A Girl's Guide to Modern European Philosophy

by Charlotte Greig

“I don't know, I think I must be getting flu or something. I don't think I can get up.”

  I shut my eyes and lay back down again. “I'll probably be all right if I get a bit more sleep.”

  I began to drift off, but Jason shook me by the shoulder.

  “Come on,” he said. “Let's get going.”

  I took no notice, but then his fingers tightened and began to dig into my flesh.

  “Ow,” I said. “Stop it. It's not my fault if I don't feel well.”

  “Just get up, you've got five minutes.”

  I heard him walk out of the room, slamming the door as he went. I lay back in the bed for a moment, savoring the warmth of the sheets and the softness of the pillows beneath my head. I would have given anything to stay in bed, but I knew Jason was in a mood now, and I'd have to get up.

  The room was cold and I dressed as quickly as I could, then picked up my mug of tea and went into the bathroom to clean my teeth. When I looked in the mirror, I saw that my hair was tangled and messy, but I couldn't be bothered to brush it. I couldn't face putting any make-up on at this time of the morning either, so I just splashed my face with water and wiped the sleep out of my eyes. I looked at myself again, bleary-eyed in the mirror. My skin looked a sickly yellow and there were bags under my eyes, but I was reasonably clean at least, and that would have to do.

  I went out into the hallway to get my jacket, wrapping Jason's big woolen scarf around my neck. He was busy packing up the stuff for the market. He was mostly dealing in silver now, so there were only a few cardboard boxes and carrier bags, but they were pretty heavy to carry around. I helped him take it all down to the car, wishing I was still in bed as he slammed the front door shut and the cold wind from the sea whistled up Brunswick Square, stinging our eyes.

  We got into the Morgan, but when Jason switched on the ignition it wouldn't start. I was secretly hoping that the car would break down and we could go back to bed, but Jason kept trying, revving the engine until eventually it spluttered into life and we pulled out of the square. The streets were deserted so he put his foot down and we sped along Western Avenue, the windows and doors rattling, and out onto the London Road.

  Conversation wasn't easy in the Morgan at the best of times, because it was so noisy and drafty in there, but that day we didn't speak a word to each other all the way up to Bermondsey. I looked out of the window as the dark shadows of trees and fields sped by, hoping the sky would lighten as we drove along, but it was too early for that. By the time we got to the market, it was still dark, and my feet and hands were numb with cold.

  Jason parked the car and we carried the bags and boxes over to his stall to set up. On the way, he said hello to practically everyone we met, while I nodded vaguely in the background, hoping they'd get on with it so we could put down our gear. When we'd got everything over to the stall, Jason began to lay it all out, unrolling the felt that he kept the silver in, and getting out the little toothbrush and tin of silver polish that he carried with him. When he'd finished, he went off to find us some coffees, wandering through the stalls chatting to people, and picking through the piles of stuff dumped on the tables to find the best bargains before the crowds came in.

  I'd always liked coming to Bermondsey up to now. It was cold and dark and damp at that time of the morning, but there was a friendly, conspiratorial air among the stallholders at the beginning of the day, as if we were in on something special that ordinary people wouldn't understand. Only that morning I began to realize I wasn't in on anything at all, and never had been. I was just Jason's girlfriend, the one who nodded at people in the background when he talked to them, and minded the stall while he went off round the market wheeling and dealing; the one who never knew how much anything cost and had to run off and find him whenever someone asked.

  “Ah, that's a nice piece.”

  Vivienne from the next-door stall was peering over her glasses at me. She had her eye on a silver sugar shaker that was lying half-unwrapped in a cardboard box behind the stall. It was pretty but entirely pointless, like everything else in our stall.

  “Is Jason around?”

  “No, he's getting us some coffees.”

  “All right, dear, I'll talk to him later.”

  “OK.”

  There was a pause. “Cold today, isn't it.”

  “Yes.”

  Another pause. “You all right? You look a bit peaky.”

  “I'm fine. Just a bit chilly, that's all.”

  “That man's not looking after you properly. You need feeding up.”

