An Experiment in Love
Hilary Mantel

Copyright

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Fourth Estate

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published by Viking 1995

Published in paperback by Harper Perennial 2004

Published by Fourth Estate 2010

Copyright © Hilary Mantel 1995

PS section copyright © Sarah O’Reilly 2010

PS™ is a trademark of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

Hilary Mantel asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

The lines from T. S. Eliot’s ‘Whispers of Immortality’ are reprinted from Collected Poems 1909-1962, 1974, by kind permission of Faber and Faber Ltd

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Source ISBN: 9780007172887

Ebook Edition © MAY 2010 ISBN: 9780007354924

Version: 2019-06-07

Dedication

For Gerald

Table of Contents

Cover Page

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Keep Reading

Praise

P.S.

About the Author

A Kind of Alchemy

Life at a Glance

A Writing Life

Read on

Have You Read?

Excerpt from Wolf Hall by Hilary Mantel

About the Author

Also by the Author

About the Publisher

One

This morning in the newspaper I saw a picture of Julia. She was standing on the threshold of her house in High-gate, where she receives her patients: a tall woman, wrapped in some kind of Indian shawl. There was a blur where her face should be, and yet I noted the confident set of her arms, and I could imagine her expression: professionally watchful, maternal, with that broad cold smile which I have known since I was eleven years old. In the foreground, a skeletal teenaged child tottered towards her, from a limousine parked at the kerb: Miss Linzi Simon, well-loved family entertainer and junior megastar, victim of the Slimmer’s Disease.

Julia’s therapies, the publicity they have received, have made us aware that people at any age may decide to starve. Ladies of eighty-five see out their lives on tea; infants a few hours old turn their head from the bottle and push away the breast. Just as the people of Africa cannot be kept alive by the bags of grain we send them, so our own practitioners of starvation cannot be sustained by bottles and tubes. They must decide on nourishment, they must choose. Unable to cure famine—uninterested, perhaps, for not everyone has large concerns—Julia treats the children of the rich, whose malaise is tractable. No doubt her patients go to her to avoid the grim behaviourists in the private hospitals, where they take away the children’s toothbrushes and hairbrushes and clothes, and give them back in return for so many calories ingested. In this way, having broken their spirits, they salvage their flesh.

I found myself, this morning, staring so hard at the page that the print seemed to blur; as if somewhere in the fabric of the paper, somewhere in its weave, I might find a thread which would lead me through my life, from where I was then to where I am today. ‘Psychotherapist Julia Lipcott’, said the caption. Ah, still Lipcott, I said to myself. Although, of course, she might have married. As a girl she wouldn’t change her underwear for a man, so I doubt if she’d change her name.

The story beneath the picture said that Miss Simon had been ill for two years. Gossip, really; it’s surprising what the Telegraph will print. The megastar’s gaze was open, dazed, fish-like; as if she were being grappled suddenly towards dry land.

It was the year after Chappaquiddick, the year Julia and I first went away from home. All spring I had dreamt about the disaster, and remembered the dreams when I woke: the lung tissue and water, the floating hair and the sucking cold. In London that summer the temperatures shot into the mid-eighties, but at home the weather was as usual: rain most days, misty dawns over our dirty canal and cool damp evenings on the lawns of country pubs where we went with our boyfriends: sex later in the clammy, dewy dark. In June there was an election, and the Tories got in. It wasn’t my fault; I wasn’t old enough to vote.

In July there was a dock strike, and temporary short-ages of fresh food. The Minister of Agriculture appeared on the news and said, ‘What housewives should do this week is shop around, buy those things which are cheaper.’

When my mother heard this, she took off her slipper and threw it at the television set. It sailed over the top and landed at the back among the tangled flexes and cables. ‘What does he think folk generally do?’ she asked. ‘Go down to the market and say, “What’s dear today, give me two pounds, will you, and a slice of your best caviare on top? Oh, no, that’s not dear enough! Please keep the change.”’

My father creaked out of his chair and went to pick her slipper up. He handed it back: ‘Prince Charming,’ he said, identifying himself.

My mother snorted, and forced her veiny foot back into the felt.

