Love, Nina (30 page)

Me: A girl slapped him round the face the other day.

MK: That's usually an invitation.

Me: Yes, I know.

MK: He might have pinched her bum though.

Me: He's not the sort.

MK: No.

Me: It will have been an invitation.

MK: Well, he might not have accepted.

Me: But he might have.

Love, Nina

*  *  *

May 1987

Dear Vic,

About Nick Nichols, our tutor who came over to London on a job swap and so loved London and all things Londony. Who gave us pizza pie and wine and was great fun to be with. And whose son, Scott, and his friend came to mow the lawn and watch football at Stella's house.

See the photocopy of a cutting pinned up on the Humanities notice board.

March 06, 1987 | HILLIARD HARPER | Times Staff Writer

Human rights activist Prescott S. (Nick) Nichols, 55, a professor of English and comparative literature at San Diego State University, died Wednesday night, apparently of a heart attack, while driving home. Passersby found him about 6:15 p.m. where he had pulled his car over to the side of the road.

Nichols, an advocate for part-time faculty members at SDSU, was involved in efforts to unionize college professors in the California State University system.

I never got round to sending him the stuff on the Gin House. Or the photo of the Cheshire Cheese.

Love, Nina

*  *  *

Dear Vic,

Meant to take Nunney's questionnaires into Poly but forgot again. Haven't got long now. I feel a bit bad because he rang and asked if I'd made a start getting them filled out and I said they were all done and dusted. Which was stupid because now he thinks they're all done.

I'll see you on Sat at the Good Earth. Will bring MK's stencil things.

They liked the fish pie. AB said the peas served separately would've been nicer. Which is true. He also said it would be nice with runner beans.

Love, Nina

PS Might bring a few questionnaires for you and co.

*  *  *

Dear Vic,

Went to the Lyric Theater to see some plays by Samuel Beckett. It was a cheap showing, one up from a dress rehearsal and in the afternoon, but tutor Vicki was thrilled to have got us all tickets to see Billie Whitelaw (Beckett's preferred actress) in the roles.

I have to admit I wasn't enjoying the show much (people talking nonsense in dustbins and making funny noises) and then, in the second half, I heard a bit of muttering coming from the (mostly empty) seats behind. I glanced round and saw, all alone, Samuel Beckett (the person). I can't describe how it felt to see the great man sitting there in the flesh.

Well, OK, it was like seeing a unicorn or a Borrower (or like when I saw that snake in the crocosmia). It took my breath away. I didn't look again and I didn't elbow Stella who was next to me because she'd fallen asleep and I knew she'd jolt awake noisily and show us all up. Also, I didn't want him to get the idea I was bored.

I don't enjoy his plays—true—but that's not to say I dismiss them as unimportant. They are/were very important (according to tutor Vicki).

In the theater, with S Beckett two rows behind muttering and possibly blowing kisses to Billie Whitelaw, I was wondering what made one person's nonsense “genius” and another's “crap”…and I wondered if it's genius if you're tall, enigmatic, reclusive, handsome…and it's crap if you're normal or short, chatty and ugly. I was just mulling it over when something AB said sprang to mind.

AB is an admirer of Les Dawson. AB says that only an extremely accomplished pianist could pretend to play as badly as Les Dawson (pretends to do). Maybe it's the same with S Beckett. He could write a really good (sensible) play that everyone would get, but he doesn't. Like Les Dawson, he's pretending to be crap. Which you can only do if you're a genius.

Anyway, no one else noticed Samuel Beckett there and I had a job persuading them afterward that I had actually seen him.

SH: (
disbelieving
) Like you saw Jackie O at Holloway Odeon?

Me: No, it really was Samuel Beckett.

SH: What did he look like?

Me: Handsome but very old…symmetrical, upright, still, slight second-class occlusion of the jaw…(
SH wanting more
) a well-groomed fisherman.

Tutor Vicki: (
convinced by description
) Well, how thrilling for us to have been at the same performance.

