Читать книгу Being Emily - Anne Donovan - Страница 6

SO. MS HARRIS crossed her legs and clicked the top of her pen. Today I thought we’d go round the group so each of you can say what topic you’re proposing for your dissertation and why you chose it. I’d like you to give us some idea of the areas you intend to explore. Is that clear?

She looked round us, sat in a circle on scabby plastic chairs. Of course it was clear. Everything she said and done was clear. She spoke wi a precision that was quite different fae the sloppy way the kids done, every other word like, yeah, dunno, whatever. But it was also different fae the way the other teachers spoke. They mumbled or tailed away their sentences, turned their back on you while they were explaining things or failed tae make eye contact. Ms Harris was young – 26, 27 mibbe – and everything about her was perfect. The other young teachers were either buttoned up as if they were wearing their parents’ clothes or else sloppy like they’d fallen out of bed, but she wore the kind of clothes that managed to look quite cool but perfectly appropriate for a teacher – little cardigans with glittery bits on them, silky skirts that never creased, funky shoes. Even her specs had a designer label. She knew her stuff too – was always prepared, never seemed harassed. Of course the sixth year werenae likely to gie teachers up cheek but some of them could be stroppy in their ain way. And I’d seen her in action in the corridors, gliding through a tumultuous sea of second year, effortlessly calming them with a word.

Naebody said anything. Terrified if we looked up we’d be asked to start, everybody stared at their folder. Ms Harris had gied them out last week at the first meeting of the class; unlike the usual thin school cardboard ones, they were dead fancy, with spaces for lined paper, a pouch for books, plastic pockets for putting pictures and stuff in.

I want you to see this as a very organic process, sixth year, different from the way you’ve worked before. Don’t feel you have to limit your research to critical books or biographies. Maybe a found object, a photograph or poem is what you need to carry around, focus on.

I’d felt excited when she talked like that, imagined mysel piecing thegether a portrait of Emily with all kinds of things I associated with her – heather fae the moors, sketches of her dog – but the day, my bum already numb fae the uncomfortable seat, Kevin next tae me scratching hissel as if he had fleas, I just felt stupid.

Jaswinder, can you start us off?

Jas nodded. I’m gonnae write about Shelley. Percy Bysshe Shelley, 1792–1822, was everything. One of the greatest poets who ever lived – in my opinion, the greatest – he was a philosopher, a traveller, friend of Byron and other important poets, had several lovers and many children as well as being married to the woman who wrote Frankenstein – and he was a political and a radical thinker.

That sounds really interesting, Jaswinder. But your dissertation must be no longer than 3000 words so you’ll need to focus on one or two aspects of Shelley.

That’s the problem – to do that is to limit him, and he never limited himself, he thought these barriers were artificial. ‘Hail to thee blythe spirit, bird thou never wert.’

Thanks, Jaswinder. Let’s move on. Kevin?

I’m gonna write about three lyrics of the Manic Street Preachers.

Ms Harris touched the bridge of her specs with one perfectly manicured finger. I can safely say that this will present a different set of challenges from writing about Shelley. Only three lyrics?

Well you said we had tae focus.

True. Do you think the Manic Street Preachers will provide sufficient weight, though? I want to encourage you not to limit yourself to the conventional literary canon, but you must ensure that your choice of text falls within the parameters of the Exam Board.

Eh?

Alice dunted Kevin in the elbow. She means the Manics are crap writers.

That’s …

Which they are.

Ms Harris said coolly, I don’t actually know enough about them to express an opinion. Perhaps you’d better leave the lyrics with me, Kevin, and I’ll get back to you.

We plodded on round the group. Alice wanted to compare the portrayal of women in the novels of Toni Morrison and Janice Galloway, while Sana was obsessed with Chuck Palah niuk. Danny, Lee and Katie all planned to dae Lord of the Rings. I could sense a slight tightening of Ms Harris’s lip but her only comment was that choosing popular texts meant you had to work harder to find an original take on them. Two other folk wanted to dae George Orwell and Steinbeck. Then it was my turn.

Emily Brontë.

Ms Harris looked slightly more animated. Why Emily Brontë, Fiona?

I’ve just always loved everything she wrote, the poems and ‘Wuthering Heights’.

Have you a specific aspect of her work in mind?

I thought either a sense of place or mibbe her family.

Sounds promising. Can you tell some of the others, who may not be so au fait with the Brontës, what that means?

Well, Emily lived in this remote Yorkshire village – she was the parson’s daughter and her mother died when she was really young. She had a brother and sisters and they all wrote and made up stories and plays thegether. The sisters became really good writers – well folk say Anne isnae as good but I still like her – and her brother fell in love with this married woman and took tae drugs and drink and then he died but he could of been a writer too. Emily was a recluse and wandered the moors and …

I realised everyone was looking at me and my mind went blank.

