Engleby. Part 2

We're now in the third week of it and final exams are still a long way away, next summer, but somehow people already seem preoccupied. I've been to Film Soc a couple of times, but not many of the Irish people have been there: Nick (without Hannah, who was in Uncle Vanya Uncle Vanya at the ADC), Amit and Holly are the only ones who've looked in so far. Stewart's working with Dave on the edit. Apparently the rushes are promising. at the ADC), Amit and Holly are the only ones who've looked in so far. Stewart's working with Dave on the edit. Apparently the rushes are promising.

But it's already cold outside, the leaves are wet on the pavements and it seems a long way from Tipperary.

I have a new room this year, in Clock Court. It's got its own pantry with a gas ring so I don't bother to go to the dining hall any more. There's no shower, but there's a bathroom I share with only five other people and few of them seem to use it. So I work the bath over with a cloth and some Vim from a saucer that the bedmaker replenishes, rinse off, fill up and listen to The Archers The Archers on my small transistor radio. There's a Northern Ireland barmaid called Norah who takes up too much story time, but I like the old man, Walter Somebody. He reminds me of the old men in the almshouse in the street where I was brought up. 'Heh, heh, me old beauty, me old darlin',' he says. Or something like that. I don't listen on my small transistor radio. There's a Northern Ireland barmaid called Norah who takes up too much story time, but I like the old man, Walter Somebody. He reminds me of the old men in the almshouse in the street where I was brought up. 'Heh, heh, me old beauty, me old darlin',' he says. Or something like that. I don't listen that that carefully. carefully.

I've changed my routines a bit. For a start, I've almost given up drugs. This is partly due to the fact that my supplier has disappeared. I used to buy pills from a man in the Kestrel called Alan Greening. He had an executive metal briefcase that looked as though it might hold the secret plans of a Ukrainian nuclear reactor. All it had in fact were bottles of pills. He's been in and out of various hospitals and he's signed on with three different GPs. He has a pharmaceutical directory and he looks up the drug he wants, then describes the symptoms it's prescribed for. He goes to different chemists to have them made up and no one checks up on the others. Tricyclics, monoamine oxidase inhibitors, benzodiazepines, all sorts of stuff they make an awful rattle in his bag and most of them don't do anything at all for you. There's one called Nardil, an MAOI, that you have to take for weeks for any effect and if you eat cheese or Marmite or broad-bean pods it can give you a brain haemorrhage. Where's the fun in that? But Tuinal, Nembutal, Amytal, I quite like them; and Quaaludes go well with gin. It all depends. I've tried almost all the sleeping pills, even the banned ones, and they don't even make me feel tired. On the other hand, I'm susceptible to a patent hay-fever cure you can buy over the counter at Boots, which goes to show.

The only thing I wouldn't do is amphetamines or LSD. They synthesised that stuff in a lab twenty-five years ago when they were trying to induce human madness in guinea pigs. Why take drugs specifically designed to send you insane? If you'd even glanced at neuroscience in Nat Sci Part One, then, believe me, you wouldn't go near those things.

The point is, I don't need any of this stuff any more. (Apart from marijuana and alcohol, but they don't really count, and anyway, I don't need them, they're just a habit, like cigarettes or going to the cinema.) I don't need drugs because I can deal with reality as it is. Reality is no problem for me. Poor old Eliot thought humans couldn't stand too much of it. But I can stand as much of it as you care to throw at me. As much as D.H. Lawrence anyway. I should have pointed that out to Dr Gerald Stanley in my original interview. (He looks at me sadly when I pa.s.s him in the cloister nowadays though I greet him cordially enough. 'Ah, Dr Stanley, I presume. How's Jane Eyre? Married yet?') I do keep some connection with Literature. I write poetry of my own in my room in Clock Court. With the proceeds of two of Glynn Powers's tennis b.a.l.l.s I bought a record player and some records Mahler mostly, and some Bruckner, Sibelius and Beethoven. I first heard Mahler's Fifth in the opening sequence of the film of Death in Venice Death in Venice, which came out in my first year. I liked it, but they shouldn't have changed von Aschenbach into a musician. To show how dry and intellectual he was as a writer (so his pa.s.sion for the boy is all the more unruly), all they had to do was have the hotel manager pick up a couple of his books and wince at the t.i.tles. But to create that dry impression with a composer meant they had to have flashbacks to Germany with him arguing embarra.s.singly with a colleague about Art and Life, as though Visconti had yielded these scenes to Ken Russell, or worse. Why do film-makers make life so hard for themselves by a.s.suming that the original writer has got it all wrong?

While I'm listening to Mahler, I write poetry in pencil, so I can revise it as I go along. I've completed a sonnet sequence (typewritten) and entered it for the university's poetry medal. If you can picture Mahler's Fifth, particularly the Adagio that plays over the opening shots of the film that's the kind of feeling I'm after. It's not that easy to put into words because words have too many meanings that clutter everything up. Very blunt instruments, words because of all those useless but unavoidable connotations. Though if you could find the words to go where Mahler went in that Adagio, I'm not sure you'd like it. A bit of the vagueness of music stops you going completely mad, I imagine.

Have you ever been lonely?

