It was a purpose-built 1960s building composed of blocks of accommodation, basic kitchen facilities and a series of shared bathrooms. There were 748 students living in there, some in single rooms, others – like me – in a twin. Each was no better or worse than the average student habitat: a shoebox starved of light and packed with cheap furniture, in which musty carpet tiles failed to conceal a series of grim-looking spills. But it wasn’t the standard of accommodation that bothered me, nor any of the obvious things – milk being stolen from the fridge, toenail clippings left in sinks or the stench of a stranger in every toilet you went in.
It was the noises at night. I would lie in bed, separated from 747 other souls only by a honeycomb of paper-thin walls. Spongy silences would be broken by the rowdy clatter of someone stumbling in from a party, or the distant sound of early-hours toast drunkenly being made in the kitchen. Stairwells carried the echoes of laughter or arguments; even hushed voices could be heard if they were outside our door.
I’d thought I’d enjoy being in a twin room, even though my roommate was allocated randomly and I wasn’t allowed to specifically request Jo. I thought that having someone else there would stop me ever getting lonely. But it had the opposite effect. There was nothing wrong with Carolina, a medical student from Devon, but for reasons I could never put my finger on, while we could chat politely, be considerate of each other’s space and schedule, we never really gelled. And on particularly difficult nights, it was the sound of her more than anything else that rattled me.
The squeak of her teeth as she ground one molar against another. The rhythm of her breath as she inhaled and exhaled. The occasional soft grunts as she turned on her side. Permanent reminders of another human being’s proximity, underlining that I was away from the privacy, comfort and safety of a real home. Paradoxically, these noises left me with an intense feeling of aloneness, of desolation and, above all, fear.
I was plagued by nightmares. The most frequent was the one that began with the walls, before a small, familiar face appeared next to me – and ended with her jumping out of the window. But that wasn’t the only one. My dreams covered a multitude of topics, though always in the same setting and ending with my awakening amidst a burst of adrenalin, like firecrackers under my skin.
I couldn’t claim my nightmares stopped when I went home to Chalk View of course, but they were nothing like as bad as they were at university. And over the course of that first year, while Jo always stayed in Bristol at weekends to attend a party, I was magnetically pulled home.
Sometimes I’d fight it and stay so I could join her, not wanting to let her down. But too often we would end up being separated. She knew a lot of people and would drift from group to group, whereas I’d find a quiet corner with whatever ally I could pick up, usually someone from my course with whom I’d sit and smoke weed or drink cider to ease the course of the evening.
Returning home at the weekends, the relief felt like sinking into a great big feather pillow. I told myself that going back made sense. After Grandma had died, there was nobody but me who weeded or mowed the garden regularly and I couldn’t stand it being neglected. Plus, I enjoyed the company of my parents. If they had friends over, I’d sit up chatting, drinking red wine and playing Trivial Pursuit. If not, Dad and I would dig out the Scrabble or I’d read a book in front of the log burner. By Sunday afternoon, as the time approached when I’d have to go back to uni, there would be an ache in my belly that only got worse.
* * *
It was on the train back to Bristol one Sunday in the final term when I had my worst panic attack in years. The train was packed and I’d given up my seat to a woman with a small baby. The bags under her eyes made it clear she needed it more than me, but as a result I had to stand for most of the journey, pressed against a fire hydrant next to the toilets. It began with nothing new, just the usual cocktail of sweating, racing heart and a total conviction that some bad, undefined thing was going to happen.
I tried to ride it out, but at no point did these feelings show any sign of passing and, as the train rattled on its tracks, I was overcome by their intensity. I made it back to the halls of residence but couldn’t tell you how I got there, beyond a few jagged flashbacks: my hand trembling as I tried to get the key in the door. Carolina opening it as she was on the phone. Climbing into bed while still in my coat and pulling the duvet up to my chin. I struggled to function for a week afterwards, though I tried to force myself to do all the things I was supposed to be doing – writing essays, attending lectures. But I was hardly present, smothered by anxiety at every turn. I retreated to bed.