Thanks Fiona. Your enthusiasm is evident.

Kevin stuck his haund up. What kind of drugs did they have then?

Not now, please – time to pack up. Kevin, can you make an extra appointment to see me?

I shoved my folder in my bag and walked out the room. My cheeks were burning as I heided doon the back stair. Then I heard a voice calling, Hey Fiona, wait, and when I turnt round it was Jas, rucksack slung across one shoulder.

Fiona.

Hi.

Where you off to?

Oh, just home.

Got time for a coffee?

There was a wee place round the corner fae the school, no really a café, just a takeout place wi a few high stools at a counter. Legs dangling, sitting side by side, we talked, hardly looking at each other. Maist of the time I stared doon at his shoes, black shiny lace-ups, nice shoes, nothing like the ubiquitous trainers or boots the other boys wore.

See, Fiona, I dunno anything really about the Brontës but when you were talking it sounded so much as if she was almost opposite to Shelley.

I guess – she hated being away fae hame, got sick when she wasnae at Haworth, near the moors.

And Shelley was always travelling – he almost never had a home.

Emily hardly even spoke, except to her ain family. Folk that met her talked about her as if she was like a sphinx or something.

Jas laughed so much he became unbalanced fae his seat.

Cool. Shelley never stopped talking, he wrote polemic and essays. He turned and looked straight in my face for the first time. But it sounds like they both had this true inner thing – they were pure artists.

It was the first time I’d heard anyone my age talk like that. Dead serious. He looked straight at me and his eyes were dark chocolatey brown. That’s what I want for my poems. I don’t mean I think I can be like Shelley but I want tae have truth in them. Know what I mean?

I nodded.

Do you write as well, Fiona?

I used tae try to write poetry, when I was younger. But I … kind of stopped. Last year.

I’m gonnae dae the creative writing option this year – you should try it too – don’t let your poetry go.

You’re taking Art this year too, aren’t you? He was in my class, so obviously he was, but I wanted to keep him talking.

Aye. Photography, mostly. It’s that immediate. Real. D’you specialise in anything?

No really – bit of painting, collage stuff. I feel I want to dae something different this year but.

What’s your third subject?

History, but History is … well I like it but I don’t feel the same way I dae about Art or Literature.

Same with me. My third subject is Chemistry. I like it but I don’t have that … passion for it.

Silence. Jas looked at his watch. I assumed he was fed up wi me, that whatever had attracted him had fizzled out in the reality of talking to me. I was used tae that. No one ever thought I was interesting.

I’m sorry, Fiona. I’d like to go on talking but I have to get to work.

You have a job?

I work in the pharmacy, my family’s shop.

He climbed doon fae the stool, stood next tae me, looking smaller fae my perch.

You know I think we should work together sometimes – talking about stuff could really help.

Cool.

And that was us.

After school we’d go for coffee, sit on the high stools, then I’d go hame and Jas would go tae work. Later we’d talk on the phone or go out thegether. At first I said I was meeting Mon and Jemma but after a few weeks it felt daft tae pretend. Jas and me were real.

I’d never been in love afore, never even had a crush on anyone really. The rest of the lassies were aye fancying guys or gaun mad over the latest popstar but I never had. When I was aboot fourteen I started tae wonder if there was something wrang wi me, did I have a bit missing? I knew I didnae fancy girls but I didnae recognise the stuff I read in the magazines, the heart stopping, the churning in the stomach. I went out wi boys a few times, usually to make up numbers on a double date, but I never felt anything. When they kissed me goodnight it was less exciting than getting licked by the Jacksons’ cat.

The first time Jas kissed me was three weeks after that first coffee. We’d went tae study in the library after school, sitting side by side at the tables near the reference section. We were baith working on dissertations for English. I was poring over Wuthering Heights, writing out quotes about nature and he’d Shelley’s poetry open in fronty him. I wish someone had taken a photie of us that day; two heids, his hair dark and shiny and straight, mines tangled curls the colour of tea. Notepads and paper spread out in fronty us, his neat spiky writing and mines bigger, looped and flowing. Just happy to sit thegether, every noo and again feeling his elbow nudge against mines as he wrote. Then the moment when we baith turnt to one another and him bending towards me, the soft feel of his lips against mines. Big smiles spreading across wur faces.

That night he put his airm round me as we walked up the road, and he kissed me again in the park, haudin me close this time, tongue in ma mouth and the wee jaggy edge of his teeth on my lip. He wasnae tall, Jas, only three or four inches mair than me, and we fitted that neatly thegether. Then we broke apart and held haunds, walking alang the path while the early evening light faded tae a gash of salmon pink behind the trees.