  Vivienne was a middle-aged woman with bouffant blonde hair and a large bosom, on which rested a gold chain attached to a pair of pince-nez spectacles. She was always well wrapped up against the cold, and today she'd brought a thermos of tea and a bag of sausage rolls with her for internal sustenance.

  “Here, have one of these,” she said.

  “Thanks.” I took one and swallowed it down. It was warm and greasy and delicious. I realized I was starving. I hoped Jason would remember to bring me something to eat when he came back with the coffees.

  I picked up the tin of polish and the toothbrush, unwrapped a tarnished silver butter knife, and began to clean it. Then I found a salt cellar, a tiny blue glass bowl set in a silver dish on legs, and cleaned that too. Next I polished up a ceremonial spoon with an enamel flag set into the handle at the top, and after that a curly art nouveau picture frame with a broken hinge at the back. After a while, I stopped because my fingers were raw with cold and the silver polish was beginning to bite into them. By now, it was getting light. An hour had gone by, and Jason still hadn't come back.

  To cheer myself up, I decided to read some Nietzsche, and fished in my bag for The Genealogy of Morals, but I couldn't find it. In the rush to leave the house I'd left it behind. I realized I was stranded now, getting colder and colder, without even a book to read to pass the time.

  I began to sift through the contents of my bag, just for something to do, and eventually came across the folded piece of paper with the Human, All Too Human quotes on it. My hands were getting stiff from the cold, but I unfolded it and began to read, finding it hard to concentrate because I was in such a filthy temper.

  There is a middle point on the way, which a man having such a fate cannot remember later without being moved: a pale, fine light and sunny happiness are characteristic of it, a feeling of birdlike freedom, birdlike perspective, birdlike arrogance, some third thing in which curiosity and a tender contempt are united.

  Nietzsche's words floated towards me like a warm breeze.

  No longer chained by hatred and love, one lives without Yes, without No, voluntarily near, voluntarily far, most preferably slipping away, avoiding, fluttering on, gone again, flying upward again.

  I stopped reading, closed my eyes and sighed. What was the matter with me? What was I doing, sitting here in the freezing cold like a fool, waiting for Jason to come back to me? What had become of me? I'd chained myself to him, allowed him to control my every move. But it didn't have to be like that. In reality, I was as free as a bird.

  “Vivienne?” I said, getting up.

  Vivienne was reading the newspaper, drinking milky tea from her thermos cap and munching her way through the last of the sausage rolls. She took off her pince-nez and looked over at me.

  “Mmm?”

  “Could you mind the stall for me for a minute?”

  “Of course, dear.” She went back to her paper.

  I set off through the market, thrusting my hands into my pockets to warm them up. As I walked along, my head down, I caught sight of a cardboard box sitting in a puddle on the ground, underneath a stall. It was full of bundles of letters in a neat hand, tied up with faded ribbon. All the ink had run where the paper had got wet. Next to it, lying open in the gutter, was a woman's purse, the leather cracked and stained, and inside it an old-fashioned powder compact and a lipstick. I looked away. I realized I hated this place. Here was the detritus of people's lives, on sale for a pittance.
I couldn't stand the sight of all these private objects that had once been kept carefully on dressers and tucked away in drawers, now tipped out on tables and on pavements for scavengers to rummage through. I promised myself never to come up to Bermondsey with Jason again.

  As I wandered through the stalls, I saw a van with an open-front hatch in the distance and walked towards it to see if it was serving coffees. As I came near, I saw that it was, and that a few people were clustered around it, leaning against the stalls and talking. One of them was Jason. He was deep in discussion with another antique dealer, a well-dressed man older than himself wearing a gray cashmere coat and a red scarf. Neither of them noticed me as I walked by. I joined the queue to get a coffee, ordering myself a bacon sandwich as well. While I was waiting, Jason caught sight of me and waved me over, but I turned away, ignoring him, and looked in the opposite direction, sipping my coffee. When the sandwich was ready, I picked it up, paid for it and walked on without giving him a backward glance.