I was curled there one afternoon, staring absently at an A4 sheet of notes about ‘The Origins of the British East India Company’ that I’d written in calmer times. My bladder was full; the idea of having to leave the room, travel down the corridor and make it to the communal bathroom filled me with dread. Even in that little room with its feeble window, I could see that the sun was incandescent outside. People were picnicking on Doritos and boxed wine on the lawn below.
There was a knock on the door. ‘Ellie, are you there?’
It was Jo. I thought about pretending that I was at a lecture, but she continued to knock. ‘Ellie, I know you’re in there. I bumped into your roommate. Come on. Please open up.’
I pushed off the quilt. ‘Coming,’ I said, wincing as I realised that I’d brushed neither my hair nor my teeth today. As she stepped in, her eyes darted around the room, to my unmade bed and then to me. ‘What’s going on?’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
‘You haven’t responded to any of my texts,’ she said.
I’d been aware of her messages pinging onto my phone for several days. I’d meant to text back. It was only then that I realised I never had.
‘Sorry,’ I mumbled, ‘I’m just really behind on some of my revision.’
‘It’s okay,’ she shrugged. ‘So, are you coming?’
‘Coming to what?’
She blinked at me. ‘On my birthday night out, Ellie. We’re all meeting in town, making the most of the weather. We talked about this. You told me you were coming. You promised. I’ve been looking forward to it for ages.’
I listened to her with growing alarm as shame flared inside me.
‘Did you forget it was even my birthday?’
This was not my usual style. We’d always made a fuss over each other and I took pride in buying, if not the most expensive presents, then those that were most her. A Virago Modern Classics edition of The Weather in the Streets by Rosamond Lehmann. A necklace with a tiny, silver pendant in the shape of a lobster or – the one she’d loved most – a cushion embroidered with tiny cactuses in her favourite shade of turquoise. I’d long given up on baking cupcakes, but on birthdays both she and I bought each other a set of four from the bakery in our village, which would be swirled with chocolate buttercream and iced with our initials. I’d intended to look for a cake shop in Bristol so we could continue the tradition, but the thought had gone entirely out of my mind.
‘I’m really sorry,’ I said. ‘I don’t know how…’
‘Hey,’ she said gently, touching my arm, sensing my distress. ‘It’s really okay. I’m not bothered about presents or cards, as long as you’re coming with us! Make sure you bring some sun cream. The weather’s amazing. A proper heatwave.’
I registered an icy layer of sweat on my skin. ‘What time are you meeting?’
‘Now!’ she laughed. ‘We’re all getting the bus in, so get your skates on!’
‘I’m not ready,’ I said.
She was about to protest but looked me up and down. ‘Well, look, don’t worry, we can wait for you downstairs. How long will you be?’
‘Why don’t I just meet you in town?’ I suggested. ‘I’ll follow on. I won’t be long.’
She frowned, unsure. ‘Are you sure, Ellie?’
I nodded.
‘Okay, but don’t be long, will you, otherwise we’ll be miles ahead of you and it�
��ll be a complete shit show by the time you arrive. I’ll save you a seat wherever we end up. Text me when you’re on your way.’ She hesitated. ‘You promise you’ll come? Ellie?’
There was something about her tone that irritated me.
‘Why are you asking me like that?’ I asked.
‘It’s just… there have been so many things lately that you’ve said you’ll do then let me down. I’m starting to feel like a mug.’
She forced a laugh but I didn’t find the accusation funny. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. That’s untrue.’
‘But it’s not, Ellie,’ she insisted. ‘Look, I really don’t want to fall out with you. I’m just saying—’
‘But you’re accusing me of doing stuff that I haven’t done.’
