The Lessons Read online

  ‘That’s brilliant,’ I said flatly. ‘You deserve it. I just wish … I wish I had your focus.’

  ‘It’s over now,’ she said. ‘Second year. You can make a fresh start. You passed, didn’t you? That’s all that matters.’

  ‘Do you know how the others did?’

  She did. Franny had also averaged a first, Emmanuella and Simon upper seconds and Mark … Well, all he’d admit was that he’d got through ‘by the skin, my darling, the very epidermis of my molars’.

  The whole thing was so ridiculously haphazard. At school, if a student like me or like Mark – recognized as bright and capable – had barely scraped their way through an important exam, there would have been concerned meetings, offers of extra help, a determination to find out what had gone wrong. Someone would have noticed.

  ‘Do you think I should take up … extracurricular activities?’

  ‘Are you asking me if I want you to start shagging someone else?’ Jess said, chuckling.

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘I suppose so. If you want to. It might give you something to do while I’m rehearsing for the concert.’

  I thought of the crowds I’d walked through at Freshers’ Fair, of the different lives that had been on offer there: the Marxist Society, the Experimental Theatre Club, the Wine Society, the Doctor Who Society, the Angling Club, the Archery League. I had signed up for a few of these organizations, still received twice-termly mailings from the Film Society and the Debating Club, but they reminded me too intensely of my depression of the previous winter.

  ‘I think I’ll just concentrate on my work,’ I said.

  Guntersen, naturally, had received a scholarship and with it the long-sleeved gown that demonstrated his intellectual superiority. He wore it to every available formal hall and, without any requirement, to the first tutor-group meeting of term in Dr Boycott’s office.

  Panapoulou too, a strangely remote and tic-ridden student, was sporting the long sleeves, although in his case I suspected he’d simply forgotten to take his gown off after the previous night’s dinner. His constant fidgeting made him seem to wrestle with the fabric, hoisting it back and then tugging it forward. He was kind though, if distant, and had helped me several times when I was in the library struggling with an impossible question sheet. He smiled at me before Boycott began to speak. We had all made sure to discover how the others had done. I was the very worst of all. Had I been at a more competitive college, I might have been thrown out, culled for the sake of the league tables. I was fortunate that Gloucester College did not, at that time, adopt such draconian measures, but my social standing had fallen with this calamity. Everard and Glick would not meet my eyes.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said Dr Boycott, ‘another year begins, and with it greater challenges, greater expectation. We are still quorate, I am happy to note. Some of you,’ he nodded to Guntersen and Panapoulou, ‘have fulfilled your early promise admirably, while others –’ he inclined his head fractionally towards Daswani and me – ‘have, shall we say, yet to prove yourselves. However! We begin afresh with high hopes and expectations.’

  Dr Strong nodded happily. His front pair of glasses swung and clattered against the back pair.

  ‘From the very best to the very worst of you –’ and here, or was it my imagination, he seemed to nod towards me again – ‘your talents are undisputed. But let us now put our shoulders to the wheel, let us stride forth, let us climb ever higher towards the peaks we are capable of ascending, let us spread forth our wings and, reaching our hands towards the prize and unfurling our sails, let us take flight!’

  He paused, seeming exhausted after this encomium of educational ecstasy, scratched his chin thoughtfully and gave out the term’s tutorial lists.

  When I think of that term now, it is the music that returns to me. The music and the image of Jess practising in the early mornings, in the ice-skimmed conservatory at the side of the house so as not to wake anyone, two pairs of socks on her feet, tracksuit pulled over her pyjamas, leaning into the melody again and again, warming her fingers on her mug of coffee to soften the ligaments and then trying once more, and once more.

  Although she had explained to me, quite clearly, that the orchestra would need more of her time this term, I hadn’t imagined her absence would be so wide. She had won the prestigious position of soloist for a performance by one the university orchestras. The piece was Sibelius’s Violin Concerto in D Minor; it has a metallic, alien sound, an emotional slipknot at the throat. The emotion of it is so unlike Jess that, the first time she played the CD to me, I could not imagine that she could channel it. At times, the mood is almost cheerful, even romantic, and then within moments it becomes frantic again, broken-hearted, filled with despair. It is a manic-depressive episode in half-hour miniature. Sometimes I sat in the conservatory, trying to work as she played, but it often became unbearable as she repeated the same musical phrase twenty or thirty or forty times, searching for an intonation that pleased her. She claimed not to mind – or even notice – whether I was there or not, and so I frequently left her to play alone.

  On occasion Randolph, another violinist, would come to practise with her. His face was red and bull-like, his demeanour unsettlingly aggressive. He listened to Jess with a frown, and corrected her, his hand on her shoulder blades as she played, his fingers dancing with hers on the neck of the instrument. He greeted me curtly and took, without invitation, to calling me ‘Jim’.

  With Jess’s own academic work still pressing, she was often out of the house until 11 p.m. or midnight, waking up at 6 a.m. to begin practice again. She reserved Sunday afternoons and evenings to spend with me, but I could not help feeling that I had been scheduled like a visit to the dentist or some weekly chore. Still, I told myself, it would not last long.

  ‘The problem,’ said Mark, ‘your problem, is that you don’t understand about love.’

  We were quite drunk. There had been a number of us in the Old Fire Station bar, several of Mark’s friends and Simon and some of his OUSU cronies, and we had drunk quite a large amount and quite a quantity of it had been champagne, for no other reason, Mark said, than that it was Wednesday.

  I stared at Mark. He, perhaps, was not quite as drunk as I. ‘Whajoo mean?’

