An Experiment in Love. Hilary Mantel

for a man, so I doubt if she’d change her name.

      The story beneath the picture said that Miss Simon had been ill for two years. Gossip, really; it’s surprising what the Telegraph will print. The megastar’s gaze was open, dazed, fish-like; as if she were being grappled suddenly towards dry land.

      It was the year after Chappaquiddick, the year Julia and I first went away from home. All spring I had dreamt about the disaster, and remembered the dreams when I woke: the lung tissue and water, the floating hair and the sucking cold. In London that summer the temperatures shot into the mid-eighties, but at home the weather was as usual: rain most days, misty dawns over our dirty canal and cool damp evenings on the lawns of country pubs where we went with our boyfriends: sex later in the clammy, dewy dark. In June there was an election, and the Tories got in. It wasn’t my fault; I wasn’t old enough to vote.

      In July there was a dock strike, and temporary short-ages of fresh food. The Minister of Agriculture appeared on the news and said, ‘What housewives should do this week is shop around, buy those things which are cheaper.’

      When my mother heard this, she took off her slipper and threw it at the television set. It sailed over the top and landed at the back among the tangled flexes and cables. ‘What does he think folk generally do?’ she asked. ‘Go down to the market and say, “What’s dear today, give me two pounds, will you, and a slice of your best caviare on top? Oh, no, that’s not dear enough! Please keep the change.”’

      My father creaked out of his chair and went to pick her slipper up. He handed it back: ‘Prince Charming,’ he said, identifying himself.

      My mother snorted, and forced her veiny foot back into the felt.

      As soon as my exam results came through I started packing. I didn’t have many clothes, and those I did lacked the fashionable fringes and mosaic patterns. The papers said that purple would be the dominant shade of the autumn. I was old enough to remember when it had been fashionable last time: how jaundiced it made women look, and how embarrassing it was for them when the craze fizzled out and they had its relics crowding their wardrobes. The colour’s just a rag-trade manipulation, because apart from prelates nobody would naturally choose it. Women have been caught too often; that’s why we don’t have purple now. Except, of course, purple prose.

      

      Quick, before I forget it…the dazzle of the lights on the white tiles, the dismal moans and clatters from the darkness, less like trains than the calls of departing ships; the voice of the announcer over the tannoy. I took out of my pocket a map, folded to the right square, and looked at it as I had done many times on the journey; my heart lurched a little, and small fires of apprehension ran behind my ribs, little flames leaping along the bones. I was a child, and I had been nowhere until now.

      I picked up my suitcase, which was dragging my arm out of its socket, and began to lurch forward with it through the early evening; crisp leaves were falling already in the London squares.

      

      When I arrived at the Hall of Residence, a woman—the warden herself—took me upstairs in a lift. She had a bunch of keys. ‘If you had left that’ (she meant my suitcase) ‘there’ (she said, with a mysterious, impatient gesture) ‘then the porter would have brought it up for you.’ As things were, she had to keep her finger on the OPEN button while I manoeuvred it out of the lift. I had to trail along behind her, dragging the suitcase like a deformed limb.

      My room was to be on the third floor, known as C Floor. The woman led me along a wide corridor, parquet squeaking under her feet. She stopped by a door marked C3, rattled her bunch of keys and admitted us. Inside the door she consulted her list. ‘Mac, mac, mac,’ she said. ‘Miss McBain.’ There, pinned to her sheet before she flicked it over, I caught a glimpse of a photograph, the black-and-white photograph that the hall had requested. My mother had taken it in our backyard: I leant against red brick, like a person waiting for a firing squad. Perhaps my mother had never used a camera before. It had been a clear day, but in the photograph my features were wreathed in mist; my expression was shocked.

      ‘So,’ the woman said, ‘you were at day school in, let me see, Lancashire?’ That was true. I was listed somewhere, tabulated, in the heart of this great dark building. At a turn in the corridor I had smelt soup. Lights blossomed out in another building across the street.

      The woman flicked over her lists again. ‘And there are two of your schoolmates coming along, is that correct, Miss Julianne Lipcott and—’ She squinted at the paper, turning it slightly from the light as if that would remove some of the czs and the djs that rustled and shuffled in proximity, in a surname that I had known since I was four, and which was therefore no stranger to me than Smith or Jones—less, really. I pronounced it for her and said helpfully, ‘We call her Karina.’

      ‘Yes, I see. But which of you will share? We don’t have rooms for three girls.’

      Dormitories, those would be. I tried to imagine us in a row in white beds, Carmel and Karina and Julianne: our hands folded in prayer.

      ‘Since you’re here first you’d better decide,’ the warden said. ‘Whoever is left will be found another partner.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Perhaps you’d rather that be you? Perhaps you don’t want to share with either of them?’

      I realized that a dubious, timid expression must have been growing on my face. ‘Miss Lipcott,’ I said quickly. ‘Miss Lipcott, please.’

      How did I dare? It was not so much that I wanted Julianne’s company, or thought that she might want mine. She would be indifferent to it; if you’d asked her who she’d like for a room-mate, she’d have said, ‘Have you got any men?’ But what she would say if through my neglect or failure of nerve she found herself waking up every day in the same room as Karina?

      The warden stepped over my suitcase, crossed the room and drew the curtains. They were grey curtains, with a darker grey stripe, matching the covers of the two single beds that stood foot to foot along one wall. She smiled at me, indicating the room, its wardrobe, wash-basin, two desks, two chairs. ‘You’ll have first choice then, won’t you?’ She put into my hand a key; attached to it was a big wooden fob, with ‘C3’ written on it. ‘You’ll find it best to lock your door when you leave your room. Hand your key in at the front desk when you leave the building.’ She put her lists down on a desk, tapped them together and secured them with a snapping bulldog clip. ‘May I take this opportunity, Miss McBain, to wish you every success in your university career? If you have any problems, queries, do come to see me—at some mutually agreed hour, of course.’ The warden went out, closing the door quietly and leaving me to my life.

      I rubbed my elbow. It felt disjointed, irretrievably strained. Should I be here? A vision came into my head of the home I had left, of the stuffy room, with the glowing electric coals, where I had performed the study, where I had formed the ambition, that had delivered me to this room. A horrible longing leapt up inside me: not the flames of apprehension, but something damper, a crawling flurry in my ribcage, like something leaping in a well. The suitcase lay across the doorway, at an angle and on its side. I stooped, crouching to apply a final effort to it, bracing my knees; as if they had been waiting for the aid of gravity, tears ran out of my eyes and made jagged patches on the sleeves of my new beige raincoat.

      I straightened up and opened the wardrobe door. Six metal hangers clashed together on a rail. I took off my coat and hung it up. I felt that it had somehow been spoilt by my crying on it, as if salt water would take off the newness. I could not afford to spoil my clothes.

      A clock struck, and as I had no watch—I travelled without such normal equipment—I counted the strokes. I sat down on the bed nearest the window. It would be mine, and so would the bigger of the two desks, the better lit. It was more natural to me, and perhaps easier, to take the worse desk and bed, but I knew that Julianne would despise me for any show of self-sacrifice.

      So, I sat on the bed. My fingers stroked the rough striped cover. The sheets beneath were starched and crackling like paper: tucked strap-tight into the bed’s frame, as if to harness a lunatic. There seemed to be no traffic in the street below. A