Chapter 6

      Holly

      Oxford, 1990

      ‘Virginia Woolf is overrated.’ I heard myself say it, but I couldn’t quite believe it had come out of my mouth. I frequently participated in my study sessions with Peter and Dr Lawrence, but never in a such a blunt, potentially controversial way. I could feel Peter’s eyes staring at me. Dr Lawrence, meanwhile, smiled knowingly.

      ‘Maybe you could expand on that interesting analysis, Holly.’ He had a way of saying things that made me half-wonder if he was taking the piss, but his interjections were full of encouragement and a clear passion for his subject.

      ‘Well, she wraps everything up in these airy-fairy metaphors instead of actually saying what she should be saying: life is tough, you’ll never find a sense of belonging and, to be frank, the hunt for it isn’t worth the effort, even if you actually do find it.’ I paused and realised my voice had been getting steadily louder.

      Dr Lawrence nodded. ‘Do go on.’

      ‘Well, that’s it, I think,’ I finished, lamely, and glanced at Peter. ‘Do you have anything to add?’

      I wasn’t quite sure where my newfound confidence had come from, but I had started to enjoy it.

      ‘Umm, well …’ Peter was taken aback, and I noticed Dr Lawrence seemed mildly amused by the effect my words had had on him.

      ‘Let’s take a step back, shall we?’ he said, coming to Peter’s rescue. ‘Let’s think about the idea of symbolism in To the Lighthouse. Do either of you have any initial thoughts on that before we probe it further with some examples within the text?’

      After the study session, Peter spoke to me. I had been struggling with my bag; the cover of Mrs Dalloway had become torn when I’d inadvertently shoved my dictionary in on top of it in a hurry. I was hoping Peter would just pack up and leave as he usually did, but today he lingered.

      ‘You seemed more alive today.’

      It was an odd thing to say and it caused me to turn and look at him with more attention than I had in a while. ‘Er … thanks. Does that mean I look dead most of the time?’

      He laughed, though the laugh wasn’t convincing, like a grunt. It was a strangely masculine sound, closer to something I’d imagine hearing from Ernest or James. I continued to stare at him, waiting for a proper answer, but it didn’t arrive. Finally he said, ‘I think we – I mean, I think you – should spend more time with us. With me, James, Ernest, Ally. I think you’d like it.’

      ‘I’d like it?’

      ‘Yes. You’re friends with Ally, aren’t you? You live practically on top of each other.’

      This wasn’t exactly true. Despite having adjacent rooms, Ally’s social life meant our time together was usually spent brushing our teeth in the morning before lectures or chatting on the way out of the showers. Time snatched away from the day here and there and the odd episode of Neighbours – hardly the basis of a close friendship. For Peter’s benefit, however, I nodded.

      ‘We talk about things. Books mainly. Music, sometimes. Cinema, if James is holding court. He loves films. Always tries to battle against Ernest’s snobbery towards them.’

      ‘Ernest doesn’t like films?’

      ‘Oh, I don’t think it’s to do with not liking them, exactly. It’s more he feels they can’t be interrogated in as rigorous a way as, say, Kant or Hume, or the great novelists like Dickens and Austen.’

      ‘I think that’s crap.’

      Peter laughed. ‘It may well be, but that’s Ernest for you. Not one to budge on his opinions, even if the opposite is clearly true. James likes films, though. I think you’ll get on with him. So long as you don’t mind your entertainment a little on the dark side.’

      I thought of Becky and Rachael complaining about the violence in Goodfellas, whereas I had been left relatively unmoved.

      ‘I can do dark,’ I said, trying to sound confident. A confidence I hadn’t really earned. How did I know I could ‘do dark’? Something shifted within me uncomfortably, like I was just reaching out and touching a barely visible line I’d never really known was there. New horizons. Uncharted territory. I was intrigued.

      ‘Then you’ll probably get on with him rather well.’

      When I got back to my room, I found Ally waiting for me at my door. I was disconcerted by this. Had Peter had time to contact her during my short walk over from Dr Lawrence’s office and tell her what a fool I’d made of myself during the seminar? She was smiling, though, in her usual, enthusiastic way, and her eyes seemed to glow with excitement. ‘We’re going to the Wimpy.’

      At first I thought I’d misheard and just stared stupidly at her. She rolled her eyes, as if she could guess what I was thinking.

      ‘Oh, I know, I know. You’re probably thinking it’s not quite our style. I’m not completely unaware of the image Ernest and I must give off. We do go to fast-food chains on occasion. It’s not just caviar at The Ritz every day, you know.’

      I found my voice again. ‘I know that. Sorry, I wasn’t … I didn’t mean …’

      More smiles. More eye rolling. ‘Relax. So do you want to come?’

      I couldn’t imagine anything weirder. Sitting on those dingy, scruffy chairs at those grease-stained tables with the always immaculate-looking Ernest and James while Ally laughed in her rumbling Sloane Square tones at whatever witty aside James had made about Proust. But I nodded and told her it would be lovely. She didn’t seem convinced, but she smiled sweetly and then grabbed my arm. ‘Come on, let’s go and get ready.’

      Getting ready involved Ally trying on multiple cardigans of various colours and weaves while she mused and puzzled about the temperature outside, the velocity of the wind and the cardigan’s usefulness if she was going to be wearing a coat over it in any case. I passed the time by browsing Ally’s book collection. There were some of the usual suspects there. Dickens and Austen. A couple of Brontës. But there were some surprises, too. I tried to quiz her on her apparent love for Kingsley Amis, but got a snort of derision as a response: ‘That old misogynist! Can’t stand the man. I should really throw them out, if I’m honest, but it’s a little bit awkward.’ I asked her why it was awkward and she just tossed her head to dislodge a gold strand of hair that had got stuck between her eyes and said casually, ‘Oh, he’s a family friend.’

      I found myself in a strange, scratchy mood, as if I wasn’t quite sure what was going on. There was something about the randomness of the invite to the Wimpy that unnerved me slightly and I kept flicking between deciding not to go and feeling quietly excited they’d decided to let me into their little gang. When I found myself thinking this latter thought I mentally kicked myself. We weren’t back in school. The idea of having cliques and gangs was supposed to go away when you were past the age of seventeen, surely?

      Apparently not, it seemed, as we set out on the short walk to the boys’ dorms. I could see other little packs making their way across the courtyard; small huddles of friends who had decided they belonged together. Whether through sports,