As soon as my exam results came through I started packing. I didn’t have many clothes, and those I did lacked the fashionable fringes and mosaic patterns. The papers said that purple would be the dominant shade of the autumn. I was old enough to remember when it had been fashionable last time: how jaundiced it made women look, and how embarrassing it was for them when the craze fizzled out and they had its relics crowding their wardrobes. The colour’s just a rag-trade manipulation, because apart from prelates nobody would naturally choose it. Women have been caught too often; that’s why we don’t have purple now. Except, of course, purple prose.

Quick, before I forget it…the dazzle of the lights on the white tiles, the dismal moans and clatters from the darkness, less like trains than the calls of departing ships; the voice of the announcer over the tannoy. I took out of my pocket a map, folded to the right square, and looked at it as I had done many times on the journey; my heart lurched a little, and small fires of apprehension ran behind my ribs, little flames leaping along the bones. I was a child, and I had been nowhere until now.

I picked up my suitcase, which was dragging my arm out of its socket, and began to lurch forward with it through the early evening; crisp leaves were falling already in the London squares.

When I arrived at the Hall of Residence, a woman—the warden herself—took me upstairs in a lift. She had a bunch of keys. ‘If you had left that’ (she meant my suitcase) ‘there’ (she said, with a mysterious, impatient gesture) ‘then the porter would have brought it up for you.’ As things were, she had to keep her finger on the OPEN button while I manoeuvred it out of the lift. I had to trail along behind her, dragging the suitcase like a deformed limb.

My room was to be on the third floor, known as C Floor. The woman led me along a wide corridor, parquet squeaking under her feet. She stopped by a door marked C3, rattled her bunch of keys and admitted us. Inside the door she consulted her list. ‘Mac, mac, mac,’ she said. ‘Miss McBain.’ There, pinned to her sheet before she flicked it over, I caught a glimpse of a photograph, the black-and-white photograph that the hall had requested. My mother had taken it in our backyard: I leant against red brick, like a person waiting for a firing squad. Perhaps my mother had never used a camera before. It had been a clear day, but in the photograph my features were wreathed in mist; my expression was shocked.

‘So,’ the woman said, ‘you were at day school in, let me see, Lancashire?’ That was true. I was listed somewhere, tabulated, in the heart of this great dark building. At a turn in the corridor I had smelt soup. Lights blossomed out in another building across the street.

The woman flicked over her lists again. ‘And there are two of your schoolmates coming along, is that correct, Miss Julianne Lipcott and—’ She squinted at the paper, turning it slightly from the light as if that would remove some of the czs and the djs that rustled and shuffled in proximity, in a surname that I had known since I was four, and which was therefore no stranger to me than Smith or Jones—less, really. I pronounced it for her and said helpfully, ‘We call her Karina.’

‘Yes, I see. But which of you will share? We don’t have rooms for three girls.’

Dormitories, those would be. I tried to imagine us in a row in white beds, Carmel and Karina and Julianne: our hands folded in prayer.

‘Since you’re here first you’d better decide,’ the warden said. ‘Whoever is left will be found another partner.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Perhaps you’d rather that be you? Perhaps you don’t want to share with either of them?’

I realized that a dubious, timid expression must have been growing on my face. ‘Miss Lipcott,’ I said quickly. ‘Miss Lipcott, please.’

How did I dare? It was not so much that I wanted Julianne’s company, or thought that she might want mine. She would be indifferent to it; if you’d asked her who she’d like for a room-mate, she’d have said, ‘Have you got any men?’ But what she would say if through my neglect or failure of nerve she found herself waking up every day in the same room as Karina?

The warden stepped over my suitcase, crossed the room and drew the curtains. They were grey curtains, with a darker grey stripe, matching the covers of the two single beds that stood foot to foot along one wall. She smiled at me, indicating the room, its wardrobe, wash-basin, two desks, two chairs. ‘You’ll have first choice then, won’t you?’ She put into my hand a key; attached to it was a big wooden fob, with ‘C3’ written on it. ‘You’ll find it best to lock your door when you leave your room. Hand your key in at the front desk when you leave the building.’ She put her lists down on a desk, tapped them together and secured them with a snapping bulldog clip. ‘May I take this opportunity, Miss McBain, to wish you every success in your university career? If you have any problems, queries, do come to see me—at some mutually agreed hour, of course.’ The warden went out, closing the door quietly and leaving me to my life.

