Engleby (7 page)

It was one a.m. in the grey sodium light with the wailing music and the black ground with its spattered chewing gum and cigarette ends. I had started to pay too much attention to things. It was almost as though I could see right through them into the molecules that made them. And that awful music. I suppose my mind was trying too hard to get a grip on this place, to anchor it for me, because I had the strong impression that I was really outside time or place, that the hostile otherness of my surroundings was such that my own personality was starting to disintegrate. I was vanishing. My character, my identity, had unravelled. I was a particle of fear.

I guess I was a little lonely then.

In general, in less extreme moments, lonely looks after itself. It helps you develop strategies that reinforce it. The comfort of the dark cinema and the company of the screen actors prevent you meeting anyone. Lonely’s like any other organism: competitive and resourceful in the struggle to perpetuate itself.

I don’t remember how I got to Istanbul.

There was a meeting of Jen Soc on Monday, and Jennifer, who is now officially the secretary, was of course present at the meeting of her own society. She has had her hair cut a little shorter and she was wearing a corduroy skirt, just above the knee, with cowboy boots and navy blue tights. I don’t like the way people change over the long vacation. It’s not as bad as schooldays, naturally, when a May child returns a man in September, but it’s still unsettling.

Among the urgent matters we discussed were the mobilisation of American planes from the nearby airbase during the Yom Kippur War (I heard them thundering over Parker’s Piece on my way back from dinner in the cheese-pie pub; it was pretty exciting; I hope the crews will come and sign the ceiling in the Kestrel on their return) and the CIA coup that deposed President Allende in Chile.

We will no longer contemplate Chilean wine, though I’m happy to say that under Jennifer’s guidance we do now have bottles of something red called Hirondelle, on sale for ten pence a glass. I think ‘hirondelle’ means ‘swallow’ in French – the bird, that is, not the gulp, though gulp is what’s best to do with it, so perhaps someone at Peter Dominic’s had a sense of humour.

When we were clearing up, I noticed that a letter had fallen out of Jennifer’s bag.

Without thinking, I slipped it into the pocket of my coat. Back in my room in Clock Court, I examined it beneath the fixed Anglepoise. It was addressed in her writing to Mr and Mrs R.P. Arkland at an address in Lymington. It had a second-class stamp on it.

I should have taken it back to Jennifer, but I thought I’d just post it for her the next day. Then, at about eleven, when I got up, I remembered that there was a photocopier in the porters’ lodge. But those grey and surly men are nosey; they always read your stuff. There was also a copier in the issues section of the University Library, but that meant filling in forms. Then I remembered the general post office in St Andrew’s Street.

First I went to my small pantry and boiled the kettle. Then I held Jennifer’s letter in the steam and prised it open with a knife.

I took the letter to the post office and copied it on to slimy grey sheets that slid from the side of the machine. Then I returned to my room, refolded and reinserted the original and resealed the envelope, which was now dry, with the help of a trace of cow gum from a glass bottle. I tried to keep the glue light, to replicate the envelope’s own flimsy closure. Then I walked back to the post office (I didn’t want to stick it in the local box), posted it, returned – at last – to my room and sat down with a cup of Nescafé to read it. This is what it said:

Dear Mum and Dad,

Thank you for the letter and the tights and the cheque. All much appreciated.

It’s really great living in a house. Anne and Molly are sharing a room at the moment because there was some sort of flood at the back and Nick refused to budge, even though he’s got the best room by far. Typical man! Actually, it’s best that they share as neither wants to share with Nick . . .

I’ve done what you suggested, Mum, and painted the kitchen, and that has certainly cheered it up a lot. I also found a nice old armchair in a junk shop for my room.

The only thing is that it’s so cold! God knows what it’s going to be like in January. The gas fire in the sitting room works on a meter and no one ever wants to fork out for it. Nick always says he’s going out, so he won’t be using it.

As a result we don’t use that room much and everyone goes to her own room to work, which is fair but a bit antisocial.