Then we went to a pub by the river and tutor Vicki spoke interestingly about Beckett the man (i.e. his nonsense is all about trying to express himself). Then we all crowded round the Quiz-Master and had to keep going to the bar for more 20ps. I thought to myself that the Quiz-Master seemed more popular than the plays and that was the modern world.

No one wants to be puzzled in a theater by questions that don't have answers, they want to be puzzled in the pub by questions from a machine that does have answers. The Quiz-Master was very popular, and soon after we went on it a little queue formed (people who'd heard us having a good time).

You could tell tutor Vicki would have preferred to talk more about Beckett but we'd had enough of Beckett for one day and whenever Quiz-Master asked us a literature question we shouted over to tutor Vicki—even if we knew the answer—and soon she came over and joined fully in and forgot all about S Beckett.

It was a great day out. The only thing being, I forgot to take a batch of Nunney's questionnaires and the deadline (Nunney turning up and asking to see them) is looming.

Hope all's well with you.

Love, Nina

PS If you see a Quiz-Master in a pub or service station, have a go. It looks like a one-armed bandit but isn't. But beware, it's addictive.

*  *  *

Dear Vic,

Thanks for canary life-span information. To be honest, the whole canary thing is out of date now because Stella has shelved Gunter and started hanging around with a bloke (called Dan) who wears a black and white checky scarf which gives off a smell of onions. He left it (the scarf) on the back of a chair in the 5th floor coffee bar and it was noticed and commented on by Stella's hippie friend Ruth. Then the fire alarm went off and we all had to dash out efficiently by the back stairs.

Later, hippie Ruth said (to Dan) that it was his smelly scarf that set the alarms off. He admitted that the scarf might have a “foody” smell because of the Bender Brunch he'd had in Wimpy at eleven. He thought that made it better.

Was telling MK.

MK: What's this one's name?

Me: Dan—he wears an Arafat scarf.

MK: On his head?

Me: No, round his neck.

MK: Does he look nice in it?

Me: It's just weird.

MK: Weirder, or less weird, than owning a canary?

Me: A bit less.

MK: Well, that's good, then.

Didn't mention the Bender Brunch or onion smell. They already think I'm overcritical.

Anyway, the worst thing about the fire alarm going off was that I left Nunney's questionnaires on a table in the 5th floor coffee bar (you weren't allowed to take extraneous items with you on the dash out even though it was a drill). I'll have to go in tomorrow and get them.

By the way: Stella is even off Dan now and is hanging around with a bloke called Plenty O'toole. His real name is Something O'something but I can't remember what because he's always known as Plenty O'toole among us. It's become normal now. Nothing's “happened” according to Stella (she just likes him because he's ironic and has the kind of spiky hair that she's fond of in a man—which I hate).

Love, Nina

PS About the questionnaires. Suppose they're not there?

*  *  *

Dear Vic,

Me and Stella ended up filling out ALL Nunney's psychology questionnaires ourselves. It took forever.

I've made Stella swear NEVER to tell him. He would be so angry and it would confirm some extremely negative ideas he has re my character.

Anyway it was a nightmare but we managed them all.

Afterward, we realized we'd done them all in the same two pens. Stella so drunk she couldn't even disguise her handwriting.

Still. It had to be done. It's like a weight's been lifted off my shoulders.

Love, Nina

*  *  *

Dear Vic,

Nunney collected the forged questionnaires and we all went to play snooker at Plumstead snooker club while Stella was working there.

Stella kept looking guilty whenever the subject of dissertations or questionnaires cropped up. She even offered to make Nunney a microwaveable snack—free of charge (to atone). But he said thanks but no thanks due to the off-putting smell.

After a while we witnessed Stella calling, “Jim, could you come forward please?” and a bloke strolling up to the microwave shelf area.

Then Nunney and me came over to 55 and all the stress about the questionnaires was forgotten as we played snooker again and watched
Carry On Up the Jungle.

Nunney didn't stay long as he needs to begin the collating and analyzing of his psychological data.

