A Girl's Guide to Modern European Philosophy

by Charlotte Greig

  “Not necessarily.” Belham put his oar in. “Go on, Susannah.”

  “Well, perhaps what Kierkegaard is saying …” I paused, remembering that I knew absolutely nothing about him, which was a leap of faith in itself. “Maybe what he means is that when you make the leap, you're not doing it because you know God will help you. You're doing it in the absence of any knowledge at all. But actually making the leap stops you flying about all over the place like a bird in dismay.”

  I paused again. Coming out with the quote made me sound as though I knew what I was talking about, so I went on.

  “It gives you a purpose,” I went on. “It gives you faith, in a way. That's what God is, perhaps. The courage to make the leap. Kind of thing.”

  “That's still religious thinking,” said Rob with a pedantic air.

  “I don't think so,” said Belham. “I think Susannah's got a point here.”

  Rob clicked his tongue quietly under his breath and began doodling again. I knew he was irritated because he'd read the text and I hadn't, but it wasn't my fault he was being uptight and refusing to discuss it in the tutorial. I wasn't trying to get one up on him, I'd only pitched in because I thought Belham deserved something better than a couple of lazy, monosyllabic students to teach, especially now he'd lost Dennis.

  Belham started talking about Kierkegaard's attack on Christendom, drawing Rob into the discussion, and by the end of the tutorial everyone seemed to be in a better mood. As we got up to go, Belham wished us both a good break over the Christmas holidays, and then, as we were packing up our stuff and I was wondering how I was going to get out of going for coffee with Rob in the common room, Belham asked me to stay behind.

  Rob walked out of the room and gave the door a bit of a slam, which made Belham look up with a puzzled expression on his face.

  “What's the matter with Rob today?” Belham asked as I sat down again.

  “No idea,” I said. “Just a bit touchy, I think.”

  “Really?” He gave me a searching look.

  I changed the subject. “Is it … did you want to ask me about my dissertation?”

  “Well, yes, I suppose so. But there's no real hurry about that. It's more …” He paused. “I just wondered if you were all right, Susannah.”

  “How do you mean, all right?”

  “You seem to have been a little … distracted lately.”

  “Do I?” I felt alarmed. I'd hoped he hadn't noticed. “Sorry. I'm just a bit tired, that's all, what with the end of term and everything.”

  “Is there anything wrong?”

  “No,” I said. “I'm fine. Absolutely fine.”

  “Good.” He didn't sound convinced. “It's just that after Dennis … I, well, you know …” His voice trailed off.

  “How is Dennis?” I said, changing the subject again.

  “I don't know,” he said. “I wrote to him, but I've heard nothing back. I think he's still living with his parents.”

  There was a silence, and then Belham added, “He was a talented philosopher.”

  “Mmm,” I said.

  Silence descended again and Belham started scratching his ear. Then he said, with what seemed like an effort, “And I think you could be, too, Susannah.”

  “Oh. Thanks,” I said.

  Even though Dennis was obviously one of Belham's favorite students, I wasn't altogether thrilled to be compared with him.

  “You seemed to be enjoying the course earlier in the term,” he went on. “I don't know what happened. And now Rob …” He looked down at the floor dejectedly.

  I realized that Belham was blaming himself for the fact that all his students seemed to be screwing up lately.

  “Oh no,” I said. “It's not you … it's not the course,” I said. “The course is great.”

  “Well, what is it then?” He looked up at me. I noticed the bluish shadows under his eyes, and how the trace of stubble on his face made him look worn out, but in a sexy kind of way.

  It was then that I started crying. It seemed to happen at the drop of a hat these days.

  Belham got up from his desk and came over to where I was sitting. He sat down on the chair next to me and gingerly patted my shoulder. He didn't seem to want to get too close.

  I put my head in my hands and began to sob violently. Once I started, I felt as if I'd never stop again. I hung my head so that my hair fell forward, to hide the tears and mucus and dribble running down my face.

  Belham fished in his pocket and brought out a handkerchief that didn't look all that clean, but I took it and blew my nose.

