Читать книгу An Experiment in Love - Hilary Mantel - Страница 7

I never knew what nationality Karina was: or, as I believe, what mixture of nationalities. ‘I’m English,’ she would say defiantly. Perhaps this hurt her parents. When she was ten or so they wanted to send her off to a Saturday school, so that she could learn to read and write in her native languages, and learn folk-songs and folk-dances, and have national costumes. Stoutly, dumbly, she resisted this. ‘Wear a stupid apron!’ was all she said. ‘Wear a stupid bonnet!’

It torments me now, that I am so vague: were her parents Polish, Ukrainian, Estonian? If they themselves didn’t share a native tongue, that would explain why in their household communication was often in rudimentary English. I remember them as shapeless, silent people, in woollen clothes which they wore in many layers. They both worked in the mills, in jobs that required no verbal facility, in rooms where the clatter of the machines was so loud that speech was impossible anyway.

Karina’s house was just up the street from mine, just up Curzon Street. The houses on Curzon Street were made of red brick, like the houses in all the streets around. When you went in there was a vestibule and a sitting-room and behind it a kitchen of the same size. There were two bedrooms and no bathroom. The lavatory was outside in the yard. When I was a small child we had a rent man who called every Friday, and who stood filling the vestibule while cash was handed over and an entry was made in our rent book. Every year or so, the landlady would call to look over her property. She owned the whole of Curzon Street, every house, and all of Eliza Street too. She wore a heavy pink dusting of face powder, a dashing trilby with a feather, and a coat and skirt, which people then called a costume. ‘Did you see that costume?’ my mother would say. Every year she said this. She did not specify what it was about the costume that startled her: just ‘Did you see that costume?’ Then one year, in a violent outburst, she added, ‘I could have made it myself. Run it up for a guinea, on the machine.’

Until I was nine or so, my mother and father and I washed by rota at the kitchen sink, using a pink cake of soap my mother kept in an enamel dish, and sharing a towel that looped on a hook in the cupboard beneath. Mornings were slow work, because of modesty. My mother went first; by the time I was shouted to come downstairs, the mysteries of her bust were preserved beneath hasty pearl-buttoning, only the rough flushed skin of her throat suggesting that she had scrubbed herself half-naked just minutes before. Standing before the mirror, she would swipe the bridge of her nose with her powder-puff; it distributed a different dust from our landlady’s, and I would watch her slice down and across and down, practised and ruthless as a man wiping mortar over bricks, obliterating her mottled bits with an overlay of khaki, and slicing off the surplus with the edge of the puff. I would sit at the kitchen table, shivering sometimes, my feet dangling in mid-air below the hem of my nightdress; I watched while my father shaved. His mouth was stopped by soap, his face tilted as though he were communing with saints; the humiliating female reek of the pink soap leaked from the skin of his freckled shoulders.

But then the landlady yielded to pressure to install baths and hot-water systems for her tenants. Half my bedroom disappeared behind a partition, and became a white, unheated box. On the first day after the installation was finished, I climbed into the tub in my clothes—without the water in, of course—just to see what it would feel like. It felt frozen, glazed, slippery; enamelled cold struck into my bones.

The rent was increased, but shortly afterwards the landlady began to sell off her houses. She must have wanted to be rid of them quickly, because her asking price was only five hundred pounds. My parents went into their bedroom and hissed at each other. A heavy thumping came from the floorboards above. I loitered at the window in our front room, admiring dogs that came and went; I hoped to get a dog, but my mother said the very limit of her tolerance would be a small and perfectly house-trained cat. I strained my ears for the words ‘Kingston-upon-Hull’.

My parents came downstairs after two hours. There was a high colour in my mother’s cheeks. ‘We are to become owner-occupiers,’ she said.

Karina’s parents did not have five hundred pounds, so they continued to rent their house from the new landlord. ‘You think you’re so swanky,’ Karina said. ‘You think you’re so well-off.’

