An Experiment in Love: A Novel (5 page)

I went home, and said to my mother, ‘Karina hit me.’

My mother sat me on the kitchen table. She taught me a song:

‘Karina’s a funny ‘un

She’s a face like a pickled onion

She’s a nose like a squashed tomater

And legs like two sticks.’

‘Will I sing it tomorrow?’ I cried, beside myself with joy.

‘No,’ my mother said. ‘Sing it to yourself. It’s just to help you feel better.’

I understood this perfectly; that if you’ve learnt something really insulting and gross, a lot of the pleasure is in keeping it to yourself. ‘OK,’ I said. Kicked my legs a bit. Oh, I was a bright, happy little soul, in those days.

This was the first and last joke my mother made about Karina. At some time in the next two or three years, my mother and Karina’s mother held some sort of colloquy in the street, after which my mother came home and cried and mentioned cattle-waggons. What that young woman’s life has been, she said, is not to be contemplated, it is not to be contemplated. My father went away and got his model kit out and made a model bomber.

When these grey aeroplanes were done, he would slot them for display on to a Perspex stand, clear thin plastic which was meant to look not there and make you think the planes were flying.

My mother said, ‘Now, when you’re off to school, you will always call for Karina, won’t you?’

Most days, Karina was there already on Curzon Street, waiting and watching for me. Her arm slid through mine, doing what we called linking. I’ll link ye, a woman would say to another, slipping an arm though an arm. It was the way for women to get along the street. Nowadays, you would be presumed to be lesbians, I suppose.

Nowadays. Oh, nowadays.

Twenty-four hours after Julianne’s arrival in London, I was putting papers into ring-binders and she was lying on her bed, reading the
Evening Standard
. There was a tap at our door.

‘
Herein
,’ Jule said, thunderously: she mouthed, ‘They’ll surely think I’m Freud.’

A voice said, ‘Oh, may we?’

Two bright faces, one spotty, appeared around the door.

‘You may come in entirely,’ Jule said. ‘The invitation is for more than your heads.’

So in they came: Claire, a large solid-bosomed girl from Bournemouth, and a little sparrow called Sue, who sounded deeply southern but didn’t say where she was from. They wore, the both of them, jolly jumpers; beneath, Claire wore a baggy skirt, and Sue wore decent slacks of a polyester type, the kind of thing people’s mothers buy.

It was Claire who had the spots. We ran our eyes over them, in that pitiless way girls have at eighteen: to see if there was any battle to be fought. But Jule signalled to me with her big white hand, as if to indicate truce. They were in no case to take our men from us; and there was
no man they could possibly attract, that we would care to take from them.

They stood on the cotton rug, their shins brushing the coffee table; they smiled tolerantly at our bookshelves, at our Marx and Leonard Cohen and Hermann Hesse, and tolerantly at Jule’s ashtray, and tolerantly at my long thin legs below my tiny skirt. ‘I’m at King’s,’ Claire said. ‘And Sue here, she’s at Bedford. You’re medical, aren’t you, Miss Lipcott?’

‘Mm,’ Julianne said. ‘But not dissected anything yet.’

‘I say.’ Claire laughed. ‘Got all that to come, eh?’ She shifted her feet; almost her spots seemed to redden, as if she were going to come now to something delicate, possibly embarrassing. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘we’ve been going around, we’re old hands, you see, to welcome the newcomers, and the thing is, we’re not an organized group, it’s just informal, but if you’d like to join us . . . you see we . . . we get together . . . and we go to church.’

I waited for Julianne to say something very shocking, very deep, and most original. But a curtain dropped behind her extravagantly blue eyes. She said in a dead voice, ‘But we’re Catholics.’

All next day and the day after that I watched them arriving, girls I had never imagined; girls from Brighton, girls from Luton, girls from bonny Dundee. There must have been times when I stopped and frankly, rudely stared at them; for I only knew about girls from Lancashire. What thoughts had they? What had their lives been? I could not imagine.

I set my accoutrements out on my desk. Pens. Paper.
All squared up. Sweet little Sue put her head around the door. ‘What, down to work already? Where’s Julianne?’

‘Out getting her skeleton.’