  I wandered aimlessly around the market for a bit longer, eating my sandwich and drinking my coffee. After a while, I began to feel better, so I headed back to the stall. When I got there, Jason was waiting.

  “Where the hell have you been?” he asked.

  Vivienne looked up from her paper.

  “Just went to get something to eat,” I said, as evenly as I could.

  A customer came up as I came round to the back of the stall. He talked to her for a bit and then, when she'd gone, turned to me.

  “I thought I told you not to leave the stall.” He spoke in a low voice so Vivienne couldn't hear.

  “I thought you said you were going to get some coffees.”

  “I was, but …”

  Vivienne looked up again.

  “I'll talk to you later,” Jason said as another customer came up.

  “Fine.”

  We said nothing more to each other all morning. When the market was over we packed up our things in silence, said good-bye to Vivienne, and walked back to the car carrying the boxes and bags. It was only once we were sitting inside with the engine running that Jason spoke to me.

  “Don't you ever do that again,” he said, staring straight ahead.

  I looked out through the windscreen. It had two dirty arcs on it from the windscreen wipers.

  “I'm sorry,” I said, “but I was freezing. And you were gone for hours …”

  “I don't mean leaving the stall,” he said. “Though that was bad enough. I didn't want Vivienne to see that shaker.”

  “Why not?”

  “Never you mind. What I'm talking about is the way you cut me dead while I was talking to Dalton.”

  “Who's Dalton?”

  A gust of wind blew up outside, making a moaning noise around the car.

  “He just happens to be the guy who's interested in the milk-teeth box, that's all.”

  “Well, I'm sorry,” I said, “but I didn't see you. Where were you standing?”

  Jason leaned over and gripped my arm. “Don't fucking lie to me,” he said. “You saw me and I saw you. I told Dalton you were my girlfriend and then I waved at you to come over but you ignored me. I felt a bloody idiot.”

  “Well, I don't see why it matters so much.” I pushed his hand away and gave him a light slap on the arm as I did.

  The next thing I knew was that Jason's arm flew out, banging me hard across the shoulder. I gasped in shock, putting my hand up in front of my face and cowering behind it as he pulled back his arm, but then he lowered his hand into his lap.

  The wind began to blow harder, rocking the car. We both stared out of the windscreen for a few moments before Jason leaned forward and switched on the ignition. I noticed his hands were shaking.

  “I'm sorry,” he said. “I shouldn't have done that.”

  I didn't say anything.

  “It's just that this deal is so important to me,” he went on. “You don't seem to understand what's going on. This is my big break.”

  There was a long silence and then he turned to me. His face looked pinched from the cold, or from worry.

  “What's the matter, Susie? You don't seem to be interested in the business anymore. What's going on?”

  I felt like asking him whether he'd ever taken the slightest interest in my business, philosophy, or ever would, but I didn't dare.

  “Nothing,” I said. “I'm just tired, that's all. I've got a lot of work on at the moment.”

  Jason turned his head and smiled at me. “You're a funny kid,” he said, revving up the engine and pulling out into the traffic.

  “Lots of essays to write, eh?” he continued, as the car picked up speed. “Never mind, you'll get them done. You're a brainy girl.”

  He was trying to be nice, but there was an air of false bravado in the way he spoke. We slowed down as the traffic came to a halt.

  “Where do you want to go?” he said.

  “I've got to get back to Sussex,” I said. “Can you drop me off at a station somewhere?”

  He glanced nervously over at me as he drove along. “OK,” he said. “If you're sure you have to get back. I was thinking we could stay up here for a few days with Bear.”

  “I can't,” I said. “I've got a lecture today.”

  We didn't say much else on the way to the station, but whenever he stopped at traffic lights, he put his hand on my shoulder and rubbed it, and once he put his arm round me and burrowed his head into my hair. The traffic was heavy and the journey seemed to go on for hours, but eventually we came to the station and he parked alongside it to let me out. Before I got out, he leaned over to me and kissed me.

  “I'm sorry, baby,” he said. “I really am.”