No, neither have I.

Solitary, yes. Alone, certainly. But lonely means minding about being on your own and I've never minded about it.

All right. I admit that before I knew Jennifer, I suppose there must have been times when I did mind a little. The times you might mind it are when your own company stops entertaining you. In your normal life that doesn't happen, because the routines you develop are ones you like ones that help you through. So you don't get fed up. Another evening with Mike? Yes, that's fine. I like Mike. Good old Mike. There's also Gustav, there's poetry to write and if it gets bad, stick a coat on and go out for a drink in the Bradford with the transvest.i.te barmaid.

My first summer vacation, I worked for a few weeks in the paper mill to get money, then took a ferry to Le Havre. I thought I'd hitchhike somewhere interesting and do some reading on the way. I took big paperbacks I could tear the pages out of as I went along: The Wings of the Dove The Wings of the Dove, The Magic Mountain The Magic Mountain, Pamela Pamela and and Anna Karenina Anna Karenina. I remember reading Pamela Pamela on a camping site near Tours and thinking I was glad I was becoming a scientist. I don't think it's famous because it's a good book; I think it's famous because hardly anyone else was writing novels in the eighteenth century. Posterity didn't tell Richardson he'd done a fine job; posterity told him he'd done an early job. You wouldn't want to fly in a Wright Brothers plane now. on a camping site near Tours and thinking I was glad I was becoming a scientist. I don't think it's famous because it's a good book; I think it's famous because hardly anyone else was writing novels in the eighteenth century. Posterity didn't tell Richardson he'd done a fine job; posterity told him he'd done an early job. You wouldn't want to fly in a Wright Brothers plane now.

There was something in those northern French towns, though, that did make me a bit lonely. I watched the widows with their raisin faces and young mothers with children. Red-faced old men in the cafes; young men absent, working. Those painters like Courbet and Millet, I think they'd seen something too: the peasant in the landscape, grey towns with shutters, churches the solid-seeming apparatus of life that terrorised a generation of novelists with what Henry James called their 'puerile dread of the grocer', but which in reality was so fragile.

h.o.m.o erectus with his flint, with his flint, sapiens sapiens with his empty church. Those speciating changes! with his empty church. Those speciating changes!

And the identical boucheries boucheries with their blood-smell and queues and the catechism of greeting and farewell that surrounds the purchase. Those cobbled squares and with their blood-smell and queues and the catechism of greeting and farewell that surrounds the purchase. Those cobbled squares and tricolores tricolores draped from the draped from the hotels de ville hotels de ville. The red bulb in the window of the auberge with the typical cooking of the region with its period beams and clanking soup tureens, potage du jour potage du jour with a half-bottle of Saint-emilion. with a half-bottle of Saint-emilion.

The churches, above all. Their emptiness. G.o.d has been to Earth and gone away. That did occasionally make me feel lonely.

The worst thing that can happen when you're away is that your mind tries too hard to make you feel at home. I remember this happening in a Turkish bus station, in Izmir. (Not much happened between Tours and Izmir, incidentally. Italy and Greece were fine.) It was night and I was waiting for a bus. There were sodium lights over the grimy tarmac and the gla.s.s-sided shelter. There was that wailing Muslim music turned up louder than the cheap speakers wanted, so their tinny shuddering was added to the vibrato of the singer. For every would-be traveller, waiting for the overnight bus to Istanbul, there were two or three hangers-on, men with moustaches and worry beads, smoking cigarettes, approaching the waiting travellers and asking sly, brusque questions with their guttural voices and an aggressive jerk of the head, looking for... For what? Money? s.e.x? Something to pa.s.s the time? One came up to me and said something about 'yellow picture girls'. Was he offering to buy or sell? He plucked at my sleeve till I pushed him away.

It was one a.m. in the grey sodium light with the wailing music and the black ground with its spattered chewing gum and cigarette ends. I had started to pay too much attention to things. It was almost as though I could see right through them into the molecules that made them. And that awful music. I suppose my mind was trying too hard to get a grip on this place, to anchor it for me, because I had the strong impression that I was really outside time or place, that the hostile otherness of my surroundings was such that my own personality was starting to disintegrate. I was vanishing. My character, my ident.i.ty, had unravelled. I was a particle of fear.

I guess I was a little lonely then.

In general, in less extreme moments, lonely looks after itself. It helps you develop strategies that reinforce it. The comfort of the dark cinema and the company of the screen actors prevent you meeting anyone. Lonely's like any other organism: compet.i.tive and resourceful in the struggle to perpetuate itself.

I don't remember how I got to Istanbul.

There was a meeting of Jen Soc on Monday, and Jennifer, who is now officially the secretary, was of course present at the meeting of her own society. She has had her hair cut a little shorter and she was wearing a corduroy skirt, just above the knee, with cowboy boots and navy blue tights. I don't like the way people change over the long vacation. It's not as bad as schooldays, naturally, when a May child returns a man in September, but it's still unsettling.

Among the urgent matters we discussed were the mobilisation of American planes from the nearby airbase during the Yom Kippur War (I heard them thundering over Parker's Piece on my way back from dinner in the cheese-pie pub; it was pretty exciting; I hope the crews will come and sign the ceiling in the Kestrel on their return) and the CIA coup that deposed President Allende in Chile.

