of sticks when the centre-forwards fought for possession of the ball.
Ground, Stick! Ground, Stick! Ground, Stick! BALL!
We had to wear disgusting maroon hockey skirts. We envied the nearby private school whose uniform was deep lilac and much sexier.
When we left school, my best friend Rachel and I got summer jobs at the Swan Hotel. The staff had to wear tartan. Rachel and I wore mini kilts and flirted with the chefs. The bottle boy was always trying to get Rachel to go down to the cellar with him.
The local speed-boat owners came regularly with their beer bellies and Alsatians. Dogs weren’t allowed, so the Alsatians clipped along the pier, barking at the swans while their owners devoured scampi-in-the-basket washed down by pints of heavy. Coach parties were a nightmare, tea and coffee for eighty. Josie, the woman who made the sandwiches, would test if the bread was defrosted by holding the cold slices against her hairy face. The tourists nibbled on their egg and cress and gazed out at Ben Lomond, blissfully unknowing. When it was quiet, I would sit at the bar, folding napkins, remembering how Peter used to bring us here on Sundays for chicken-in-the-basket. Sean and I would sneak into the ball-room and slide on the polished dance floor. Rita would be staring out at the loch. She hated it when her husband played happy families.
Sometimes, after our shifts, we would go up the park and hide in the rhododendrons and get stoned with the commis chefs. We’d talk rubbish, pissing ourselves laughing amongst the crimson flowers and shiny leaves. One time, we put dope in tea and watched Yellow Submarine at the bar manager’s flat. Nothing for an hour then my elbows were made of cotton and my tongue felt like sawdust. It was a bit scary. I kept saying, I’ve got cotton elbows, but Rachel couldn’t stop laughing.
In my first year at university, I commuted, thought nothing of the mile walk to the train station. Why would I?
I met Hadi, handsome and narcissistic, at the beginning of the second term. He was Libyan and had his own flat and a fat black cat called Blue because she liked the blues. When Hadi had the munchies he would overfeed her, tipping Whiskas onto a saucer, tapping the spoon against the rim to get her attention: Come on, fat lady, come to eat! Hadi hardly ever went to his engineering lectures and got his friends to photocopy their notes for him.
His erection was bent like a banana and he rolled his eyes when he came. I thought this was normal. The third time we had sex he complained about using Durex (‘stupid skins’) and said I should go on the pill. I told him I wouldn’t have sex without a condom because I didn’t know his history. He pouted and accused me of being neurotic and clinical about love. When I finished with him at the end of term, he kicked over the rubber plant I’d got him and called me a prick-tease. I told him I was tired of his moods and tired of him shovelling cat food into Blue. I told him I was tired of his friends always being there skinning up, and tired of listening to J. J. Cale. When I tried to leave the flat, he said he’d kill himself. A couple of weeks later, I saw him with his arm round a girl in the Grosvenor Cafe. I half smiled, but he blanked me.
In my second year, I moved up to Glasgow into a student flat. My flatmate Jana was petite and fragile with a sexy, throaty voice and jet black hair that swung like a curtain. She’d grown up in San Francisco. Her mum was half American Indian and had died of breast cancer when Jana was fifteen. (It’s sad, Jana’d say – she was beautiful but she was bi-polar and she was always going on crazy spending sprees, she got us into a lot of debt.) Jana’s dad was Scottish and her granny lived in Anniesland. Jana had stayed with her when she first came to Glasgow. She loved Glasgow. The first time she’d seen well-fired rolls in Greggs’ bakery she’d taken a photo because she thought they were burnt.
Ivan lived in the flat above. He was studying biochemistry and looked a bit like Adam Ant, but taller and more rugged. Everyone fancied him. We would eye each other up in the Reading Room, the dome-shaped library where you went if you just had a couple of hours and didn’t want the palaver of checking into the main library. The Reading Room echoed with suppressed giggles and shuffled papers and books slammed shut. The librarian was stern and wore salmon pink twin-sets. You could feel her eyes stabbing you when you scraped your chair along the ground or dropped your pen and it echoed. Jana called her the salmon spinster and was always getting thrown out for carrying on.
In Week Eight, I got off with Ivan in the union bar to Love Will Tear Us Apart by Joy Division. I said I loved his blue eyes. He said he loved my green eyes. They’re not really green, I said, they’re more grey. When I told him I was from Balloch, he said he’d camped there once and someone had jumped on his tent. It wasn’t me, I said.
You’ll never guess who’s been sleeping in my bed! I said to Jana the next morning. I told her it was Ivan and she screamed and went to check I was telling the truth. She peeked into my bedroom. He was still sleeping.
I wouldn’t mind doing pelvic thrusts with him, she whispered to me back in the kitchen. Bring him to Rocky Horror. It’s on this Friday.
I’ll see, I said. I want to play hard to get. And by the way, we haven’t done pelvic thrusts yet, we just dibbled and dabbled. (Dibbling and dabbling was Jana’s term for nonpenetrative sex.)
I bet he has a beautiful body, she said.
He does, I said. He’s in the university tennis club. And he’s in a band. And he wears contact lenses. He’s as blind as a bat without them.
So if I climbed into bed with him now, he’d just think it was you? she said.
Don’t even think about it, you cheeky wench!
When she’d gone to her class, I took Ivan tea in bed. Nonchalant and shaking, I asked him about Rocky Horror. Sure, green eyes, he said, peering for the cup. It’s a date.
After that we were joined at the hip.
He was mature. He was twenty-one (I was nineteen). He’d taken a year out after school and worked in America. He’d gone to a private school. His parents lived in Dundee in a huge house overlooking the Tay. His dad was a surgeon and his mum was a part-time English teacher from Dublin. The first time I met her she got tipsy and maudlin. She showed me photos of Ivan’s sister Molly who’d been killed in 1975 when she’d tripped up crossing the road in her flip-flops. Don’t ever have children, Helen, she said. You’ll only lose them if you do.
IN SEPTEMBER OF our third year, Jana and I went to study in Caen, a town in the north of France. We’d been looking forward to our year abroad all summer.
I’d been to France twice before. The first time was a school trip to Paris, and we all had to wear red cagoules. A black man with broken yellow teeth and bloodshot eyes had tried to put his hand between my legs in the Eiffel Tower lift. I’d screamed and he’d pulled back, but part of me had felt sorry for him because of the Africans in the street selling trinkets that no one wanted. I’d bought a giant packet of paper hankies from one man. The second time was a couple of days in Nice during an inter-railing trip with Rachel. We’d sunbathed topless and felt cosmopolitan. Two sisters from Inverness had latched onto us because we spoke French, but they wouldn’t take their tops off. They said there might be perverts.
Two weeks before we left for Caen, I had a going away/ passing my driving test party. Nab and Rita
