before you go?
Behave yourself, I said.
Has anyone ever told you you’ve got a dancer’s legs?
When the party started to fizzle out, Ivan and his friends got their guitars out. Callum kept requesting Bohemian Rhapsody but they ignored him so he paraded around singing all the parts himself. It’s too operatic for you, he said. That’s your problem, boys. Too fucking operatic.
We got to bed about five and Ivan and I had sex, jammed together in my single bed. He said he’d miss me like hell when I went away. Me too, I said. He hummed my favourite Leonard Cohen song and I fell asleep. The next morning I was up by eleven, opening all the windows and cleaning up. The others would’ve slept all day if I hadn’t woken them.
Piedro had sleeping bag zip marks on his face and was mooching around the kitchen. Sean was pretending that he had a hang-over to act tough – he’d hardly drunk a thing – and said he couldn’t eat anything. He went into the garden to get some air and came back and said the hollyhocks were broken. I went into the front garden to check. It looked like someone had gone over them on a bike. I snapped off the broken flowers and tried to ruffle up the leaves to get rid of the flatness and tyre marks. I knew it was Callum.
Mum’ll go mad, I said. And you can still see a stain where your friend was sick in the hall. You’ll need to put more disinfectant on it.
It’s stinking, said Sean.
I’m glad I’m going away next week, I said. Mum’ll have her stony face for days after this.
I went upstairs to finish hoovering, and Piedro made omelettes for everyone. He wasn’t as glaikit as he looked.
We’d filled six bin bags with rubbish from the party. I hoped the squirrels wouldn’t get them. It was the only thing that made Nab angry, litter strewn in the garden when the squirrels chewed the bags. He was always shouting at them, You bloody rodents with no respect!
I loved the squirrels. I loved the way they’d skite up the trees and along branches and down again.
Diarrhoea the day before we left. Pain like sharp sticks. A heavy headache that hurt my eyes. You’ll be fine, said Rita. It’s just nerves. Drink lots of water so you don’t get dehydrated.
Ivan and Rita and Nab saw us off at Central Station. I was worried the diarrhoea would come back when I was on the train. Rita went off to John Menzies to get me some Pan Drops. Peppermint’s good for you, she said, it’ll settle your stomach. You sound like Granny, I said.
A Polaroid snap of the occasion: me clinging to Ivan. See you at Christmas. I love you. Nab like a wall round me with his polar bear hug. Rita pressing the Pan Drops into my hand. Remember we love you. Phone us when you get there. Ivan whispering in my ear, Don’t shit yourself on the train. My mother wiping a tear away as the train jolts out. Nab’s arm round her. Ivan making a face, trying not to show emotion in front of them.
I was homesick by Preston and wanted to go back. You can’t be serious, said Jana. We are going to have a ball over there, my girl. This time next week you’ll be asking yourself, Who is Ivan anyway?
I doubt it, I said. Did I tell you we’ve agreed that we can kiss other people while I’m away, as long as we tell each other about it?
Jana rolled her eyes.
Won’t you miss Piedro at all? I asked. Won’t you miss his omelettes?
She started to laugh and couldn’t stop. Speaking of Piedro, she said, snorting, how are your skitters?
Poor Piedro. He’ll be pining for you all next term. And since you asked, the skitters seem to have dried up for the time being.
Great, she said. Everything’s just hunky dory. Yes, we are going to have a ball, my girl. A veritable ball!
We stayed overnight in Weymouth at a B&B. I cried in the toilet because I was missing Ivan. I was scared he’d get back with Gail, his ex. She was still after him.
We went out and had fish and chips, and scones with clotted cream. Jana found a hair in her cream. That’s fucking gross, she said. I told her about the time I was wee and we were at a dentist friend’s of Peter’s for dinner and I’d found a hair in my fruit cocktail. I’d been too shy to say anything and had just eaten it. I could feel it in my throat for ages afterwards.
The next morning we missed the ferry to Cherbourg because we slept in. We got to the docks just as the Sealink ferry was floating off. We could have reached out and touched it. Looks like we’ve missed the boat, said Jana. I sent Ivan a postcard. I love you. Jana was scathing.
We got lodgings with a family in Caen. The mother Simone looked like Jeanne Moreau. She warned us that electricity was very expensive and we should never leave the lights on. She had a lock on the phone. Her husband Vincent was a lot older. He’d had a stroke and taken early retirement from his factory job. He shuffled around the house, eating grapes. Their son Jean-Paul had just done his army service and lived in the basement.
That’ll have to go, Jana said, pointing to the poster in our bedroom – Entre Les Trous de la Mémoire, a montage of some anaemic girl and her memories, featuring a cruise ship with symbolic waves; the leaning tower of Pisa; a tree; a pile of books (one of them in flames); a hot air balloon and a mirror. It was horrible but I persuaded Jana to leave it there ‘til we’d ingratiated ourselves a bit more with Simone.
We had to register at la préfecture and get ID cards. Le préfet was like a Peter Sellers character. He glared at us while he stamped our cartes de séjour with a hundred different stamps. We started to giggle and he glimmered us a smile.
We didn’t have any exams and our attendance wasn’t being checked, so there was no incentive for Jana to go to classes. I’d lugged over my huge Collins dictionary and planned to get through everything on next year’s reading list. Jana had started sleeping with Jean-Paul in our third week and preferred to spend her mornings in the basement. She’d roll into the student canteen at lunchtime, boasting that Jean-Paul had asked her to fais-moi la pipe. At first she hadn’t understood what he meant. Jean-Paul grinned. Comme une sucette, like a lollipop.
Louis de Funès, a French comedy actor, had just died, and they were showing all his films. We would sit around the TV, en famille, guffawing at his antics. Vincent would cry and snort with joy. It was the only time he was ever animated.
At the end of September, Abas came to lodge with us. He was from Morocco. He would invite me into his room to eat oranges and help him with his English. He said he was missing his wife. His eyes would fill up and he’d try and sit a bit nearer me on the bed.
In the evenings, we’d go to the Bar de la Fac and eat crepes and get drunk on kir royal with Esther, a student from Cork. Esther was plump and breathless and beautiful. She wanted to lose her virginity before Christmas. Abas was at the top of her list. She thought he was lovely.
One weekend, we went skating. I could skate backwards better than I could skate forwards. I had more control going backwards.
Abas had never skated. He clung to Esther like a toddler, terrified to leave the side of the rink. Jean-Paul and his friend, a lorry driver from Ouistreham, with a thuggish crew-cut, sped round, pissing themselves at Abas every time he fell. I didn’t like the lorry driver and wished someone would skate over his hands.
I had to sit down after twenty minutes because my legs felt weak. I spectated for the rest of the afternoon. The smell of the rink reminded me of learning to skate in Aviemore, Nab skating round effortlessly with his hands clasped behind his back.
I shivered. I felt I was coming down with something.
Nagging pain in spine for last two weeks. Feeling stoned all the time. When I bend down, I feel dizzy.
I’ve