We will no longer contemplate Chilean wine, though I'm happy to say that under Jennifer's guidance we do now have bottles of something red called Hirondelle, on sale for ten pence a gla.s.s. I think 'hirondelle' means 'swallow' in French the bird, that is, not the gulp, though gulp is what's best to do with it, so perhaps someone at Peter Dominic's had a sense of humour.

When we were clearing up, I noticed that a letter had fallen out of Jennifer's bag.

Without thinking, I slipped it into the pocket of my coat. Back in my room in Clock Court, I examined it beneath the fixed Anglepoise. It was addressed in her writing to Mr and Mrs R.P. Arkland at an address in Lymington. It had a second-cla.s.s stamp on it.

I should have taken it back to Jennifer, but I thought I'd just post it for her the next day. Then, at about eleven, when I got up, I remembered that there was a photocopier in the porters' lodge. But those grey and surly men are nosey; they always read your stuff. There was also a copier in the issues section of the University Library, but that meant filling in forms. Then I remembered the general post office in St Andrew's Street.

First I went to my small pantry and boiled the kettle. Then I held Jennifer's letter in the steam and prised it open with a knife.

I took the letter to the post office and copied it on to slimy grey sheets that slid from the side of the machine. Then I returned to my room, refolded and reinserted the original and resealed the envelope, which was now dry, with the help of a trace of cow gum from a gla.s.s bottle. I tried to keep the glue light, to replicate the envelope's own flimsy closure. Then I walked back to the post office (I didn't want to stick it in the local box), posted it, returned at last to my room and sat down with a cup of Nescafe to read it. This is what it said: Dear Mum and Dad, Dear Mum and Dad, Thank you for the letter and the tights and the cheque. All much appreciated. Thank you for the letter and the tights and the cheque. All much appreciated. It's really great living in a house. Anne and Molly are sharing a room at the moment because there was some sort of flood at the back and Nick refused to budge, even though he's got the best room by far. Typical man! Actually, it's best that they share as neither wants to share with Nick... It's really great living in a house. Anne and Molly are sharing a room at the moment because there was some sort of flood at the back and Nick refused to budge, even though he's got the best room by far. Typical man! Actually, it's best that they share as neither wants to share with Nick... I've done what you suggested, Mum, and painted the kitchen, and that has certainly cheered it up a lot. I also found a nice old armchair in a junk shop for my room. I've done what you suggested, Mum, and painted the kitchen, and that has certainly cheered it up a lot. I also found a nice old armchair in a junk shop for my room. The only thing is that it's so cold! G.o.d knows what it's going to be like in January. The gas fire in the sitting room works on a meter and no one ever wants to fork out for it. Nick always says he's going out, so he won't be using it. The only thing is that it's so cold! G.o.d knows what it's going to be like in January. The gas fire in the sitting room works on a meter and no one ever wants to fork out for it. Nick always says he's going out, so he won't be using it. As a result we don't use that room much and everyone goes to her own room to work, which is fair but a bit antisocial. As a result we don't use that room much and everyone goes to her own room to work, which is fair but a bit antisocial. We have a rota for cooking and a kitty for shopping. Anne's the best cook but Nick complains she spends too much on food (meat especially) so we're going almost completely vegetarian. As Anne says, we can always be carnivorous at lunchtime. We each have a separate shelf in the fridge for our stuff, but even between four of us there never seems to be any milk. We have a rota for cooking and a kitty for shopping. Anne's the best cook but Nick complains she spends too much on food (meat especially) so we're going almost completely vegetarian. As Anne says, we can always be carnivorous at lunchtime. We each have a separate shelf in the fridge for our stuff, but even between four of us there never seems to be any milk. The other problem is keys. It's just a single Yale lock, but Nick's is on semi-permanent loan to Hannah, who's meant to have one cut for herself but never seems to get round to it. So there's often a late-night banging at the door. The other problem is keys. It's just a single Yale lock, but Nick's is on semi-permanent loan to Hannah, who's meant to have one cut for herself but never seems to get round to it. So there's often a late-night banging at the door. As well as a duvet and a rug, I sleep in my ski socks and don't turn the gas off in my room till the very last thing. Then I sprint across the floor and fly into bed. As well as a duvet and a rug, I sleep in my ski socks and don't turn the gas off in my room till the very last thing. Then I sprint across the floor and fly into bed. But I love getting up in the morning. There's a tortoisesh.e.l.l cat who lives opposite and he's half adopted us. I pull back the curtain and see him on the roof, stretching in the thin early sun. I love the jumble of small slate roofs on the brick terraced cottages. I lie watching for a few minutes while an 'inane disc jockey' (Dad) babbles on the radio. Then I put on socks, slippers, sweater and coat and go down to the kitchen, and, while the kettle's on, open the back door to the cat and call him in. He tumbles off the roof of the shed and comes shyly to the step where (if lucky) he gets a saucer of milk and a stroke. But I love getting up in the morning. There's a tortoisesh.e.l.l cat who lives opposite and he's half adopted us. I pull back the curtain and see him on the roof, stretching in the thin early sun. I love the jumble of small slate roofs on the brick terraced cottages. I lie watching for a few minutes while an 'inane disc jockey' (Dad) babbles on the radio. Then I put on socks, slippers, sweater and coat and go down to the kitchen, and, while the kettle's on, open the back door to the cat and call him in. He tumbles off the roof of the shed and comes shyly to the step where (if lucky) he gets a saucer of milk and a stroke. I make tea and drop a mug off for Anne (not for Molly no lecture till eleven) and go up and do my teeth (more toothpaste always appreciated: v exp). Do you really want to know all this?! Skip ahead if it's