  “When are you getting back to Brighton?” I said, ignoring his apology.

  “Later tonight, probably,” he replied. “If you're staying down.”

  “Yes, but what time?”

  He looked at me, his eyes narrowing.

  “Why?”

  “No reason. I just like to know when you're coming home, that's all.”

  “Hmm.” He looked thoughtful. “Well, I'm not sure yet. But it'll probably be pretty late. Don't wait up for me.”

  “OK.” I leaned over and pecked him on the cheek. “I won't. Bye.”

  He caught me under the chin and kissed me again, this time on the lips. “Bye, Susie Q. Be good. See you later.”

  I got out of the car and stood in the wind, watching as Jason roared off into the traffic. I was shivering with cold, but I waited until the yellow Morgan disappeared out of sight. Then I turned and headed into the station to catch my train.

  chapter 11

  I'D ARRANGED TO MEET ROB in the lobby of the Student Union hall on campus, but by the time I got there the meeting was in full swing. Rob was standing by the door at the back of the hall, looking intently at the stage, holding a pile of leaflets, so I went over and stood beside him.

  “Sorry I'm late.”

  “Shh,” he said, without turning his head. “We're about to take a vote.”

  I looked around. The hall was packed, and people were moving about noisily at the front. On the platform was a trestle table with a row of blokes sitting at it, smoking and drinking beer and shuffling bits of paper around. They were all dressed identically, in donkey jackets, and all of them had Zapata mustaches and black-rimmed glasses. In the middle of the row, standing up, was the leader of the Student Union, Kit Kelly, a tall, imposing figure with long, wavy hair and broad shoulders, wearing a black leather jacket. I'd seen him many times before on campus, striding purposefully around in knee-high bikers' boots with buckles up the sides.

  I couldn't make out exactly what was going on, but Kelly said something and there was a general booing, and then everyone put their hands up and said “Aye” and there was a loud cheer. Immediately afterwards, the meeting broke up and everyone began to head for the door. Rob pushed some of the leaflets into my hand and started to give the rest out as the students passed by, so I did the same. They were roneoed
sheets covered in purple ink, and I noticed there was purple ink on Rob's fingers as well. Most of the students shoved past me pretending not to see me, but a few of them took the leaflets without looking at me, glanced at them, and then threw them on the floor in the lobby outside.

  We stood there handing out leaflets until everyone had gone. A cleaning lady appeared in the lobby with a black plastic bag and began to pick up the leaflets that had been thrown on the floor, putting them into the bag. After that she walked round the hall, clearing away glasses of beer and plastic cups of coffee with cigarette ends swilling about in them, tipping the liquid into a bucket as she went. A few moments later, a man with a broom came in and began to sweep the hall, and they both started grumbling about the mess.

  “OK, let's split,” said Rob, dumping the rest of his leaflets on the floor by the door.

  I glanced over at the cleaners, who were glaring at us.

  “Shouldn't we put them in a bin somewhere?”

  Rob seemed not to hear me. “I need a drink, let's get down to the bar.”

  I ignored the cleaners, pretending not to notice Rob's leaflets on the floor, but I hung on to my pile as we went down the stairs and threw them in a bin outside the Falmer Bar. I kept one of them to have a look at when we went into the bar, and sat down to read it while Rob was getting the drinks. It was headed “The Chile Solidarity Campaign” and was urging students to boycott lectures in an effort to hasten the downfall of Augusto Pinochet and the demise of U.S. capitalism.

  “So what do you think?” he said when he came back. “Not a bad job, eh?”

  “But how's it going to help?” I said.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, why should Pinochet or the Chilean people care if we go to lectures or not? Why should anybody care?”

  “We can only do what we can.” He sounded offended. “I should have thought that was obvious. We can withdraw our labor power, it's the only weapon we have.”

  “But it's not as though we're driving trains, is it?” I was trying to be polite. I knew he had just spent hours copying the leaflets. “Nobody's really going to suffer if we stay home, are they? The lecturers will still get paid if we don't go to lectures. The only people who will miss out will be us.”