She frowned, indignant. ‘You have, Ellie. You were supposed to come for a run with me at the weekend and left me standing by myself like an idiot, without even bothering to text. Then there was the party last week. I thought we were going together, but you messaged me with, like, twenty minutes’ notice. There have been countless other examples. I don’t get it. But I do know that it’s not on. Everyone I’ve told about this thinks it’s a terrible way to be treated by a friend.’
I felt a surge of heat to my chest, stung by the accusations. ‘Oh great. So you’ve been bitching about me behind my back?’
She winced and shook her head, apologetically. ‘No. Not at all. I just… I don’t really get it, Ellie. That’s all.’
‘I’ll be there today, all right?’
She stood up. ‘Yes. Good. And thank you. Text me when you’re on your way and I’ll order you a drink so you don’t have to queue.’
Obviously, I never turned up. She had every right to be upset on the phone the next day, and get even more upset when I furiously told her I resented her accusations. It all culminated in her telling me I was a terrible friend and me telling her I never wanted to see her again in my life.
I don’t remember anything about the next couple of days, beyond the moment Carolina touched me on the shoulder as I lay in bed. I rolled over to find her crouching next to me. She said I needed to phone my parents.
‘You need help,’ she told me, in an even voice. ‘You need to go home.’
I didn’t sit my end of year exams. Instead, I spent the summer going to see Colette once a week and in quiet recovery in the garden. Mum had spoken to the university, who’d agreed that I could restart the first year, but the thought of returning settled in my stomach like a greasy knot. The idea of going back became so terrible that I simply made the decision not to. Instead, I enrolled on a course at the Open University and commenced what would become a three-year degree from home.
I lost touch completely with Jo, as well as all my other friends. She’d tried to phone me a few times after our argument. I couldn’t face her – or any of them. I felt ashamed. I couldn’t locate an explanation that would make sense of any of it to them. So I continued to ignore their calls until, eventually, they stopped altogether.
Chapter 20
Harriet, 1991
Harriet and Colin were married at Wandsworth registry office just over a year after they’d met, on a balmy autumn day that, except for the odd falling leaf, could have passed for high summer. Some people thought it was a rather precipitate union, but not entirely out of character. There goes Harriet again. Flying off to the scene of an earthquake one minute, marching down the aisle with a virtual stranger the next.
Was it too simple to say that it didn’t feel like haste when the two people involved were in love? It probably was, on balance. Perhaps when you’ve worked in a job in which your main preoccupation is retaining life and limb, your definition of risk diverges from that of the average member of the public.
Harriet loved her wedding day. The fashion was for huge, full-skirted dresses with stiff corsetry and reams of taffeta and silk. But after several visits to a bridal shop on the King’s Road, she felt like a little girl with a dressing up box and that really was not the look she’d been going for. So she found a simple, floor-length design with a cinched waist and a bolero that swept around her shoulders. Colin could not take his eyes off her.
‘You two are perfect,’ Harriet’s friend Jeremy had said, linking her arm after Colin had kissed her on the registry office steps. ‘You realise that this whole whirlwind love affair is ridiculously romantic. If it wasn’t you I’d find it sickening.’
Jeremy and Donato lived in the flat above hers. She was going to miss them enormously when she moved out, though she suspected that would be the only thing she would miss. They’d taken turns to cook for each other every couple of weeks and what had started out as a relaxed affair featuring pasta and a cheap bottle of plonk had evolved into something distinctly flashier. Outdoing each other had become a standing joke that none of them could resist, though it would have been cheaper for Harriet to take everyone to a Michelin-starred restaurant than create the lavish menu of a few weeks earlier: Coquilles Saint-Jacques, lobster medallions and some fiddly dessert that took her most of the day.
‘I do somehow seem to have landed on my feet,’ she said.
‘God, you have. He’s gorgeous,’ he grinned, gesturing at Colin.
‘Not everyone has been as supportive. Some people think we’re mad.’
‘Well, some people just need to mind their own business, I’d say.’