I rubbed my elbow. It felt disjointed, irretrievably strained. Should I be here? A vision came into my head of the home I had left, of the stuffy room, with the glowing electric coals, where I had performed the study, where I had formed the ambition, that had delivered me to this room. A horrible longing leapt up inside me: not the flames of apprehension, but something damper, a crawling flurry in my ribcage, like something leaping in a well. The suitcase lay across the doorway, at an angle and on its side. I stooped, crouching to apply a final effort to it, bracing my knees; as if they had been waiting for the aid of gravity, tears ran out of my eyes and made jagged patches on the sleeves of my new beige raincoat.

I straightened up and opened the wardrobe door. Six metal hangers clashed together on a rail. I took off my coat and hung it up. I felt that it had somehow been spoilt by my crying on it, as if salt water would take off the newness. I could not afford to spoil my clothes.

A clock struck, and as I had no watch—I travelled without such normal equipment—I counted the strokes. I sat down on the bed nearest the window. It would be mine, and so would the bigger of the two desks, the better lit. It was more natural to me, and perhaps easier, to take the worse desk and bed, but I knew that Julianne would despise me for any show of self-sacrifice.

So, I sat on the bed. My fingers stroked the rough striped cover. The sheets beneath were starched and crackling like paper: tucked strap-tight into the bed’s frame, as if to harness a lunatic. There seemed to be no traffic in the street below. A lightbulb burned in its plain paper shade. A silence gathered. Time seemed to have stopped. I sat, and looked at my feet. Certain lines of verse began to run through my head. ‘Then we let off paper crackers, each of which contained a motto / And she listened while I read them, till her mother told her not to.’ I could hear my breath going about its usual business, in and out. I was eighteen years old, plus one month. I wondered, would I ever get any older: or just go on sitting in this room. But after a time, the clock struck again. ‘And dark as winter was the flow / Of Iser, rolling rapidly.’ I got up, and began to put my clothes into the drawers, and my books on the shelves.

I grew up in a small town, the only child of elderly parents. Our town, a cotton town, had fallen into decay by the time I was born; cheap textiles from the Far East were beginning to flood the markets and those mills that remained struggled on with antiquated machinery, which it was not worth the cost of replacing; the workers too were ageing, and by the time of my middle childhood were like a parody of themselves, a southerner’s idea of the north. Under the factory walls of plum-coloured brick, stained black from the smoke and daily rain, plodded thick-set men in bib and brace, with shorn hair and flat caps: and angry-looking women in checked head-scarves, with elastic stockings and shoes like boats. Beyond the mill chimneys, you could see the line of hills.

The streets of our town were lined with brick-built terraces, interrupted by corner shops which gave no credit: by public houses in which people would declare they never set foot: by sooty Nonconformist churches, whose attendance dwindled as the 1960s drew on. There was a time when each of these churches had outside it a wooden board, and pinned to the board a discreet notice in fading type, announcing the times of services and Sunday schools and the names of visiting preachers. But a day came when these notices were replaced by posters, splashed in screaming colours: CHRISTIANITY HASN’T FAILED, IT’S JUST NEVER BEEN TRIED. The town’s cinema shut down, and was turned into a supermarket of eccentric design; the Mechanics’ Institute closed its doors, had its windows smashed, decayed for eighteen months, and then reopened as a tyre salesroom.

My mother, made redundant from her job in the weaving shed, went out cleaning houses. A change took place in our own form of worship; the priest, now turned around to face the people, spoke a debased lingo that they could all understand. Opera manuum ejus Veritas et judicium. The works of His hands are truth and judgement.