Every day Karina and I used to walk to school together. We toddled down Curzon Street towards the town centre, turning left down Eliza Street at the pub called the Ladysmith. Most streets had a pub on the corner, and they were usually named after the younger children of Queen Victoria, or dead generals, or victories in colonial wars; we were too young to know this. We rolled downhill, guided by the mill chimneys and their strange Italianate architecture—yellow brick and pink brick and grimy brick—and everywhere black vistas fell away, railway embankments and waste ground, war damage and smoke; at the end of Bismarck Street we looked down on the puffing chimneys of houses below, ranged in their rows, marching down and down into the murky valley.

We passed the Irish club, and the florist’s with its small stiff pink-and-white carnations in a bucket, and the drapers called ‘Elvina’s’, which displayed in its window Bear Brand stockings and knife-pleated skirts like cloth concertinas and pasty-shaped hats on false heads. We passed the confectioner’s—or failed to pass it; the window attracted Karina. She balled her hands into her pockets, and leant back, her feet apart; she looked rooted, immovable. The cakes were stacked on decks of sloping shelves, set out on pink doilies whitened by falls of icing sugar. There were vanilla slices, their airy tiers of pastry glued together with confectioners’ custard, fat and lolling like a yellow tongue. There were bubbling jam puffs and ballooning Eccles cakes, slashed to show their plump currant insides. There were jam tarts the size of traffic lights; there were whinberry pies oozing juice like black blood.

‘Look at them buns,’ Karina would say. ‘Look.’ I would turn sideways and see her intent face. Sometimes the tip of her tongue would appear, and slide slowly upwards towards her flat nose. There were sponge buns shaped like fat mushrooms, topped with pink icing and half a glacé cherry. There were coconut pyramids, and low square house-shaped chocolate buns, finished with a big roll of chocolate-wrapped marzipan which was solid as the barrel of a cannon.

I waited for Karina to choose one, to go in and buy it, because I knew that her parents gave her money every day, at least 3d. and sometimes as much as 6d. But after examining the cakes for some time, after discussing them, after speculating on their likely taste and texture until my mouth was full of saliva, Karina would fall silent, and turn away, with something obstinate in her face, something puzzled and pained, some expression which was too complicated for me to identify. And so we would go to school.

Two years went by, marked less by scholastic achievement than by crazes. There was a yo-yo craze, and a fashion for paper games. There were whole weeks when we did nothing but beg stiff plain paper to fold and crease and manufacture things we called ‘Quackers’, disembodied palm-sized beaks that you snapped at people’s noses. There were skipping outbreaks and new rhymes, new rhymes and amalgamations and blends of old ones:

‘Manchester Guardian, Evening News

Here comes a cat in high-heel shoes.

Clock strikes one, Clock strikes two, Clock has a finger and it’s pointing at you.

Mother mother I am sick, Send for the doctor quick quick quick.

Doctor doctor

Will I die?

Course you will and so will I…’

Karina was an efficient skipper. Her feet thundered into the pavement. Up, down, her knees drawn up to her chest; her face wore no expression at all.

We passed through the hands of Miss Whittaker, who hit us on the backs of our knees as everyone had said she would; into the hands of Sister Basil, whose malevolence was tempered by absent-mindedness. I picture her always with her arm upraised, her black sleeve falling away, as she chalks on the blackboard in her flowing cursive script the word ‘Problems’. And underneath, a complex sum, a sum spelt out in words, like a composition, with no plus signs or minus signs: a discursive sum, with no suggested means of working it. ‘If a man buys apples to the value of is. 3d., and pears to the value of 2s. 8d., and hands the shopkeeper 10s. in payment…’ Always these problems were about fruit, coal, the perimeters of fields, railway journeys. If Karina would buy a vanilla slice to the value of 4d., and a chocolate bun to the value of 3d., how many girls could have a nice time?

I was glad when skipping ended. In the middle of the rhyme my mind wandered, and my feet went their own way; the girls who turned the rope set the rhythm, and I couldn’t pick it up. I was glad when it was marbles, because I had my marbles in a grubby white draw-string bag given me by my grandad, and anything my grandad gave me was better than a medal blessed by the Pope. I rolled them towards other marbles with great accuracy, as if I were turning a cold eye on their owners. My favourite marble was a cold colour, its iris pebble-grey with the merest hint of blue. In my mind I called this marble ‘Connemara’.