boring you, Mum... I make tea and drop a mug off for Anne (not for Molly no lecture till eleven) and go up and do my teeth (more toothpaste always appreciated: v exp). Do you really want to know all this?! Skip ahead if it's boring you, Mum... Find suitable clothes (i.e. woolly, thick ones), make sure I have all the right books and go down for toast, quick Nescaff (if time) and wheel trusty bike out of hall on to street. Find suitable clothes (i.e. woolly, thick ones), make sure I have all the right books and go down for toast, quick Nescaff (if time) and wheel trusty bike out of hall on to street. It's misty and cold, but bright as well, and the houses are so minute. They're like dolls' cottages. I bicycle slowly (beware Girton calves...) down the backstreets and many times see the same town people leaving home, walking to the bus stop, taking in milk bottles. I think this is my favourite time of day. Occasionally I see a furtive undergraduate (male) skulking back to his college after a night out. Naughty boy. It's misty and cold, but bright as well, and the houses are so minute. They're like dolls' cottages. I bicycle slowly (beware Girton calves...) down the backstreets and many times see the same town people leaving home, walking to the bus stop, taking in milk bottles. I think this is my favourite time of day. Occasionally I see a furtive undergraduate (male) skulking back to his college after a night out. Naughty boy. It's wonderful to watch the town come awake, the shops opening, the buses pushing down St Andrew's Street from the station. But I prefer the backstreets. I cut down Pembroke Street and Silver Street and over the river and I think of all the people who've gone before me the men in the Cavendish Labs and the n.o.bel prize-winners and Milton and Darwin and Wordsworth, of course, but mostly of the generations of young men and women who weren't famous but were so relieved to be here at last and to meet people like themselves, and didn't mind the freezing cold and no money for the meter and the greasy college breakfast. I think of the men in their tweed jackets with the elbow patches and the bluestockinged women in their clunky shoes and I feel glad for them still. It's wonderful to watch the town come awake, the shops opening, the buses pushing down St Andrew's Street from the station. But I prefer the backstreets. I cut down Pembroke Street and Silver Street and over the river and I think of all the people who've gone before me the men in the Cavendish Labs and the n.o.bel prize-winners and Milton and Darwin and Wordsworth, of course, but mostly of the generations of young men and women who weren't famous but were so relieved to be here at last and to meet people like themselves, and didn't mind the freezing cold and no money for the meter and the greasy college breakfast. I think of the men in their tweed jackets with the elbow patches and the bluestockinged women in their clunky shoes and I feel glad for them still. Incidentally (or 'incidently' as Sally would spell it), I am still seeing something of Rob, though I promise you I am not 'getting serious' and no, I haven't forgotten that I have all my life ahead of me, and no I haven't forgotten that at my age 'friendship is more important than romance' (copyright 1968 by R.P. Arkland, MA; copyright renewed each year since...) Incidentally (or 'incidently' as Sally would spell it), I am still seeing something of Rob, though I promise you I am not 'getting serious' and no, I haven't forgotten that I have all my life ahead of me, and no I haven't forgotten that at my age 'friendship is more important than romance' (copyright 1968 by R.P. Arkland, MA; copyright renewed each year since...) I get to the Sidgwick Site at 8.45 and meet up with friends, including Rob, Stewart (if he's not in London or Hollywood...) and various girls from college. The faculty has organised the lectures v well for poor third-years facing Finals Armageddon, so all courses over by lunch. Usu three lectures say, nine, ten, twelve. From eleven till twelve I might be in the Faculty Library (provided roof not leaking: thank you, Mr James Stirling) or 'Advanced Research Centre' i.e. tearoom. Best lectures from Dr Bivani (female: 19th century) or Mr Richardson (Mod. Europe); worst from horrid Dr Ditchley who is a monumental drag. I get to the Sidgwick Site at 8.45 and meet up with friends, including Rob, Stewart (if he's not in London or Hollywood...) and various girls from college. The faculty has organised the lectures v well for poor third-years facing Finals Armageddon, so all courses over by lunch. Usu three lectures say, nine, ten, twelve. From eleven till twelve I might be in the Faculty Library (provided roof not leaking: thank you, Mr James Stirling) or 'Advanced Research Centre' i.e. tearoom. Best lectures from Dr Bivani (female: 19th century) or Mr Richardson (Mod. Europe); worst from horrid Dr Ditchley who is a monumental drag. Often go back to coll for salad lunch in Upper Chamber (v good value) and in the afternoon I have volleyball on Tue and Thur, which I am really enjoying a lot. I always thought it was a bit of a joke at school, as you know, but in fact I really like it now. If not volleyball, often go to cinema (Arts or one of the mainstream ones) or coll library or to visit. Have met nice boy in Emmanuel (Charlie) reading English with amazing record collection and v amusing room-mate (Myles) from Leeds. Often go back to coll for salad lunch in Upper Chamber (v good value) and in the afternoon I have volleyball on Tue and Thur, which I am really enjoying a lot. I always thought it was a bit of a joke at school, as you know, but in fact I really like it now. If not volleyball, often go to cinema (Arts or one of the mainstream ones) or coll library or to visit. Have met nice boy in Emmanuel (Charlie) reading English with amazing record collection and v amusing room-mate (Myles) from Leeds. Early Fen darkness at five, sometimes tea in the Whim (known to Charlie and Myles by rude alternative name, I'm sorry to say), maybe go to bookshop or supermarket if I'm cooking. It's lovely getting back to the house, being the first in and getting it warmed up and cosy as much as possible, at any rate. Listen to music on big sitting room stereo while kettle boils and make toast. Charlie lent me record by a group called Focus. Dutch, with keyboards, beautiful guitar ah, but you wouldn't appreciate it! Early Fen darkness at five, sometimes tea in the Whim (known to Charlie and Myles by rude alternative name, I'm sorry to say), maybe go to bookshop or supermarket if I'm cooking. It's lovely