My father was a clerk; I knew this from quite early in life, because of my mother’s habit of saying, ‘Your father’s not just a clerk, you know.’ Each evening he completed a crossword puzzle. Sometimes my mother read her library books or looked at magazines, which she also called ‘books’, but more often she knitted or sewed, her head bowed under the standard lamp. Her work was exquisite: her tapestry, her drawn-thread work. Our pillowcases were embroidered, white on white, with rambling roses and trailing stems, with posies in plaited baskets, with ribbons in garlands and graceful knots. My father had a different cable-knit cardigan for every day of the week, should he choose to wear it. All my petticoats, cut out and sewn by her, had rows of lace at the hem and—also by the hem on the lefthand side—some motif representing innocence: a buttercup, for example, or a kitten.

I can see that my mother was, in herself, not exquisite. She had a firm jaw, and a loud carrying voice. Her hair was greying and wild and held back with springing kirby grips. When she frowned, a cloud passed over the street. When she raised her eyebrows—as she often did, amazed each hour by what God expected her to endure—a small town’s tram system sprang up on her forehead. She was quarrelsome, dogmatic and shrewd; her speech was alarmingly forthright, or else bewilderingly circumlocutory. Her eyes were large and alert, green like green glass, with no yellow or hazel in them; with none of the compromises people have when it comes to green eyes. When she laughed I seldom knew why, and when she cried I was no wiser. Her hands were large and knuckly and calloused, made to hold a rifle not a needle.

My father and myself were fair, lean, quiet people, our features minimal and smooth; our eyes changed colour in different lights. I was a little Englishwoman, my mother said: cool. This struck a chill in me, a deepening chill; I wanted to believe I belonged to another country. My mother and father had both left Ireland in their mothers’ wombs, and their workaday north country accents were as flat as mine. My father looked entirely like an Englishman; he could have passed for an earl, or an earl’s flunkey. His narrow body bent itself in strange places, as if hinged and jointed differently from other people’s. His legs were long and seemed extendable, and his feet were narrow and restless; when he came into a room he seemed to hover and trail about it, like a harmless insect, daddy longlegs.

It was my parents’ habit, at intervals, to shut themselves in their bedroom; then my mother would mention, loudly and contentiously, the names of strange towns. Colchester was mentioned, so at another time was Stroud, and so was a place my mother pronounced lengthily as Kingston—upon—Hull. Later I realized that these were places to which we might have gone to live, if my father had taken up an offer of promotion. But for one reason or another he never did. When I was in my teens they would take me into rooms separately, and hiss between their teeth—false, in both cases—about who had wanted to go and who hadn’t, who had wrecked whose chances. It was beyond me to make any sense of this: to trap them in a room together and get them to have it out, spit out the truth of the situation. Perhaps I already suspected there was no truth to be had; their fictions were interwoven, depending one on the other.

In summer, when I was a small girl, we would take a bus to the outskirts of the town, and walk in the hills, rambling along the bridle paths in clear green air. We were above the line of the mill chimneys; like angels, we skimmed their frail tops.

Once you have begun remembering—isn’t this so?—one image springs another; they run through your head in all directions, scampering animals flushed from coverts. Memory’s not a reel, not a film you can run backwards and forwards at will: it’s that flash of startled fur, the slither of silk between the fingers, the duplicated texture of hair or bone. It’s an image blurring, caught on the move: as if in one of my family snapshots, taken before cameras got so foolproof that any fool could capture the moment.

I remember this.

I am six years old, and I have been ill. After this illness I am returning to school. It is a spring morning, water gurgling in the gutters, a keen wind. I am still shaky, unused to going out, and I have to hold tight to my mother’s hand as she leads me through the school gate. Perhaps I don’t want to go; I don’t know. There is one tree in our school playground, and the scud and dapple of sun across its leaves is like the feeling in my limbs, now heavy, now light. Everything is new to me. My eyes are clear and cold, as if they have been rinsed in ice water.

