Читать книгу Disconnected - Sherry Ashworth - Страница 7

Thinking of you makes me want to write down what I have to say. Do you remember the advice you used to give us when we wrote essays? Spend a long time on the introduction, as it’s the first thing that gets read. Never answer the question in the first sentence. Make it clear what you’re writing about by restating the question in your own words. You taught me how to be analytical. So here goes.

The question is, why did I throw away everything I had and end up as I am now? And as for the answer, I’m not even sure I know myself, but writing it might help me work it out. And it begins with me.

Me. Catherine Margaret Holmes. 16. Did well at GCSE. A good girl, nice family. Sensible. Prefect material. I remember how you used to smile at me encouragingly in lessons and say, “Well done, Cathy!” I used to hate that because I could feel everyone’s eyes on me, and I just knew they were thinking, teacher’s pet. I knew you liked me because of the way you nodded when I spoke and used to write those glowing reports for my parents. I liked you too because you liked me and even though the other students in the class teased you for those baggy cardigans you used to wear and the cup of strong coffee you used to take with you everywhere, I never joined in. Well, I did a bit, because you have to, really.

What I liked about you most was the way you got all lit up when you were talking about Shakespeare or poetry. You read things that none of us understood with your voice trembling with passion, then looked at us with your eyes shining, and we thought you were crazy. I can remember twitching with embarrassment for you but liking the way you were getting turned on. I tried to learn those lines you read…

Not poppy, nor mandragora,

Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world,

Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep

Which thou owed’st yesterday.

You were saying, listen to the sound of the words, the pattern of the stresses – mandragora, you said, lengthening the middle syllable as far as it would go. Mandragora. Drowsy syrups. I thought of the cough linctus my mother used to give me when I was small, but I knew that was wrong, only you get these weird associations sometime. You told us how darkly beautiful these lines were, but the truth was, I didn’t understand them, they didn’t make sense to me. The effect they had was to unhitch me from the reality of the classroom and make me dream.

It was a small seminar room on the third floor where we had our lessons, grey plastic chairs around a scored wooden table. It overlooked tennis courts fringed with ragged trees. We were grouped around the table, one or two boys, and the girls, each one of them set and determined in their own way to get whatever it was they wanted. They scared me. Lucy had her head down scribbling notes as if her life depended on it; Melissa sat there weighing up everything you said as if she could strike you down at any moment. She had her hand over her mouth. Fliss and Toni sat together as perfectly groomed as air hostesses. I don’t remember the others.

What I do remember from that day – the day I think it all began – was the sense of unreality that crept into the classroom. Like an animal, it rubbed itself against my feet and entered me, and I felt myself become detached and able to see very, very clearly, as if I was the only person in the universe, the only person who counted. I had X-ray vision. I saw behind your eyes as you were explaining the text that you were tired, harassed and anxious to get home. That Melissa was all spite and venom, glittering like a snake. That Lucy never had an original thought in her head and she was supposed to be my best friend. That Fliss and Toni were entirely plastic and even though they boasted about pulling blokes, they were so fake they wouldn’t have felt a thing.

These were nasty thoughts, and I didn’t like myself for being so bitchy. Does that surprise you, that I have such a bitchy side? It’s not the real me. But nor is the nice girl that you know who obeys the rules and smiles at all the teachers. Nor is the Cath who flirts with boys and samples their kisses. Or my parents’ daughter – she’s not real either. Just for one moment my eyes drifted to the text of the play we were reading and I thought, here are a bunch of characters, but where is Shakespeare? And me too – I was just a bunch of characters – does this make sense? Or will you write in the margin, avoid colloquialism, say precisely what you mean.

What I mean was at that point reality receded for me and I wasn’t really sure whether I was alive at all. My breath caught in my throat and I shivered. A prickling all along my veins made me want to run out of the classroom there and then but that was crazy – what would people think – and how could I explain? Was I having a panic attack? I’d heard people use that label before but I didn’t know what you were supposed to feel if you had one. I tried to calm myself down by biting the sides of my fingers – they’re red and raw, even now, like eczema. Bit by bit I went back to normal. My breathing regularised, my heart began to beat more slowly and I came back to the present and even felt slightly giggly.

But then real panic set in. I hadn’t heard a word you’d said and I knew you were setting us an essay on that part of that play. Of course I could always photocopy Lucy’s notes but the truth was they never made sense to me. I would have to work it all out by myself. There was nothing to be learnt now because Melissa had taken over. She was telling you that her parents had taken her to see the opera, Otello. You said that was wonderful!, and asked her about it. She criticised the tenor and talked about the set, pushing her hair back as she talked. The boys made faces and grinned at me which made me feel a whole lot better.

I want to know, did you ever see through Melissa? That was what really got us. That the teachers thought she was wonderful because she walked like you and talked like you and got high grades, effortlessly. Your approval of her shone out of every orifice. But the truth was, she despised you all, all the teachers. She got everyone believing that Miss Bradwell was a lesbian and no one was to go in to the changing rooms with her alone. She brought poppers into school one day and gave one to Afsheen without telling her what it was. Her mother did her GCSE coursework. Her father’s a consultant surgeon and took her to his old college in Oxford to meet some professor or other and she said it was all arranged, she’d be offered a place there next year.

Sorry – I’m going off the subject. I can imagine you annotating this with the brown-inked pen you used for marking our essays – stick to the point, Cathy, don’t waffle. I can tell you now I never did know when I was waffling. Everything I wrote seemed relevant to me, just like Melissa is relevant to my story too. Only perhaps she’s in the wrong order. So back to me. Sorry about the meandering.

I was really worried about the essay you set. It was partly because I’d been drifting in the lesson, and partly – or mainly – because of all the other stuff I had to do. There was a History essay hanging over me which had to be in on Monday. There was a test in Economics. You wanted us to read Frankenstein for our coursework. I had my oboe practice. I’d promised to come back to school that evening to serve coffee at the parents’ evening. And the Geography lesson was next and he always set us loads of things. I’d been invited to a party too, and knew if I went to that I’d be tired all Sunday. And I was so tired now. I guessed that was why I felt so odd in your lesson. Are you like that? The more you think about the work you have to do, the more tired you feel? I get a dragging sensation in my arms and the beginnings of a headache. That’s one of my worst points, getting tired when I shouldn’t. No one else seems as tired as me.

Will that do as an introduction?