‘All alone then?’ She hovered over me, cheeping. ‘Claire and I thought we’d go out for a bite to eat.’

‘Thanks. I’m not hungry.’

Sue fluttered off. Her freckled, beady-eyed face stayed for a moment in my mind; annexed to another companion, a girl prettier than herself instead of plainer, she might rise in the world, look less of a gawk. I wondered if she had a boyfriend, and if he was normal or religious. I wondered what she and Claire had in common, besides God. Claire was a year older, felt perhaps some thwarted maternal urge . . . I punched holes in paper, and stacked another file. White sheets, virgins. The punched-out dots skimmed to the floor, precise confetti. I knelt and dabbed them up, one by one.

Julianne brought her skeleton home. We put the skull on the top bookshelf, dead centre. The rest came in a polished wooden box, which Julianne pushed under her bed. ‘We need never be bored again,’ she said. ‘Any night we’ve nothing to do, we can be like Juliet, and madly play with our forefathers’ joints.’

‘Aren’t they something?’ I said. ‘These girls?’

‘They come from boarding-schools.’

‘A lot of them do. You see them at breakfast’ (she didn’t go down to breakfast) ‘getting scrambled eggs.’ I thought of how they called to each other down the long dining tables: socialized, fit for the early hour.

‘I hear them in the corridor,’ she said. ‘I hear them, preparing to go down. Calling, “Sophy! Sophy!” ’

I thought: Webster was much possessed by death / And saw the skull beneath the skin.

‘By the way, it’s female. The skeleton,’ Julianne said. ‘Women’s bones are more interesting, you know.’

Breakfasts at Tonbridge Hall were served on side-plates, which were grey: as were the breakfasts themselves, small and grey, and governed by a rota. Most days there was bacon: a streaky rasher, cut in half to make two. On Monday a spoonful of scrambled egg, primrose and liquid; on Tuesday a fried egg, its yolk hard and pale. On Wednesday with the bacon came a tomato halved, reduced by a thorough grilling to seed and skin; on Thursdays a cooling smear of baked beans. On Fridays with the rasher came a tablespoon of mushrooms, finely chopped and well-stewed. On Saturdays, boiled eggs were served to those girls who had not gone away and who could be bothered to get up for them.

On Sundays there was no cooked breakfast, because the kitchen was preparing for the fiesta of a roast lunch.

The dining-room at Tonbridge Hall was in the basement of the building, and its tall windows looked out over one of those inner squares, those inner spaces which Bloomsbury houses entrap: lightless in any weather, at any time of day, with etiolated shrubs struggling in raised beds. We took our places on scarred chairs with leatherette seats, and the noises of communal dining – the clatter of stainless steel against cheap plates, the squeak of trolley wheels as they rolled over the floors, the voices of slaveys from the kitchen – flew up and echoed and rebounded in the airy heights, rattled round
begrimed light-fittings that no earth-bound cleaner could reach.

I came down to breakfast every day, and tried to get it inside me. I soon understood why the bacon and mushroom day was tops with the Sophies; every scrap was edible. I would eat a bowl of damp cornflakes, then go to the serving hatch to collect my side-plate. After I had picked over the cooked offering I would take two small square pieces of sliced-bread toast, pale yellow in the centre and raw on the outside. I felt the Sophies were watching me; the toast was palatable, but I dared not take more. I longed to eat it with my bacon, as a northerner always would, but I did not dare that either; if I did not come up to scratch, I felt obscurely, I might be sent back home, my education at an end, and have to get some menial job. Butter came in foil portions: a special small size, that they must have manufactured exclusively for girls’ halls of residence. It was frozen, always. You opened it and pared it with your knife and laid it on the rubber bread, like wood-shavings.

Dinner at Tonbridge Hall was a very different affair. It was served at seven. At ten minutes to the hour, a mob of inmates would begin to gather outside the locked double doors of the dining-room. Some would lean against the walls, some squat or recline on the lower reaches of the vast dark carved staircase; some would gather in knots, all talking, some laughing, some yelling, so that the volume of noise rose higher and higher and bounced from the walls and echoed in the stairwell: a murmur, then a babble, then a tattered roar, of women in need of their dinner., If the custodians of the doors
were a minute late in their unbolting, if they were even a half-minute late, the foremost girls would lean on the glass and peer through and rattle the handles, and a cry would go up, ‘It’s too bad, really! It’s utterly disgraceful! It’s an utter, utter shame.’