Karina still wore white ribbons to seal her short thick plaits, but otherwise her dress had become like that now adopted by the other girls: a skirt and a jersey and a shirt-style blouse that was meant to be white but which looked yellow under the classroom’s lights and the cloud-packed skies outside. Her pleated skirt was royal blue—superior to navy, she told me. It settled somewhere under her armpits, for Karina had no waist. She was a big girl, people said—said it approvingly—a big girl, and always very clean. We had no washing-machines, and as bathrooms and hot water were so new, cleanliness was a rugged, effortful virtue. A woman with every vice might be granted absolution with one grudging phrase: ‘She’s very clean, I will say that for her.’ To describe someone as ‘not clean’ was a more dire reproach than to describe them simply as ‘dirty’. Dirt might be a transient phenomenon, but being not clean was a spiritual sickness.

Perhaps, in that ghetto beyond language where she lived, Karina’s mother had understood this, because there was a scrubbed, scoured quality about her daughter’s plump hands and big square white teeth. Karina’s skin was like a pink peach, and she seemed to fill it to bursting; if you had touched her cheek, you would have felt it like ripe fruit ready to split. She was a head taller than me and her shoulders were broad, her bones large and raw.

Later, Julianne used to say, ‘Karina’s a peasant. Well now, isn’t she? In England we don’t have peasants. Why not? Complex socio-economic factors. But in Europe, to be a peasant is normal. And Karina is normal. For a peasant.’

At the first approach of cold weather, Karina would emerge from her house in the morning in stiff suede boots with a zip up the centre. Over her head she would wear a tartan hood called a pixie hood, or sometimes a kind of nylon fur bonnet with extrusions like nylon fur powder-puffs which nestled over her fleshy ears. If it snowed, she would come to school with tartan trews under her pleated skirt, that part of the trews which is below the knee swirled thickly around her calves and crammed into Wellington boots. She had, at the age of eight—and perhaps this was what drew us together—a marked indifference to public opinion.

That I should look nice, that I should look different: this was my mother’s aim in life. On my skirts she embroidered whole fantastic landscapes; on my collars she sewed red admiral butterflies, and on my cardigans she set the stars and the crescent moon. I had no truck with navy or even royal-blue pleats, with anything usual, washed-up, faded or thin. I had sashes; I had petticoats with hoops, belling and swaying around my calves. I had bumblebees hovering over clover flowers on a background of grass green, and a jersey specially knitted in the colour of my eyes. My hair, unloosed, was a thin curtain of pale shadow; an indecipherable grey-gold, a colour with no name. ‘Can you sit on it?’ girls would sometimes say: their grieved fascination edging aside, for a moment, their envy and fright and spite.

You must not think that Karina was kind about my clothes: or that she was any sweeter about my hair than, in our Tonbridge Hall days, Julianne would be. I think again of that sun-shattered, windy morning when I was six years old, and I made my way down the classroom to take my place at the table next to Karina: invited there by her sumptuous smile, and her yellow cardigan.

Small chairs we had, miniaturized; I hitched mine to the table and turned to Karina, smiling in pleasure. Out went my hand, my fingertips, to touch the fluffy egg-volk wool, which I had convinced myself would be damp to the touch. ‘Did you get this for an Easter present?’ I asked her.

Karina said, ‘Don’t talk daft.’

I didn’t at once take my fingers away.

‘At Easter you get eggs.’ She turned her dimpled face towards me, and the fuzzy halo around her hair cast itself into a bobbing disc against the classroom wall. ‘Where’ve you been?’ she asked.

‘I’ve been poorly.’

‘You’re weak,’ she said.

‘I’m not.’

‘It’s your hair. Being that long. All down your back. Your strength goes into it.’

‘It doesn’t.’

‘Where else does it go then?’