We have a rota for cooking and a kitty for shopping. Anne’s the best cook but Nick complains she spends too much on food (meat especially) so we’re going almost completely vegetarian. As Anne says, we can always be carnivorous at lunchtime. We each have a separate shelf in the fridge for our stuff, but even between four of us there never seems to be any milk.

The other problem is keys. It’s just a single Yale lock, but Nick’s is on semi-permanent loan to Hannah, who’s meant to have one cut for herself but never seems to get round to it. So there’s often a late-night banging at the door.

As well as a duvet and a rug, I sleep in my ski socks and don’t turn the gas off in my room till the very last thing. Then I sprint across the floor and fly into bed.

But I love getting up in the morning. There’s a tortoiseshell cat who lives opposite and he’s half adopted us. I pull back the curtain and see him on the roof, stretching in the thin early sun. I love the jumble of small slate roofs on the brick terraced cottages. I lie watching for a few minutes while an ‘inane disc jockey’ (Dad) babbles on the radio. Then I put on socks, slippers, sweater and coat and go down to the kitchen, and, while the kettle’s on, open the back door to the cat and call him in. He tumbles off the roof of the shed and comes shyly to the step where (if lucky) he gets a saucer of milk and a stroke.

I make tea and drop a mug off for Anne (not for Molly – no lecture till eleven) and go up and do my teeth (more toothpaste always appreciated: v exp). Do you really want to know all this?! Skip ahead if it’s boring you, Mum . . .

Find suitable clothes (i.e. woolly, thick ones), make sure I have all the right books and go down for toast, quick Nescaff (if time) and wheel trusty bike out of hall on to street.

It’s misty and cold, but bright as well, and the houses are so minute. They’re like dolls’ cottages. I bicycle slowly (beware Girton calves . . .) down the backstreets and many times see the same town people leaving home, walking to the bus stop, taking in milk bottles. I think this is my favourite time of day. Occasionally I see a furtive undergraduate (male) skulking back to his college after a night out. Naughty boy.

It’s wonderful to watch the town come awake, the shops opening, the buses pushing down St Andrew’s Street from the station. But I prefer the backstreets. I cut down Pembroke Street and Silver Street and over the river and I think of all the people who’ve gone before me – the men in the Cavendish Labs and the Nobel prize-winners and Milton and Darwin and Wordsworth, of course, but mostly of the generations of young men and women who weren’t famous but were so relieved to be here at last and to meet people like themselves, and didn’t mind the freezing cold and no money for the meter and the greasy college breakfast. I think of the men in their tweed jackets with the elbow patches and the bluestockinged women in their clunky shoes and I feel glad for them still.

Incidentally (or ‘incidently’ as Sally would spell it), I am still seeing something of Rob, though I promise you I am not ‘getting serious’ and no, I haven’t forgotten that I have all my life ahead of me, and no I haven’t forgotten that at my age ‘friendship is more important than romance’ (copyright © 1968 by R.P. Arkland, MA; copyright renewed each year since . . .)

I get to the Sidgwick Site at 8.45 and meet up with friends, including Rob, Stewart (if he’s not in London or Hollywood . . .) and various girls from college. The faculty has organised the lectures v well for poor third-years facing Finals Armageddon, so all courses over by lunch. Usu three lectures – say, nine, ten, twelve. From eleven till twelve I might be in the Faculty Library (provided roof not leaking: thank you, Mr James Stirling) or ‘Advanced Research Centre’ – i.e. tearoom. Best lectures from Dr Bivani (female: 19th century) or Mr Richardson (Mod. Europe); worst from horrid Dr Ditchley who is a monumental drag.

Often go back to coll for salad lunch in Upper Chamber (v good value) and in the afternoon I have volleyball on Tue and Thur, which I am really enjoying a lot. I always thought it was a bit of a joke at school, as you know, but in fact I really like it now. If not volleyball, often go to cinema (Arts or one of the mainstream ones) or coll library or to visit. Have met nice boy in Emmanuel (Charlie) reading English with amazing record collection and v amusing room-mate (Myles) from Leeds.