Inside the classroom the air is hot and fusty. It smells of damp and wool and of our playtime milk cooking in its bottles beside the radiator pipes, growing glutinous and clotted. Perhaps in summer, when we have our holidays, this smell goes away? In detail: chalk smells of peaches, or I think the word ‘chalk’ is like the word ‘peaches’, because of the texture both sounds share, the plushness and the grain. Rulers smell of their wood, of their varnish, and of the salt and flesh of the hand which has warmed them: as you draw them beneath your nose you feel each dividing notch, so that each fraction of an inch has its measured segment of scent. My teacher will snarl—her eyes popping at me—that in all the time I’ve been off sick she thinks I might have learnt to draw a straight line. But that’s later; for this morning there’s an element of sweetness, and this shivering light. It is as if my teacher has forgotten who I am, and that when she last saw me she threatened to hit me for singing. My renaissance has called out of her a vague good-will. ‘Let me see,’ she says, looking around the classroom. ‘Where would you like to sit?’

The luxury of choice. My fingers curl into my palms like snails. I know what I would like: to sit next to someone who has a certificate to show that there are no insects in their hair. Eggs, my mother says, eggs are what you find, but I cannot imagine eggs unless they are hens’ eggs. While she scrapes my scalp with the steel comb she always emphasizes that lice are democratic, that they visit the rich as well as the poor—though we don’t, I think, know anyone who is rich—and that they like, they positively prefer, clean heads over dirty ones. I come into the category of clean heads, and she tells me this so that I will not look down on the insects’ victims, or taunt them in the playground, or chant at them.

I look around the room. Under their pullovers—which might be maroon, or a mottled grey—the boys wear grey shirts, their collars springing upwards, twisted and wrung as though they’ve tucked down their chins and chewed them. They wear striped elastic belts with buckles like two snakes in a headlock. Their hair is either chopped straight across their foreheads or it is shorn off to stubble. When they go home, in bad weather—which is to say, in most weather—they wear knitted balaclava helmets, and one boy has an even more terrible item, a leather helmet, thin black leather like a saurian skin, tight to his skull and fastening under his chin with a tarnished buckle. When I look at the boys I see bristles and snouts, rubber faces always contorting and meemowing. They are always lolling their tongues and wriggling their ears, or polishing their noses with the flats of their palms, working the cartilage violently round and round. Their not-yet-hairy limbs are pliable as ruddy clay, as a doll I have called a Bendy Toy; I can almost smell the rubber and feel the boneless twist I give its legs. I think I will not sit next to a boy.

I look at the girls and the girls look back at me, various expressions of dullness or spite on their faces. Their hair is braided tightly into stubby plaits, or chopped short below their ears; if the latter, it is parted at one side, and pinned off their faces with a great black grip. They have an assortment of navy cardigans, some of them washed out and shrunken, with the buttons through the wrong holes. Some have pleated skirts, or gym-slips like blue-black cardboard, like solid ink; some have cotton frocks under their cardigans, frocks that are limp and soft and pastel. I think, as the lesser evil, I will sit next to a girl.

But there are two difficulties here. One is that I have been away so long that I do not have a friend. The other is that my mother has embroidered a gambolling lamb and a frieze of spring flowers right over the skirt of my blue cotton dress. It is a sky-blue dress, and otherwise plain; I see them looking into my sky. They both want and don’t want it. I can expect no mercy.

I sway on the spot. The hem of the dress brushes the tender skin at the back of my knees.

‘Well…make up your mind,’ my teacher says.

Miss Whittaker, who teaches the next class, is said to make a speciality of hitting pupils on the backs of their knees. Knuckle-rapping has gone quite out of style.

I look around, and see Karina. There is a chair empty next to her. She lifts her broad face to the light, and gives me a benevolent smile. She is wearing a yellow cardigan, yellow and fluffy, the colour of a new chicken in a picture book. Her plaits are fat and bound with white ribbons looped into flamboyant bows. From the braids and all around her head tiny threads or wires of hair stand out, white-blonde, quivering. Her face is like the sun.

‘There, please,’ I say.

Complacently, Karina begins to rearrange her possessions on the table: square up her ruler, her pencil, the cardboard box in which (at this tender age) we keep our lined paper for writing, and our squared paper for sums.

Next day when Julianne arrived, I was lying on my bed smoking a cigarette. ‘My God!’ she said, shrieking inside the doorway. ‘Your hair! My God!’