getting back to the house, being the first in and getting it warmed up and cosy as much as possible, at any rate. Listen to music on big sitting room stereo while kettle boils and make toast. Charlie lent me record by a group called Focus. Dutch, with keyboards, beautiful guitar ah, but you wouldn't appreciate it! On Monday, after supper, it's Society meeting in Jesus, which means a bit of preparation and homework. Not many people last week, which was disappointing just the hard core, three or four freshers and that guy Mike I told you about(!). On Monday, after supper, it's Society meeting in Jesus, which means a bit of preparation and homework. Not many people last week, which was disappointing just the hard core, three or four freshers and that guy Mike I told you about(!). Most evenings I work for a couple of hours, but I do go out a fair bit too. Rob takes me to various college jazz or folk clubs or sometimes just for a drink to one of the town pubs. The Mitre has a great jukebox. There's one called the Baron of Beef next door, which is also good fun. Best of all I like the ones in this part of town, away from the centre. Tiny backstreet rooms by the river with small coal fires. Don't worry, we don't get drunk. Most evenings I work for a couple of hours, but I do go out a fair bit too. Rob takes me to various college jazz or folk clubs or sometimes just for a drink to one of the town pubs. The Mitre has a great jukebox. There's one called the Baron of Beef next door, which is also good fun. Best of all I like the ones in this part of town, away from the centre. Tiny backstreet rooms by the river with small coal fires. Don't worry, we don't get drunk. I finally got to see a rough cut of the film we made in Ireland, and I must say I think it's really good. Stewart is a very talented guy. There's one scene I'm in which you're not going to like I might as well warn you now. (Though you may never see it. It's not obligatory. It won't be on general release, so you'd need to go to a Film Soc special screening. But knowing you, you will. Like that rude book I warned you not to read and you went straight out and bought it.) Hannah is absolutely amazing and makes me look very inadequate. Even when someone else is speaking she seems to fill the screen. Alex is much better than I expected, though a bit eager in places. I finally got to see a rough cut of the film we made in Ireland, and I must say I think it's really good. Stewart is a very talented guy. There's one scene I'm in which you're not going to like I might as well warn you now. (Though you may never see it. It's not obligatory. It won't be on general release, so you'd need to go to a Film Soc special screening. But knowing you, you will. Like that rude book I warned you not to read and you went straight out and bought it.) Hannah is absolutely amazing and makes me look very inadequate. Even when someone else is speaking she seems to fill the screen. Alex is much better than I expected, though a bit eager in places. There's so much going on and not enough time to do it all. I'm doing extra French Lang (to help with doc.u.ment research) with a little old lady off Lensfield Road and when I walk back I see the posters in the cottage windows: University String Ensemble, There's so much going on and not enough time to do it all. I'm doing extra French Lang (to help with doc.u.ment research) with a little old lady off Lensfield Road and when I walk back I see the posters in the cottage windows: University String Ensemble, 'Tis Pity She's a Wh.o.r.e 'Tis Pity She's a Wh.o.r.e, Julius Caesar Julius Caesar at the ADC, Newnham Madrigal Society, at the ADC, Newnham Madrigal Society, The Good Person of Szechwan The Good Person of Szechwan at St John's... I know it's a cliche, but there aren't enough hours in the day. at St John's... I know it's a cliche, but there aren't enough hours in the day. Of course Finals are a worry, but I try not to think about it (them) too much. If I do get a youknowwhat (like the Scottish play, can't mention the word) it could cause more problems than it solves by more or less obliging me to go into what Rob calls 'research'. So might be better off with 'gentleman's' degree, Dad. Que sera, sera, that's what I say. What an original daughter you have! Of course Finals are a worry, but I try not to think about it (them) too much. If I do get a youknowwhat (like the Scottish play, can't mention the word) it could cause more problems than it solves by more or less obliging me to go into what Rob calls 'research'. So might be better off with 'gentleman's' degree, Dad. Que sera, sera, that's what I say. What an original daughter you have! I'm glad you enjoyed Penny Martin's wedding. If you couldn't get an invite to Princess Anne and Mark Phillips's, I'm sure Brian and Gail's was the second best place to be. Did Gail do her special cheesy things? Did Brian make a speech? In which case, is he still going? I'm glad you enjoyed Penny Martin's wedding. If you couldn't get an invite to Princess Anne and Mark Phillips's, I'm sure Brian and Gail's was the second best place to be. Did Gail do her special cheesy things? Did Brian make a speech? In which case, is he still going? It's nearly midnight. Incidently (Sally again), I read in the paper that Grocer Heath is thinking of introducing a three-day week. I told Rob last night and he said, 'I'm not doing an extra day's work for anyone.' I thought you might like that. It's nearly midnight. Incidently (Sally again), I read in the paper that Grocer Heath is thinking of introducing a three-day week. I told Rob last night and he said, 'I'm not doing an extra day's work for anyone.' I thought you might like that. Now I really must stop and go to bed. Before I turn the light off, maybe one final blast, Dad, of 'deafening popular music'... Now I really must stop and go to bed. Before I turn the light off, maybe one final blast, Dad, of 'deafening popular music'... Later: Ah, that's more like it. Long guitar solo by Jan Akkerman, max vol through the headphones. Now I can sleep easy. Later: Ah, that's more like it. Long guitar solo by Jan Akkerman, max vol through the headphones. Now I can sleep easy. Lots of love from your loving, very hard-working, rather poor and exceedingly cold (but happy) daughter, Lots of love from your loving, very hard-working, rather poor and exceedingly cold (but happy) daughter, Jen-Jen x.x.x Jen-Jen x.x.x There was one bit in Jennifer's letter I really didn't like, and I expect you can guess what it was. What I really didn't like was: (!) Not even a word. A single vertical line and a dot, parenthesised.