  “Sorry,” I said, not looking at him. The sobs were coming more quietly now, in shuddering aftershocks, as though I was a child.

  “Don't be sorry,” he said. “These things happen to all of us.” I noticed the sadness in his voice as he spoke.

  “No,” I said. “They don't. They just happen to me.”

  Then I told him that I was pregnant, and that in a minute I was going to have to go down to the health center and book myself an abortion. I wasn't sure why I did it, because I'd always quite fancied him, and even though I never really thought that he'd fancy me, I'd always kind of hoped that one day he might look up and notice me as a woman, rather than as just another student like Dennis. But he never had, and now that I'd been crying like a baby in front of him, with my nose all red and snot running down my face, I realized he probably never would.

  This time, he put his arm round me and squeezed my shoulder briefly, then sat back away from me again. He seemed uncomfortable whenever he came anywhere near me.

  “Does the father know?” he said.

  “Well, that's the thing,” I said. “I don't know who … I mean, I'm not sure …”

  “Ah, right,” he said, a little too quickly. I didn't look at him, but I could sense his discomfort.

  I didn't say anything more for a while, and neither did he.

  Then he said, “Susannah, what would you choose if you were free to do anything you wanted to?”

  I looked up at him. Up close, I could see crinkles of skin around the edges of his eyes, and there were some gray bits of stubble around his chin. He couldn't have been more than thirty, yet there was something almost haggard about him. I thought, he looks old, really old. But I fancied him, there was no doubt about it.

  “I'm not sure,” I said.

  “Well, think about it,” he said. “Think about it carefully. Aim high. You can do anything you want to, you know. It's not either-or.”

  When I left Belham's room, I found Rob waiting for me in the corridor.

  “Hi.” I put my head down so that my hair fell over my face. I didn't want him to see that I'd been crying.

  “What the fuck was all that about?”

  I started walking down the corridor towards the stairs, and he fell in beside me. “All what?” I said.

  “You know what, Susannah.” He sounded angry.

  “No I don't. What?”

  “First of all you disappear for days, then you ignore me in the tutorial and suck up to Belham, then you stay behind and chat to him for hours to try and avoid me afterwards. What's going on?”

  As we walked down the stairs, he seemed to be much too close, leaning in on me. I tried moving away but he kept moving with me.

  “Nothing's going on,” I said. “We were just talking about my dissertation, that's all.”

  We reached the door to the outside world, and I stopped to open it. It seemed heavier than usual and I struggled with it.

  “OK, but at least you could explain where you've been hiding all this time. D'you want to go for coffee?” It sounded more like a demand than an invitation.

  “I can't, Rob, I've got to get down to the health center.”

  He gave the door a bad-tempered shove and we walked through.

  “You're always going to the health center,” he said. “What the bloody hell's wrong with you?”

  It was my turn to feel angry now. “None of your business.”

  I q
uickened my pace, leaving him behind, but he started shouting my name as I did. People were turning round to look.

  He caught up with me, his face flushed, and gripped me by the arm. “You've got to tell me what's going on. You owe it to me.”

  I stood there with his hand closing around my upper arm, squeezing my flesh until it hurt. He dug his fingers harder and harder into my skin, but still I said nothing. I was enjoying the pain. It was making me angry, to the point where I felt I really didn't owe him anything, except perhaps a kick in the balls.

  Then I saw that there were tears in his eyes and I snapped. “I don't want to go out with you, Rob,” I said, looking past him. “That's what's going on.”

  He let go of my arm and doubled up as though I'd punched him in the stomach. Then he straightened up, took a deep breath, and closed in on me again, gripping me by the shoulder. “But why? Why?”

  A feeling of triumph came over me as I saw the bewilderment on his face. But then, seeing his look of shame as he raised his head to stop the tears falling down his cheeks, I suddenly felt ashamed too. I knew I was purposely trying to hurt him, but I didn't know why.

  “I'm sorry, Rob.” My voice was shaking, and I could feel that he was shaking too. “I'll explain all this to you one day, but I can't now.”