I sat up, smiling solemnly. My hair, which had been down to my waist at the end of the school term, was now clipped close to my head, scarcely an inch long all over. Glimpsing myself in shop windows this last week, I had whirled around to confront the stranger who seemed always at my shoulder; it was myself. My head felt light and full of possibilities, like a dandelion clock.

Julianne crossed the room, picked up my packet of cigarettes, and fitted one into her full red mouth. ‘Why did you do it? Did you have nits, or is it a symbol?’ She caught sight of herself in the mirror. Put up a large hand to touch her own hair, silky hanks the colour of butterscotch. ‘This mirror is useless,’ she grumbled.

‘Duck.’

She bent her knees. ‘Useless. It’s not the top of my head I need to see, it’s the rest of me.’

‘Perhaps we might rehang it.’

‘And knock a lump out of the bloody wall.’

There was an oblong coffee-table in the middle of the room, centred on the striped cotton rug that was centred on the polished floor. Julianne tested the table with her hand and then stepped up on it. A piece of her came into view through the mirror: her knees, coloured tights, the swish of her short skirt. The table groaned. ‘Careful!’ I said. She stretched out a hand, palm forth, like an orator. We were stuffed with education, replete with it: ‘Make a speech,’ I suggested.

‘Gaul is divided into three parts,’ she proffered, in Latin.

‘That isn’t a speech.’

‘Carthage must be destroyed.’ She studied her reflection. ‘Not bad.’ She stepped down, glowing.

‘Your case,’ I asked. ‘Where is it?’

‘I left it for the porter.’

‘Lawdy me!’ I thought of my dislocated limb. ‘Now he will carry it up for you, and you’ll have to give him a tip. That will be embarrassing for you.’

‘You don’t have to tip this kind –’ She broke off. She smirked. She saw how it was going to be. We were free now, to enjoy each other’s company; free and equal, to be as silly and as sharp as we liked. ‘I smelt soup,’ she said.

‘I’m afraid you did.’

‘Christ.’ She said it with a volume of disgust.

‘Do you remember at school, when Laura took that message over to the kitchens, and they were putting the cabbage on at half-past nine?’

A further blank distaste fell into Julianne’s eyes. ‘We’ll not discuss our academy,’ she said. ‘But I must say for it, that at least at the end of the day they let us go to our own homes to eat and have baths.’

‘There are communal arrangements,’ I said.

‘Are there mirrors?’

‘What?’

‘Are there full-length mirrors? In the bathrooms?’

‘No. Only pipes. Steam. The water is hot. There are white tiles, not much cracked, and scouring powder on a ledge, for when you’ve done.’

‘I don’t see how you’re expected to manage it. To take a bath without a mirror.’

I kept quiet. It had never seemed to me essential. Even important at all. ‘They’re only along the corridor,’ I said. ‘Three bathrooms in a row. There’s no reason why I should describe them to you.’

‘I like to have you describe things,’ she said moodily. ‘Descriptions are your strong point. God knows why you want to be reading law. Vanity, I suppose. You want to show your frightful grinding omnicompetence.’ She looked about her. ‘I see you’ve taken the best desk. The best bed.’

She sat down on her own bed, and began to simper. ‘At the hair,’ she explained. ‘Come now, Carmel, how can you bear to leave the old country behind? A girl like you, brought up with every advantage…the rag rugs, the flying ducks on the wall…’

‘We don’t, actually, have any flying ducks. Though my aunt has them.’

‘Maybe not, but I expect you have one of those fireside sets, do you, with little gilt tongs and a gilt shovel?’

I smiled, in spite of myself.

‘Shingled,’ she said. ‘Would that be the word? Cropped. Shaved.’ She pointed. ‘Do you know how that head of yours affects me? Sitting behind your straggly pigtails year in, year out, with your ribbons with the ends cut in Vs like they do them on wreaths—’

‘I didn’t know that.’

‘—and then to walk in here, Miss, to a room in London in this Hall of Residence, where we are confined at Her Majesty’s Pleasure…What do you think, would they let us move out and get a flat?’

‘Together?’

‘Why not?’

‘What about my lower-class ways?’