I was silent. I thought over what she had said. She swung her head away and one jutting ribboned braid was outlined for a moment against the wall. ‘This is the cow with the crumpled horn…’ Once again my fingers stole out to graze the fluff of her sleeve. Karina brought her hand down and chopped it across my fingers so hard that I felt the equivalent of a mild electric shock: a small pain, but dull, bruising and deep.

There were three reasons why every day I walked to school with Karina. The first, and most simple, was that I hoped that, odd as my outfit would be, Karina would be wearing something odder.

The second was that my mother said I must.

The third was that I wanted to make restitution.

I don’t know if you understand about restitution. I am always aggrieved—though God knows, I’ve not set foot in church since my schooldays—by the assumption that Catholics have easy lives: that they sin as and when and where they like, then pop into the confessional and get it wiped off the slate. I’m afraid it’s not so simple as that. First, you have to be sorry for your sin. Second, you have to do your best not to repeat it. Third, if there is anything you can do to make up for it, you must do it. If you steal money, you must give it back. If you slander a person, you must spend the rest of your life writing sonnets in praise of their good character. If you injure someone’s feelings, you must try to mend the damage.

My tie to Karina had to do with restitution. I had done her a wrong, an injury, and this wrong occurred in the first month after I came to school, when I was four years old.

They say people remember their early years as sunlit. Perhaps this is true for people born in the south, who are richer and have better weather. What I remember largely, is hail and sleet, and the modified excitement when it actually began to snow: neuralgic winds and icicles like stalactites, and poisoned fog in rolling banks of yellow-grey. In one of these climatic exigencies—no doubt in more than one, as they tended to overlap—we were kept in for playtime, and had to work off our baby energies by romping in a cramped and hushed way in our classroom. And there was I, and there Karina was too.

The infants’ classroom is not laid out quite like the others: into which we only peep, being deterred by legends of the frightful beatings given out to our seniors. It smells the same—of coke and dust and nuns—but also of the mild creamy flesh of us babies, our skin and hair and Wellingtons; and when I think of this, I think of the huge letters in our reading books, which are about a brother and sister called Dick and Dora. I think of the French pleat in the hair of the mother of Dick and Dora, the tweed suit worn by the father of Dick and Dora: and into my mouth seeps the taste, oily and sweet, of welfare-state orange juice. Very well: I am four: I am in the classroom and there is a low cupboard that runs right along one wall. Our paintings are pinned above it: at least, those that are more figurative than abstract.

It is ten-thirty, I suppose. I can’t tell the time yet. I know how to chant ‘five past, ten past’, and the rest, but I haven’t realized the relationship between the numbers and the pointing fingers. But let’s agree it’s ten-thirty; it’s raining and dark. I can see the rain hitting the window in discrete splashes then splitting and widening into the Nile delta, though this is a river of whose existence I am not yet informed; I watch the delta become an ocean, a simple roar, a wall of sound. I am sitting on the cupboard swinging my legs. To, fro, to, fro. Fawn socks and lace-up shoes.

Karina comes by. Her pale blue eyes look straight ahead, and her expression is distant but implacable. She has a toy truck, a lorry she is pulling on a string. The lorry is red. In the back of it is crammed a baby doll, a fair, fat, blubbery baby doll, plastic pink and naked. What a game! A baby in a lorry! I think it’s stupid.

Before I have time to think anything else, out shoots my foot. Out shoots my foot from the knee. Up sails the lorry, up into the air. Out flies the plastic baby. And smash! Down on the classroom floor, down on its bald pink head. Dead.

Karina drops the string of her lorry. Slowly turns. Sucks in her lips, which are the same pink as her face, between the big square teeth. Then tears—fat tears—begin to roll silently down her cheeks. I sit with my leg still swinging, as if it is a mechanism over which I have no control. Karina menaces me: she raises her arm from the elbow, in a parody of hitting. She is afraid, I can tell she is. She approaches me; the blow lands on my shoulder, soft as pat-a-cake, and a tear falls on to my hand, scorching me. I rub my hand on my dress, and the tear goes away.