I hung to the back and watched this performance. I tried to detach myself. I was amused, and a little embarrassed for them. I believed, as strictly as any Victorian mamma, that appetite was unbecoming to women. That girls with the benefit of a university education should hardly need food. My morning battle with myself and the toast – well, at least it was fought in silence, and with dignity.

Once we were admitted, we moved to our habitual tables: four girls to each side, two senior students at each end, taking our places before an array of cutlery suited to a banquet, splashing into tumblers London tap water from tall glass jugs. Soup was always the same, whatever its description on the weekly menu pinned up by the warden’s office; it was an uncleaned aquarium, where vegetable matter swam. Or – now I think of it – perhaps there were two kinds of soup. There was the kind I have mentioned – where fragments, deep green, lodged in your teeth. There was also cream soup, beige and very peppery.

Next came the dishes of vegetables, and an oval stainless-steel platter of the evening’s meat or fish, placed before one of the seniors to be divided by ten. Justice must be served, and you must picture to yourself the minute forking, the shuffling and the shredding, of a quantity perhaps reasonable for four. How could they do
it? I ask myself now. If we’d been boys, they wouldn’t have dared do it.

We ate our shred, and our two small potatoes, our vegetables of the root kind; all the time making bright, strained conversation, about our courses, tutors, hopes for the weekend: never high, in my case. It was dark outside now, and we dined in pools of yellow light, and sometimes I would hear the London rain against the windows, and feel bleak and far away from home. Then from the end of the table a plummy voice would be raised: ‘There’s a tiny bit more, if anyone would care to . . .’

For they were good judges, the shred-monitors, good but not perfect. They always felt they must keep a tiny portion in reserve, in case they had bungled it and the last hungry girl should be short-changed. And there it lay on its platter, and no one could bring herself to speak; for these girls, collectively voracious, were individually all of my opinion, and would rather starve than speak. I used to think, what if, what if a shred-monitor said, Right then, no takers? What if she picked up in her fingers the white sauce or gravy-dripping fragment, and tossed back her head like a sea-lion, and crammed it into her open mouth?

The platters would be returned to the kitchen, each with a slice of flesh remaining. No doubt they noticed this, our rulers, and convinced themselves that we were adequately fed; that we were satisfied, more than satisfied. Why else return to the kitchen food untouched?

A month passed. Our new lives had properly begun. My
file of lecture notes mounted, quarter-inch by quarter-inch, but I took time off to walk. I walked along the Strand and up Fleet Street and on to the City, I walked through the royal parks and up to Camden Town and Hampstead and saw Hampstead Heath. I trekked through Whitehall and Millbank, noting the monuments and learning the views. I tramped through museums and art galleries – anything that was free. Julianne haunted the cinemas with her friends, and the union bar, and the pubs on Tottenham Court Road, and she would speak quite casually of things she had eaten, of by-the-way omelettes and hamburgers, which were a natural part of her evenings out.

I was happy, in those early weeks. There were times when I felt holy, lucky, selected. At Tonbridge Hall there was order and warmth, so I did not care if there were regulations too. My tutors spoke to me with respect, as if I were a sentient and sensitive being; this was a relief after the routine sarcasms of nuns. I felt like a feather-light duchess, skimming down Drury Lane in the mornings; but there was an insistent migraine pain behind my left eye, which pricked at my sensibilities, made me clever and sharp, but which left me shaking sometimes, uncertain in the traffic, unsure of the parameters of my own body. That winter was mild, and so I wore my pale shower-proof until Bonfire Night, and after that a duffel coat which had been donated to me before I left home by a distant cousin. Sometimes, extracting coins from my purse, I travelled on the tube late at night, going God knows where: Arsenal, Angel, Kentish Town. Later I would have to make up for my time off by
sitting under the lamp at the desk I had reserved for myself, writing very fast in black ink.