Love, Nina

*  *  *

Dear Vic,

Should have been working on my dissertation yesterday but not in the right mood. Watched the brilliant
Return of the Pink Panther
with Sam and Will.

Then it turned out Sam had homework to do that he'd forgotten all about and MK was due home any minute.

Yesterday was very unusual homeworkwise. Sam had some. Will had none.

Sam had to write a poem about nature. It was funny seeing Will advising/commiserating with Sam on the subject.

Sam: I hate poems.

Will: I hate homework.

Sam: I hate nature.

Will: Just get it done, then you've done it.

Sam: Does it have to rhyme?

Will: No, but the teacher will want it to.

Sam: Does it have to be long?

Will: The teacher will want it to be.

Sam: Shit, shit, shit.

Will: Is that the poem?

He got his poem done just as MK arrived and he read it out as she stood at the top of the stairs looking amazed and impressed.

Birds don't like rain

They don't like wet feet

They can't fly in rain

They can't tweet

Birds don't like wind

They get blown about

Birds only like it when the sun is out

MK: It's brilliant.

Will: (
to MK
) It could be about you.

Sam: It's meant to be a nature poem.

MK: It's great.

Sam: Is it natural enough?

Will: Are you kidding? It's cram-packed with nature.

Sam: I want Mr. Biro to like it.

Will: Mr.
Biro
?

Sam: Yes, he's a temp.

Will: Mr.
Biro
—are you sure that's his name?

Sam: Yes, it's Hungarian for jug.

Sam then told Will he liked homework and wished he had it more.

Then Will told us
why
he had no homework: Some homework last week had been v. difficult homework (coastal features). Will had protested, saying he'd never had a lesson on it and didn't understand a word of it. MK insisted and said he should listen more in class. Then today, the teacher admitted she'd given out the wrong papers (meant for 5th formers) and is very impressed with the few boys who tackled it for “showing determination and a willingness to have a go.” And said they would not have to do any homework for the rest of the week (one day).

Will delighted. MK too. I would've been annoyed if it were me.

Love, Nina

*  *  *

Dear Vic,

Dissertation needs to be finished. This should be a very short letter.

Already thrown away a whole afternoon meeting Stella's mother (“whistling Jill”) who is down here to see Agatha Christie's
Mousetrap.
She kept saying, “If you know who done it, don't tell me.” And saying it made her chuckle.

She was much nicer than Stella had made out. She (whistling Jill) told funny stories. Including a clearly made-up one in which Stella trains their dog (“Patch”) to jump through a flaming hoop.

Jill: And she got him jumping through a flaming hoop.

Me: Are you saying flaming as in flaming hell? Or do you mean the hoop was alight, as in “on fire”?

Jill: It was on fire. It was two coat hangers with a rag wrapped around and she'd lit it.

Stella denied it. And I believe her. She's not the type to light a hoop and make a Jack Russell jump through it. It was probably just a hoop. Stella says her mum is mixing two separate memories together. One of the unlit hoop and one of a circus trip where there
was
a flaming hoop. It's what happens to older people.

Can't show MK my dissertation, it will infuriate her. She'll say it's too wordy. Especially now I've gone on to longer words—it's the norm at college—everyone does it and I don't want to be the only student saying “use” when everyone else is saying “utilize.”

MK will hate it.

Have shown it to Nunney though, who asked the terrible question: “What are you trying to say?”

Me: I'm trying to say the critics didn't like McCullers.

Nunney: But you don't say that.

Me: I'm driving at it.

Nunney: Just say it.

Me: Just saying it doesn't use enough words.

Nunney: (
reads on
) Oh, here we go…why do you say “critics of the day”? Get rid of “of the day.”

Me: That's three less words.

I hate it now and can hardly bring myself to look at it. I wish I'd done a quirky subject like “the Lyrics of ‘Jolene' by Dolly Parton” or something.

Letter too long. Back to the Amstrad.

Love, Nina

PS Nunney is going great with his (thesis), though the questionnaires are throwing up some surprises.