Normally if anybody hits me I hit back. I poke their eyes out. I am four and I am famous as a good fighter. Kick them in the kidneys, Grandad says, they’ll not take much of that. I know kidneys: I have seen them on a plate. I know they come from the butcher, and I imagine my enemies toiling up Bismarck Street with a shopping-bag, and their kidneys inside wrapped in bloody paper. In my mind, my leg shoots high and straight, high up to my ear, and I catch them so, on the very point of my toe; I send their kidneys spinning.

The butcher writes his prices on the paper; he does adding up, the sum wobbling and warping round the parcel. How much are kidneys? I hardly care. I kick them in the shins too; that’s part of their leg. It doesn’t matter what you do, Grandad says, as long as you don’t hesitate; he who hesitates is lost. Strike, strike hard, strike home.

But I let Karina get away because I know what I did was wrong, to boot her baby like that. I wonder, in fact, why she didn’t hit me harder, why she was so plainly afraid; but I think it must have been the mechanical ruthlessness of my foot, swinging and pinging, shooting and booting in its John White’s lace-up infant school shoe.

Where was Julianne? Not there: ten miles away in the country, at her private prep school. I imagine her playing with bright plastic shapes on a magnetic board: fitting and manipulating, while a sweet-faced nun smiles above her, and feeds her dolly-mixtures, and says, ‘dear little Julianne’.

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 through 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.

Julianne stayed out all night, every second day. The ponderous front doors of Tonbridge Hall were locked at eleven, and if you wanted to come in after that you had to apply to the warden for what was called a ‘late key’. The warden would hear you out, weigh your application, record your destination in a large bound volume which she kept on her desk. But if you were prepared to go out and stay out, who was to know?

On the other day—Julianne’s day in—she would go to bed at nine. She fell asleep easily, though my desk lamp burnt far into the night. When she turned she flounced in the bed, making the springs creak and half-waking herself, so that she would mutter a few words and turn again and throw out a bare white arm, to scoop against her breasts a torso of empty air. And I would lean back in my chair, resentful chin on the point of my shoulder, watching her; this easy sleep, I couldn’t learn it, I hardly knew if it was becoming. Sleep-starve is best, I said to myself; think of the hours of the night, just the same in quality as the hours of the day, and so many of them, and so much to be done.

In the mornings, Julianne turned over again, as if drugged, delirious, dreaming; it was hard to pull herself to the surface of the day. Sometimes when her travelling clock began its tinny drumming she would pluck it from her bedside table and hurl it towards me; heart fluttering under the single blanket, I would claw for it and clutch it and make the bell stop; smiling a dazed smile, Julianne would tumble back into sleep; myself out at eight, feet on the striped mat, then down the stairs, rubber toast, Sophies, the winter roads. In Houghton Street someone would always say hello, and already there was a seat in the library I could think of as mine. I tore into the work set for me, I rent it and devoured it and I ate it all up every scrap. And still these lines of verse ran through my head, as if I had a brain disease, some epilepsy-variant, some repeating blip in my cells:

I step into my heart and there I meet

A god-almighty devil singing small,

Who would like to shout and whistle in the street,

And squelch the passers flat against the wall;

If the whole world was a cake he had the power to take,

He would take it, ask for more, and eat it all.

One morning in the autumn, when I was eight, I went on to Curzon Street and there wasn’t Karina: not stumping towards me as usual. Hopefully, I bawled back into the house: ‘Hey, Mum, Karina’s not here.’

I hoped my mother would say, ‘You go on your own, you mustn’t be late.’

This damage to routine might free me from Karina, I thought; it would break up the pattern.

My mother shouted back, ‘Go and call for her.’

‘At her house?’

My mother appeared. ‘Yes, just knock on the door.’

‘She might be poorly.’

‘Well, go and see.’

‘They might all be asleep.’

‘I shouldn’t think so.’

‘They might have flitted.’

‘What? Moved house? Don’t be silly,’ my mother said.

I had played my last card. I trudged along Curzon Street and knocked at Karina’s door. Her mother called, ‘Yes, yes, it is open, it is open.’