For the rest, I quite enjoyed it. Of course, like all students she was giving only an edited account of what was going on. No mention of drugs, or cigarettes, for instance or s.e.x.

Duplicitous, you might call her. Tactful would probably be her own word.

You couldn't help but warm to her father, though, could you? I pictured him a bit like Mr Bennett in Pride and Prejudice Pride and Prejudice. ('Which reminds me, Dr Stanley, may I offer you four pages on "Mixed Motives for Marriage in the Novels of Jane Austen"? No? Are you quite sure?') I put Jen's letter away in the third drawer of my desk and locked it.

Yes, Mr Arkland sounded nice. Did Jen have sisters, then, I wondered? If he was really a Mr Bennett type, then she must have. And he was MA, which meant that he had either done postgraduate work at an ordinary university or been to one of the ancient ones and paid five guineas to convert his B to an M.

If the latter, he must be quite grand, because in his generation you got admitted not by compet.i.tive exam but only if you could pay the fees. They didn't have grants in those days. Their address sounded modest enough, but now I came to think of it, Jennifer is what you'd call 'well spoken' not stuck-up, and with plenty of student 'yeah's and 'like's, but not common. Not like me. She's got a lovely voice, in fact. It sounds as though she's always trying to suppress laughter out of consideration for the person she's talking to. You want to tell her it's all right, you don't have to be polite, you can let go and laugh.

The other striking thing about Mr Bennett, I mean Mr Arkland, the thing that really stirred me in the guts, is that he's alive and probably only fifty-odd.

My own father died when I was twelve. I can't pretend we were surprised, obviously. I was looking after Julie one afternoon. She used to go to a free nursery in the morning, then my mother would drop her with the Callaghans or someone while she went back to the hotel and I'd pick Julie up on the way home from school.

I'd started at the grammar school, having done well in the eleven-plus despite going to a desperate catch-all primary called St Bede's. The good thing about St B's was that no one bothered you. There was no homework to speak of and you could wander from one room to another and see what lesson you liked the look of. I think it was a county council 'initiative' or something. I went mostly to science or history, but one girl I knew spent five years in the craft room. (I believe she has her own design company in London now.) At St B's you never got asked home by anyone because most of their mothers worked and didn't want a stranger there. In my year at least five fathers were 'away' (i.e. inside) and the majority didn't live with the mother any more; we, the nuclear Englebys, were considered odd.

At the grammar school, though, there was a different kind of boy. All the parents were married. Some of the fathers did things like dentistry; one was a 'solicitor', according to his son. I found it difficult to find much in common with these boys, though I liked the look of their new satchels and their racing bikes.

My bus stop was only ten minutes' walk from the Callaghans' and I banged on the door, holding my breath against the stagnant, stuffy smell when one of the twins opened it. Why do poor people's houses always smell like that? Ours did, too, and I thought all houses did till I went to a reception for my year at the grammar school headmaster's house and it smelt of I don't know, air and wood or something.