Early Fen darkness at five, sometimes tea in the Whim (known to Charlie and Myles by rude alternative name, I’m sorry to say), maybe go to bookshop or supermarket if I’m cooking. It’s lovely getting back to the house, being the first in and getting it warmed up and cosy – as much as possible, at any rate. Listen to music on big sitting room stereo while kettle boils and make toast. Charlie lent me record by a group called Focus. Dutch, with keyboards, beautiful guitar – ah, but you wouldn’t appreciate it!

On Monday, after supper, it’s Society meeting in Jesus, which means a bit of preparation and homework. Not many people last week, which was disappointing – just the hard core, three or four freshers and that guy Mike I told you about(!).

Most evenings I work for a couple of hours, but I do go out a fair bit too. Rob takes me to various college jazz or folk clubs or sometimes just for a drink to one of the town pubs. The Mitre has a great jukebox. There’s one called the Baron of Beef next door, which is also good fun. Best of all I like the ones in this part of town, away from the centre. Tiny backstreet rooms by the river with small coal fires. Don’t worry, we don’t get drunk.

I finally got to see a rough cut of the film we made in Ireland, and I must say I think it’s really good. Stewart is a very talented guy. There’s one scene I’m in which you’re not going to like – I might as well warn you now. (Though you may never see it. It’s not obligatory. It won’t be on general release, so you’d need to go to a Film Soc special screening. But knowing you, you will. Like that rude book I warned you not to read and you went straight out and bought it.) Hannah is absolutely amazing and makes me look very inadequate. Even when someone else is speaking she seems to fill the screen. Alex is much better than I expected, though a bit eager in places.

There’s so much going on and not enough time to do it all. I’m doing extra French Lang (to help with document research) with a little old lady off Lensfield Road and when I walk back I see the posters in the cottage windows: University String Ensemble,
’Tis Pity She’s a Whore
,
Julius Caesar
at the ADC, Newnham Madrigal Society,
The Good Person of Szechwan
at St John’s . . . I know it’s a cliché, but there aren’t enough hours in the day.

Of course Finals are a worry, but I try not to think about it (them) too much. If I do get a youknowwhat (like the Scottish play, can’t mention the word) it could cause more problems than it solves by more or less obliging me to go into what Rob calls ‘research’. So might be better off with ‘gentleman’s’ degree, Dad. Qué sera, sera, that’s what I say. What an original daughter you have!

I’m glad you enjoyed Penny Martin’s wedding. If you couldn’t get an invite to Princess Anne and Mark Phillips’s, I’m sure Brian and Gail’s was the second best place to be. Did Gail do her special cheesy things? Did Brian make a speech? In which case, is he still going?

It’s nearly midnight. Incidently (Sally again), I read in the paper that Grocer Heath is thinking of introducing a three-day week. I told Rob last night and he said, ‘I’m not doing an extra day’s work for anyone.’ I thought you might like that.

Now I really must stop and go to bed. Before I turn the light off, maybe one final blast, Dad, of ‘deafening popular music’ . . .

Later: Ah, that’s more like it. Long guitar solo by Jan Akkerman, max vol through the headphones. Now I can sleep easy.

Lots of love from your loving, very hard-working, rather poor and exceedingly cold (but happy) daughter,

Jen-Jen xxx

There was one bit in Jennifer’s letter I really didn’t like, and I expect you can guess what it was. What I really didn’t like was: (!)

Not even a word. A single vertical line and a dot, parenthesised.

For the rest, I quite enjoyed it. Of course, like all students she was giving only an edited account of what was going on. No mention of drugs, or cigarettes, for instance – or sex.

Duplicitous, you might call her. Tactful would probably be her own word.

You couldn’t help but warm to her father, though, could you? I pictured him a bit like Mr Bennett in
Pride and Prejudice
. (‘Which reminds me, Dr Stanley, may I offer you four pages on “Mixed Motives for Marriage in the Novels of Jane Austen”? No? Are you quite sure?’)