I pushed the door and went inside. I had been there many times before and I knew that their house was like our house, with a sideboard and a big black poker for working the fire and a picture of the Pope pinned up on the wall.

‘Yes, yes, come on, we are overslept today,’ Karina’s mother said. Her English came in a rush, the consonants rustling and complex. I thought of when you turn the tap on and put your finger underneath to trap the water; it wobbles like a ball-bearing, and then gushes out in a torrent when you take your finger away.

Karina and her mother were standing in the kitchen. Karina was already belted into her gabardine overcoat, a checked wool scarf tied under her chin. Her mother was not yet dressed to go out but she was wearing thick woollen stockings and a buttoned-up cardigan, with a shawl draped over it. I had never seen a shawl, except in books; you got them in fairy-tales. Karina’s mother hadn’t a witch face, more the face of a godmother: dough-coloured, unformed, not definitely anything at all. Her eyes were like black grapes, which are not black of course: a dull mobile sheen, purplish, in soft folds of flesh. My mother called Karina’s mother ‘Mary’ when she met her in the street, but I did not think this could possibly be her name.

Karina’s mother had both hands full. In her right hand she had a ham sandwich made with thick white bread; she was holding it out to her daughter. Karina’s hands were wrapped around her mother’s hand, and she was gnawing at the bread, her head dipping with each bite, and her jaw moving like some greedy animal’s: chewing away, while the scarf’s bunchy knot bobbed up and down under her chin. In her other hand, Karina’s mother held a banana. It was already half-peeled, ready for immediate use. As Karina took the last gulp of ham sandwich she transferred it swiftly to her right hand. Karina closed her own hands again around her mother’s, holding the fruit steady; the banana seemed to vanish in three big bites.

Karina straightened up and wiped her hands on her coat. Her mother said something to her in another language. Karina didn’t answer. She didn’t even look at her mother, acknowledge that she had spoken. Her mother picked up a fat parcel from the kitchen cabinet, wrapped in greaseproof paper. She thrust it into Karina’s school-bag. Carefully, she fastened Karina’s coat right up to the neck and twitched her head-scarf forward so that it jutted out, protecting her daughter’s flushed cheeks; then she held up Karina’s mittens for her to plunge her hands inside. She patted her, on the shoulders, chest, arms, patted her as if she wanted to make sure she was solid all through. Then Karina was ready to seize the day.

I had watched her mother’s face while she fed her. She looked hungry, and as if all the food in the world could never be enough.

At eight years old, I wear my hair in ringlets, fat tubes that you can put your finger into. Each night at seven o’clock my mother brushes my hair and then combs it and then rakes it again with the steel comb, in case insects have bred since the night before. If I am free from vermin she gets out the curl rags. These are white ropes of cloth. She unrolls and separates them, then picks up the comb again and divides my hair into strands. At the top of each strand she knots a rope. Then round and round we go, tighter and tighter wrapping, myself delirious with pain and rage and she with set face, mummifying my hair. I cry out that I want my hair cut off, short like other people’s and pinned back with a big black kirby grip or a pink plastic slide, and she utters from between her teeth that I don’t know what I want. When she has wrapped to the bottom of a rope she ties another big knot, like a fist, like a knuckle bone. When she has finished my whole head, the bound hair springs away from my skull, stiff and white in its casing, as if I had grown legs out of my head: as if I were an alien from the planet Zog, with these swaying white skeleton limbs, knobbled and rickety and shining in the dusk.

When I climb into bed I pray my night prayers. When I put my head on the pillow one set of knots digs into my skull and the other set of knots rolls under my ribs and spine. I toss and turn and come to rest face down, breathing wetly into the sheets. Perhaps Karina is right, perhaps my hair is stealing my strength. I sleep and have dreams.

Next morning the ropes are unknotted and my hair explodes around me. I slide my fingers into the ringlets and pretend I have grown hair on my digits and that I am a werewolf.

One day I see Karina standing alone on the corner of Eliza Street, her eyes vacant and her mouth moving around what looks like a cold sausage. I cross over to the other side of the street. I hope she doesn’t see me, but she does.