Julie came skipping out and took my hand and we set off down Trafalgar Terrace as we always did, past the sooty red brick and the small windows with china ornaments, bra.s.s pots and grey net curtains. I make it sound slummy, but actually I like weathered English red brick and it was all right. Take it from me, it was not too bad. Once we were home, I made a pot of tea and some toast and honey for both of us, then I sat Julie down in front of Crackerjack Crackerjack on the snowy monochrome Rediffusion TV and went to do my homework in the kitchen. on the snowy monochrome Rediffusion TV and went to do my homework in the kitchen.

I heard the telephone ring and went to answer it.

'Mike. Thank G.o.d you're there. It's your dad. He's been taken poorly. He's in Battle hospital. You'd better come over. Take some money from the pot on the kitchen mantelpiece. Ask for Lister Ward.'

'What about Julie?'

'You'll have to bring her.'

Everyone knew where Battle hospital was, it was famous, but it took two buses and a fifteen-minute hike to get there. I carried Julie on my shoulders for the last bit. The reception area had that grey aspect I'd seen through the windows of the old men's workhouse. We were directed down a long stone corridor, on which there were periodically signs to Lister, among the other notices X-ray, Pathology, Mother and Child Unit, Rowntree Cancer Ward.

We found ourselves going through half-gla.s.sed swing doors and out into a courtyard with parked ambulances and dustbins. It was raining slightly and Julie was tugging at me, asking me to slow down. On the other side were more hospital buildings, low-built, more modern than the giant Victorian building we'd come through, but somehow already tinged with that same grey, as though prematurely aged by all the deaths they had housed and shipped on and forgotten.

Eventually we found Lister, an airless room with strip lights, full of screens and half-drawn curtains with old people lying flat, looking as though they were on their way out. There was a television showing an early evening news bulletin. I eventually made out my mother, sitting on the end of a bed near the window. She turned round when we approached, but didn't say anything. She was wearing a headscarf and still had her overcoat on. She raised a finger to her lips. My father was lying on his back with a tube up his nose and a drip attached to his arm. His eyes were closed and his jaw had fallen. His skin was ashy-grey and there was short white stubble showing on his chin; someone had taken out his false teeth. His pyjama jacket was open and there were wires attached with pads to his bony, hairless chest. I thought of his heart, a fat muscle that had always shirked the job.

I tried to think back to when he'd been younger healthier. There must have been memories of the seaside, or of him playing football with me in the park, or carrying me on his shoulders or helping to decorate the Christmas tree. There weren't. All I could remember was waiting for him at the side door of the paper mill on a Friday afternoon when he came out with his grey envelope. 'That's it then,' he said. 'Another week. Make sure you never end up here, Mike.'

I looked at him on the bed. He coughed once and a trail of brownish dead blood came out of his mouth and ran down the side of his chin. Then he stopped breathing. And I thought, I'll make sure I never end up here, either.

In one way, Dad's death was the making of me, and that way was the academic. At the funeral, the vicar took me strongly by the arms and looked me in the eye.

'You may feel alone, but you're not.'

I waited for the G.o.d-loves-you thing.

'Others have been where you are. I have stood where you stand today. You will survive, however stricken you now feel.'

I pulled my arm away because I didn't want to hear this. I actually needed to feel I was alone. Why did I need the grief of others? Wasn't mine enough? Why did I need to feel that this abandonment was plural, when it was heavy enough singular? The best way ahead that I could see was to drag this thing off and digest it on my own, like a python with an outsize kill.

Since we didn't have the kind of house you could ask people back to, the vicar invited the mourners to the rectory. There were some people from the paper mill, a supervisor, a manager, a couple of workmates, some aunts, uncles and neighbours, about three dozen in all, a respectable number. The vicar's charlady served fish paste and Sandwich Spread sandwiches and tea and fruit cake and sherry if you wanted it.

The vicar wouldn't leave me alone. 'I gather you're at the grammar school,' he said.

All the guests had now stopped being mournful and were making general chat, as though nothing had happened. I kept thinking of the damp earth on my father's coffin, wondering how soon he would decompose. Did they put an accelerator pack in there, a chemical to kick-start the process, as you might with a compost heap? Was he clothed in there?

'Have you thought of Chatfield?'

'What?'

'The naval school. I gather from the eulogy that your father was in the Royal Navy in the War and served throughout. You might be eligible for a scholarship to Chatfield. I'm a visiting chaplain. It's worth considering, especially if you're not settled at the grammar school. I shall have a word with your mother.'

I didn't mind the grammar school, but nevertheless in March I did some exams in an unused room, invigilated by Miss Penrose, the art teacher. These were the scholarship papers for Chatfield, a 'public', i.e. private, school about an hour's drive away. It was a famous inst.i.tution, founded by some naval bigwig for the sons of sailors killed in battle, which had grown to take in 'ordinary' boys as well; in fact, I had the impression it was pretty keen to find pupils of any description who could pay the hefty fees.

Which we couldn't. But the top award, the Romney Open, paid the lot for you. I had had a crash course in Latin, which I'd never done before, working evenings with Mr Briggs from the grammar school, who volunteered his services. I struggled with the prose paper, though the unseen translation from Latin into English was straightforward (a poem by Catullus and a bit of prose where I already knew the story). The other papers were easy. I was called for an interview with the headmaster, which we took to be a good sign.