She blew smoke at me. ‘I have an urge to say to you, Bejasus!’

‘Is that so?’

‘It would be nice if we went about and talked like an Edna O’Brien novel. It would suit us.’

‘Yes, it would become us,’ I said. ‘We haven’t the class for Girls of Slender Means.’

‘Speak for yourself. You charwoman’s daughter.’ Julianne wiped her eyes, but then she began to laugh again almost at once.

I told her about the poems that ran around in my head. She said, ‘You need to be taken out of yourself. We should go out and do some living. We could go to some students’ union or other, we must belong to them now. We will have a bottle or two of Guinness, will we? To build us up?’

There was a sound of revelry by night, I said to myself. I could have bitten the secret tongue in my brain that said it. Why did I think I was preparing for the Battle of Waterloo? Julianne made everything seem normal, but it was not normal for me. Her home was recoverable; she could travel to it next weekend, if she wished, and tumble into her frilly bed in her familiar room. I could not return until Christmas—at which point I could reclaim a fare from my local authority. Her parents, she had said, had offered to drive her down, see her installed, inspect her room and add a luxury or two; but she thought it better to make the break, get clean away on the Euston train, and besides, they must realize her accommodation was shared, and I might have brought my own luxuries with me.

I fought off self-pity: which Julianne’s words, on the whole, seemed designed to stimulate. I felt homesick already, and poor, more with the apprehension of poverty than with an actual lack in my purse; my right arm, that racked limb, did not feel as if it would support the weight of a bag of textbooks. If only the work would begin: the ink, the files, the grit behind sleepless eyes, the muffled tread of the invigilators. That was what I had come here for: to make my way, to make my living.

There was a knock on the door. Julianne bounced across the room. It was the porter, bringing her suitcase. ‘Put it there!’ she sang. She stretched her arms wide—Lady Bountiful. There was a plum cake inside her travelling bags, baked at home and sealed in a tin. She knew how to manage her life, how to go away from home. I thought of her father, the doctor; of her three brothers, who at their school played lacrosse. Brothers are an advantage, in the great world; they give a girl the faculty of easy contempt for men. Julianne’s skin seemed polished; she was altogether more apt for adventure, more translatable.

‘Julianne,’ I said, ‘you haven’t mentioned the obvious fact.’

She stretched her eyes. ‘Where is it obvious, where, the obvious fact?’

‘You know I mean Karina.’

‘Spare me,’ Julianne said.

‘She hasn’t got here yet, at least so far as I…’

‘Even so. Spare me.’

‘They asked if you wanted to share with her.’

Julianne stared at me. ‘Where in God’s name did they get that idea?’

I smiled inside. ‘They only asked. I think it was a formality.’

‘I hope you requested them to put her very far away, in the lowest, highest—’

‘In fact she’s next door.’

‘You’re not telling me you let them—’

‘No, OK. I’m lying. She’s on this corridor. C21.’ For I had seen the warden’s pencil moving swiftly over the lists, allocating numbers and floors. ‘Quite far away.’

‘Who with?’

‘A stranger.’

‘It would have to be. A stranger, it would have to be. If you had pulled some trick,’ she said, ‘and left me with Karina, I would never have spoken to you again.’ She thought for a moment. ‘I would have run up to you in the street with a specially made snagger and laddered your best tights. I would have got a packet of Durex and written on them “From Carmel to Niall, in anticipation,” and I would have taken them out of the packet and stuck pins in them all over and then folded them back in and sealed up the seal and posted them to your boyfriend and written SWALK on the envelope.’

‘Finished now?’

‘Sealed With A Loving Kiss,’ she said.

I wanted to plead, and say, but Karina, we are going to, you know, be friends with her? Aren’t we? But I couldn’t. It sounded too childish. As if we hadn’t moved on. I picked up my packet of Player’s and tossed it on to Julianne’s bed. ‘There you are. I’ve given up smoking,’

She gaped at me. ‘You’ve only just begun it.’

‘Even in my habits I mean to be fickle.’

Julianne laughed. Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood. Rings on her fingers and bells on her toes.

Two

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.

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