The guest list was bigger than they had initially planned, but they hadn’t liked to offend family and weren’t about to exclude any friends. It was particularly heavy on journalists, whose company Harriet had always enjoyed for their gallows humour, eccentricities and intolerance of bullshit of any description. They were the biggest drinkers, of course, which astonished Colin, but Harriet was used to stints in the newsroom that would involve half of the staff adjourning to the pub over the road as soon as deadline passed.
Both she and Colin had a week off work ahead of them after the wedding and, although they couldn’t afford a honeymoon, they intended to make the most of it. She loved being home, no matter how much she enjoyed work. When some people heard what she did for a living, they assumed that her natural habitat was in a muddy trench, surviving on a raw donkey leg, but nothing could be further from the truth. Harriet liked clean sheets and silk blouses; she liked moisturising her elbows and going to the theatre. All the things, in fact, that would fill the next week.
It would be a time to cherish, they’d both said that, because afterwards life was never going to be the same. They hadn’t gone public with their other bit of news yet. The last thing they’d wanted was people concluding that this was the reason for the wedding. As far as Harriet was concerned, there was no haste involved in her decision to marry. All right, perhaps a touch – but they’d have done it sooner or later anyway, she was sure of it.
Chapter 21
Ellie
‘Can I pick some flowers too?’
I place a sweet pea in my basket and turn to Oscar, who has a blob of snot glistening on his top lip like a strip of glue.
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea. These secateurs are sharp,’ I reply.
‘My mum told me to be helpful,’ he says.
‘You can be, by sitting down nicely somewhere.’
‘This isn’t fun,’ he sighs.
‘Why don’t you go and help your mum with the cleaning?’ I suggest.
‘That’s boring.’
‘So is this,’ I shrug. ‘Gardening is a complete drag.’
He frowns suspiciously as I examine my posy, the ruffles of zinnia, calendula and sweet peas picked from the best crop I’ve seen in years.
‘How come you’re here today anyway?’ I ask him. ‘Shouldn’t you be at school?’
‘I’m off because I’ve got a cold.’ He inhales deeply, causing the snot trail to withdraw into his nostril before reappearing to slide further down than before. I rummage in my pocket and pull out a tissue. ‘Here.’
He takes it from me, contemplates it briefly and begins to wipe his
hands.
‘It’s for your nose.’ He presses it against his face, then tucks it in his pocket. He now has a beard consisting entirely of mucus.
‘Shouldn’t you be in bed if you’re not well?’
‘Fresh air is good for me. Anyway, bed is boring.’
‘Is everything boring?’
‘No,’ he says. Then he stands up and starts wiggling his hips from side to side, swinging his arms in the opposite direction. ‘Can you floss?’
‘No.’
‘I can teach you if you like,’ he says, going faster.
‘I’m good, thanks. Happy doing this.’
‘You said it was boring.’ He has now stopped flossing and has a red face. I don’t even want to contemplate where snot has gone.
‘You’ve got an answer for everything, haven’t you?’
He shrugs glumly. ‘You won’t tell Mum I was annoying you, will you?’
I pause, as guilt slaps me on the cheeks. ‘Don’t worry, you weren’t. Not in the slightest.’
I pull out my phone and Google ‘gardening ideas for kids’.
‘All right, I know something we could do.’
Over the next half-hour, we plant out a series of tomato seedlings that I’d grown from seed.
‘Will they be ready tomorrow if I come back then?’
‘No – and please don’t come back tomorrow. Not because you’ve been annoying,’ I say hastily. ‘Just… don’t, okay?’
‘I’ll probably be better tomorrow anyway,’ he says. ‘Unless I puke or get the trots.’
‘So are you going to take your tomato pots or do you want me to look after them to make sure the plants grow? Then, next time you’re here – because I feel sure there will be a next time – you could pick them. If they’re ready, that is.’
The World at My Feet Page 10
