I was afraid I would choke. He pulled back for a moment.
‘Oh, you’re gorgeous,’ he gasped, breathing heavily.
‘Phil, Phil, stop it!’
But he didn’t stop. His hands were everywhere: reaching under my shirt, touching my breasts, reaching into my trousers. He grabbed one of my flailing hands and pressed it onto his crotch.
I screamed at the top of my voice and kept screaming. With all the strength I could muster I pushed him off and scrambled out from under him. I stood up still shrieking, and trembling all over.
‘Stop it!’ he hissed. ‘You’ll wake the whole street, for God’s sake! What the hell is the matter with you? You were happy to come home with me – I thought you wanted it! Just stop screaming!’
‘I’m going home! Leave me alone. Don’t you touch me – don’t ever touch me again!’
I grabbed my jacket and bag and rattled the door – which was locked – frantically.
‘Open it! Unlock the door!’
He found the key and unlocked the door. ‘Go on then – good riddance!’
Just before he slammed the door shut behind me, he spat out in a loud whisper, ‘There are words for girls like you!’
I ran down his street, and the next, and the next, tripping on the cobbles, chanting under my breath as the cold air revived me, ‘Never, never, never again! Never, never, never again!’
I ran alongside the river through the dark, suddenly illuminated by streetlights and then cast into the shadows again; past towering trees, and along more streets. It was late and few people were about. An elderly couple with a small white dog were walking arm in arm along the path. They stopped and turned to look curiously at me. A middle-aged man, starting to walk over the bridge, called out, ‘Are you all right, pet?’
‘No! No! No!’ I shrieked, as I ran. No man will ever come near me again, I told myself, never, never, never.