  “Well, when can you?” There was an urgency in his voice that excited me. He really wanted me. Having told him that it was all over, I began to want him again.

  “I need time to think,” I said, still looking past him. “Let's meet after the holidays …”

  But Rob wasn't listening. He'd seen something in my face that told him I wanted him again, and he was moving in fast, while it lasted.

  He started kissing me, biting my lip as he did and running his hands through my hair, pulling it hard so that it hurt. I began to feel dizzy and for a moment I lost consciousness.

  When I came to, I saw that I was standing outside, looking up at a gray sky. Rob was holding me in his arms.

  “God, are you all right?” he said.

  “I think so.”

  “What happened?”

  “I just felt a bit faint,” I said. “I'm OK now, I think.”

  “Jesus,” he said. “I'm really sorry. I didn't realize … I didn't mean to hassle you. It's just that …”

  “I know,” I said. “But I can't talk about it now. I promise I will, though. When we come back …”

  “… After the holidays,” he said. “But just tell me now. Is it that there's someone else?”

  “No.” This time I wasn't lying. “It's not that.”

  “You're not …” He paused. “You're not terminally ill or anything, are you?”

  I laughed. “Not as far as I know.”

  I started walking again, and Rob fell in beside me. He walked me down to the health center, and when he left, he took off his silver bangle and put it on my wrist. “Christmas present,” he said.

  “Thanks.” I felt like crying, but I stopped myself. “I haven't got anything to give you. Sorry.”

  “Happy Christmas,” he said, drawing me close and kissing me.

  “Happy Christmas,” I replied, kissing him back.

  “Shall I come in and wait with you?”

  “No, it's OK.”

  “Give me your phone number, then. I'll call you later.”

  “I haven't got one. Not at the moment, anyway.”

  He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to me.

  “Well, here's my parents' number. I'll be there for most of the holidays.”

  “Thanks,” I said, folding the paper and putting it in my jacket pocket. “I've got to split now. Bye.”

  I turned and walked up the steps of the health center.

  “Bye,” he called, but I didn't look back.

  chapter 20

  INSIDE THE HEALTH CENTER, I walked up to the reception desk and asked if I could make an appointment. I didn't ask for Doctor Morgan by name. I couldn't face trying to explain myself to someone who looked like one of my father's friends, and I was hoping they'd give me someone else. But when the receptionist asked who I was and I told her, she immediately got on the phone. The next moment, she was saying, “Doctor Morgan will see you now,” so I had no choice but to walk up the corridor and knock on his door again.

  “Come in,” he called.

  I opened the door and went in to find him sitting behind his desk, shuffling his papers as he'd done before.

  “Ah, Miss Jones,” he said. “Do take a seat.”

  I sat down and said nothing while he shuffled on. Then he stopped, took off his specs, and peered at me shortsightedly.

  “Well,” he said. “We've had a positive result for your test. Now, where does that leave us?”

  I bowed my head. I couldn't think of anything to say.

  There was a silence.

  “I expect this has come as a bit of a shock to you,” he said, fiddling with his glasses.

  I nodded silently, still looking at my lap.

  “Miss Jones,” he said. “May I call you Susannah?”

  I nodded again. I couldn't give a shit what he called me to be honest, but I didn't say so.

  “You must understand, there's nothing for you to be ashamed of,” he went on. “You've made a mistake, that's all. You're not the first and you won't be the last.”

  I looked up, surprised. I'd been expecting him to give me a lecture.

  “The question is, what do you want to do about this?”

  For a moment I thought of telling him everything: about Jason, about Rob, about my father dying and my mother being a zombie now, about Fiona's advice, and about what Belham had said. For a moment I imagined I could talk it all over with him and come to some kind of decision. But then I remembered he was a doctor, an Ammanford man my father's age: someone who had been in the war, and worked hard, and paid his way, and slept in a twin bed beside his wife for the last thirty years.

  “I want to have an abortion, of course,” I said.