It turned out my father had died just in time. They sent a letter to the grammar school and one to us at home saying they were offering me the Romney Open, the full fees, all expenses paid, to start in September, when I would be thirteen and a half. They sincerely hoped I would take up the place as the rest of the candidates had been r.e.t.a.r.ds.

No, they didn't say that, but behind all the posturing and telling us just how old and honourable and important they were and how incredibly fortunate I was I did sense a whiff of desperation.

Why should that be? I wondered.

Three.

I walked up from the station to the outer gates, which gave on to a tarmac drive about half a mile long, fringed with dripping evergreens. Eventually, I came to the main building and asked a man in the lodge where I was meant to go.

'Which house you in?'

'Collingham.'

'New man, are you?'

'Yes.'

'Go to the corner of the quad, through that door. It's new men's tea with the housemaster. You're late.'

I went where he pointed, and knocked. The door was opened by a grey-haired man in a black gown.

'You must be Engleby. You'd better meet the others.'

Three boys in tweed jackets and flannel trousers were hunched round a low table with teacups. I knew from a letter that the housemaster was called Talbot. There was a fair boy with gla.s.ses called Francis, a dark one called McCain and a third one with a black eye called Batley.

Mr Talbot explained that I'd lost my father and was on the Romney Open; the others looked at me fearfully. Batley lived on a farm in Yorkshire without electric light or running water; Mr Talbot seemed to like the sound of this, though I couldn't see what was so great about it. Even in Trafalgar Terrace we had these things. I mean, even the Callaghans have electricity. Batley had scored 44 per cent in the entrance exam, though merely turning up and writing down your name got you thirty. Again, this didn't seem to be a problem for Mr Talbot rather the opposite. Batley seemed to have what Chatfield wanted. (The other two boys, McCain and Francis, had no distinguishing features.) We went out into the quad and over to a stone staircase with iron bannisters. Talbot led us up two floors to some tall, battered double doors and pushed them open. And there was Collingham, 'my' house.

It was a single wide corridor with cubicles. Metal shaded lights hung at intervals from the ceiling. The paintwork was battered and kicked, but predominantly green. We walked past maybe twenty-five doors on either side till we reached the end. Our names were printed on metal strips above the door. Mine was the last room on the left. Inside was an iron bedstead, a table, hard chair and a small chest of drawers. A window gave on to a flat roof, which led over other pitched roofs to the main bell tower. The part.i.tion with the next cubicle was wooden, but my other wall, being the end of the building, was just unpainted brick.

'Your f.a.gmasters will come and see you and make sure you know the drill,' said Mr Talbot. 'Tea's at six in Troughton's. Any questions?'

'Yes, sir,' I said. 'Do you know where my stuff is? My clothes and things?'

'Didn't your people bring you? No, of course, you don't have a car, do you? If it came by train it'll be sent up from the station to the lodge. You'd better go and fetch it. Don't be late for tea.'

'Wouldn't the porter-'

'I'm afraid they're not that that sort of porter.' sort of porter.'

Francis and McCain laughed nervously along with Mr Talbot; Batley looked confused.

I lugged my trunk over the front quad and up the stairs; the boys going up and down swore at me for being in the way. When I pulled it into Collingham, an older boy, perhaps a 'prefect', told me to lift it up and not drag it on the wooden floor.

'It's too heavy.'

'Then you'll have to unpack it here and carry the stuff to your room till it's lighter, won't you?' He spoke as though explaining something obvious to an idiot.

As I carried down the corridor the armfuls of grey shirts, football socks and vests my mother had got from the school second-hand shop, some boys took them from my arms and threw them over the part.i.tions into random cubicles.

My 'f.a.gmaster' was a small, nervous boy called Ridgeway. 'If you hear a prefect call "f.a.g",' he said, 'run like h.e.l.l. The last one there does the job. There's a f.a.g test in two weeks' time. You need to know all the initials of all the masters, all the school offices, like who's captain of fives, all the rules and all the school geography. Read these.' He put the rule book, the annual calendar and 'call list' on my table.

'Where's Troughton's?' I asked.

'Down Dock Walk, behind Greville.'

'Anything else?'

'Keep your head down. Don't speak. Don't be nervy.'

'Nervy?'

'Pushy. Don't show off. Be invisible.'

'Thank you, Ridgeway.'

I had spent a week in Bexhill once, but apart from that had never slept outside my parents' house, so I was interested to know how it would feel. I didn't know where I was meant to go to clean my teeth or what time I was meant to turn my light out, so I brushed them in the room and spat out of the window. I turned the light off early, wondering if Batley had yet figured out what the metal switch inside the door was for.

I can't remember much of the first few days. I think I expected that at some time someone would explain what it was all about, but gradually it became clear that not not explaining was the Chatfield way. It was a sign of weakness to ask a question; 'initiative' was shown by not making a fuss. You were meant to know what to do. How? Instinct? Tarot? Sortilege? No, just by being a good crew member, by not making a fuss, by just explaining was the Chatfield way. It was a sign of weakness to ask a question; 'initiative' was shown by not making a fuss. You were meant to know what to do. How? Instinct? Tarot? Sortilege? No, just by being a good crew member, by not making a fuss, by just knowing knowing.