  The way it came out, it sounded coarse and harsh, as though I didn't give a damn about my unborn child. And as though I was rebuffing his attempts to be sympathetic as well.

  Doctor Morgan shifted in his chair. I could tell he was offended. He coughed, and then said, “Have you discussed this with the father?”

  “No,” I said. “And anyway, I don't know who the father is. I'm going to have an abortion, and that's that.”

  I wondered why I was being so rude to him. Perhaps it was a way of hiding my embarrassment. All I knew was, I couldn't stand his concern. It was cloying, and worse, it made me wonder if I had any idea what I was doing.

  “Well, if that's really the case …” He looked at me quizzically, but I said nothing.

  “Have you discussed this with your parents?” he asked, changing the subject.

  “No,” I said. “My father's dead, anyway.”

  “I'm sorry to hear that.” His tone was gentle but even. I got the impression he was beginning to realize that I didn't want his sympathy. “Recently?”

  “A year and three months ago.” I was surprised how quickly it came out. I never thought about exactly how long it was since my father had died, but whenever anyone asked me I seemed to be able to tell them straight away.

  “Ah,” he said. “I see.”

  I hated the way he said that, as though he understood something about me that I didn't.

  “And your mother?”

  “I can't talk about this with her. She suffers with her nerves.”

  “Nerves” was a well-known condition back home, one that, once raised in conversation, was never discussed any further.

  “Oh. I see,” he said again. I wanted to slap him.

  “And this question of the father …” he went on.

  I sighed. “Look, Doctor Morgan, there are two possibilities. One of them is my ex-boyfriend. I've told him and he doesn't want to know. We've split up now. The other …”

  “Yes?”

  “I'm sure he
wouldn't want to know either.”

  Now that I said it out loud, I wasn't so sure. In fact, I began to wonder why I hadn't told Rob. Maybe it wasn't because I thought he'd reject me like Jason had. Maybe he hadn't just been sleeping with me because he was dying for a screw after years of going out with Beth and getting nowhere. Maybe I'd kept it from him because I was scared he'd want the baby, and me, and then I'd be stuck with him for the rest of my life.

  “I think you owe it to him to tell him though, Su … Miss Jones.”

  Rob's words came back to me: You've got to tell me what's going on. You owe it to me.

  “OK,” I said. “Maybe I will. But it won't make any difference. I'm still going through with this, whatever happens.”

  *

  By the time I left the health center, I'd signed the papers for the abortion. Doctor Morgan had gone through all the forms with me, asking me if there was a grave risk to my physical or mental health if I continued with the pregnancy, to which I'd answered yes, even though I couldn't see why I had to pretend I was going to die or go off my head just because I didn't want to have a baby. Once we'd filled out the forms, he'd told me that he'd have to get another doctor to sign them, and that my application would then go through to the hospital, and that the whole process might take weeks. He'd given me an information booklet, which listed some private clinics in Brighton where I could obtain a “speedy termination,” as he called it, in the meantime. He'd explained that, up to thirteen weeks of pregnancy, the procedure was fairly simple: they just sucked the fetus out of the womb with a type of Hoover. After that, he said, it got more messy and complicated, but he didn't go into details. He'd told me that I could change my mind at any time, and asked me to come back and see him after the break, and I'd said I would, although I didn't see any reason to. When I got up to go, he wished me a good break, but he didn't say Happy Christmas, and neither did I.

  I stuffed the booklet into my bag to hide it as I walked through campus. I couldn't face reading it right away, but I knew I'd have to force myself to do it before long. I didn't know much about abortions, but I'd heard that if you left it too late, you had to give birth to a dead baby, and there were horror stories about it coming out alive, or deformed, or screaming in agony, and having to be murdered on the spot. Sucking a few cells out with a Hoover sounded altogether different. I'd heard of women having operations like that for period pains; in fact my mother had gone into hospital overnight for something like that a few months ago, but she hadn't told me exactly what it was. “Women's problems,” like “nerves,” were not something you discussed back home, even with your daughter.