  ‘The nature,’ he said, rolling his glass in his hand, ‘the nature of love. You don’t understand it. Not at all. You don’t understand it at all.’

  ‘Me?!’ I said. ‘I’m the one wither girlfriend.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mark, ‘but you’re not a Christian, thass your trouble. You don’t understand that love is sacrifice.’

  I thought on this, a little confusedly.

  ‘I thought love was supposed to be fun,’ I said, ‘fun fun fun. Like in pop songs.’

  Mark shook his head violently but then stopped, looking queasy.

  ‘Nonono. Sacrifice. Don’t you understand?’ He spoke very earnestly. ‘Sorry, sorry, I know I go on about it too much, I know I do, but Jesus …’ He sang a few bars. ‘ “Little children all should be, kind obedient good as he.” Point is … point is … The Imitation of Christ. Loving selflessly. Not putting yourself first, not asking for anything, only looking what you can do for them.’

  I thought about this, turning it over.

  ‘But then what d’you get out of it?’

  He smiled. ‘Satisfaction. Alllllso, they should be sacrificing themselves for you. So it all works out! But most important, think of them not of you.’

  ‘S’that why you never date then, Mark? All that sacrifice too much for you?’

  He stared at me, his eyes defocusing, then, snapping his head up sharply, he said clearly, so clearly that I would have half believed he was stone-cold sober, ‘Who do you think pays for everything, James? The house, the food, the parties? Who’s paying for the drink this evening? Believe me, I understand about doing things for other people.’ His head lolled forward again and his speech was slurred. ‘Sacrifice. Thass what I’m talking about.’

&nbs
p; I knew that he was drunk and I was drunk, but I was stung. I had been spending more time with Mark over the past few weeks, while Jess was so busy. And it was true that he had paid my way in bars and restaurants more often than I had. But he was always insistent that I shouldn’t concern myself with such trifles, that he could well afford it, that he would barely feel the cost. I did not like to have this thrown in my face now.

  ‘Fine,’ I said, scarcely thinking of what I was doing. ‘Barmaid!’

  A bored-looking woman slouched over to our table.

  ‘I’d like the bill, please,’ I said, ‘for the whole table. I’ll pay it.’

  ‘No,’ said Mark, ‘no, no. Thass not what I … I didn’t …’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I said to Mark, ‘my treat. Sacrifice.’

  There had been ten of us at the table, until Simon and his friends had gone to a Student Union party. We had drunk a great deal. The woman returned with the bill. The figure on it seemed to have a decimal point one place further to the right than I had expected, but nonetheless I pulled from my wallet the credit card my parents had given me ‘for textbooks and emergencies’.

  ‘Put it on that,’ I said.

  I began to feel queasy before we left the bar, with a thumping, throbbing sensation in my arms and legs. We were on Little Clarendon Street, working our way up towards Jericho, when the roiling in my stomach became too much to bear. I think it was the sight of the George & Davis’ ice-cream café and unavoidable thoughts of rich, thick, sugary, buttery fat that finally convinced my complaining gut to offload its cargo. I vomited, long draughts of alcoholic liquid, my head pounding, stumbled and ended up kneeling in my own beery effluvia. I had hit the ground hard going down and a bloom of pain burst in my fragile knee. I vomited again.

  Mark supported me the rest of the way home, arm around my waist, my arm around his neck. I felt exhausted, unwell, needing a bath and a sleep. We stumbled into the kitchen to get water and there was Jess. She was drinking a mug of the camomile tea she liked so much, listening to Fox FM playing quietly, reading a textbook, one knee pulled up, foot resting on the edge of the chair. Her nose wrinkled as we crashed through the kitchen door. I remember I was giggling. The room distorted and Jess was staring at me with unconcealed revulsion.

  ‘Whassamatter?’ I said. ‘Whassamatter? We’re jus’ getting some water.’

  She smiled a little, and I remembered how much I loved her. Like apple daisies, like moonshine calves, like waterfall rainboxes and blue-crystal electricity spaceships.

  ‘Nothing’s the matter. I’m tired, that’s all.’

  I tried to communicate the love, how I loved her smile, like it was the battery that kept my heart beating, and how her little brown ponytail and her tipped-up nose made me want to grab her and bend her over the table and fuck her like crazy because of all the love for every part of her sweet and beautiful body, but all I managed to say was, ‘I love yooooooou.’

  ‘I love you too. But please have a shower before you come to bed, OK?’

  ‘Ohhhh, Jess,’ I said, and tried to nuzzle my face against hers, ‘I love you, love you, love you.’

  She thrust a protesting hand at me and I grabbed it and pulled her up.

  ‘Come and dance with me, lovely Jess, sweet Jess, I’m a mess, full of stress, but you’re the best, yeah I confess, I … ummm …’ I ran out of rhyme, but pulled her into a dancing embrace, in time to the soft music from the radio.

  She tried to move away, still laughing a little.

  ‘I confess,’ she said, ‘I like you less, when your excess has placed a stress on your finesse.’

  ‘Oh, very good,’ said Mark, and I loved her ten thousand times more.

  She pulled away again, but I caught her by the arm and I wanted her so dearly that I ignored her saying, ‘James, stop it now,’ and pulled her towards me, tugging hard on her right wrist, twisting the narrow bones more than I intended. I felt the tendons on the back of her hand crunch and roll under my fingers. Her thumb turned outwards. She inhaled sharply and pulled her hand out of my grasp, nursing it close to her, wincing.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, James,’ she said, probing the wrist gingerly, ‘for fuck’s sake.’

  Remorse drenched me.

  ‘What? Did I hurt you? I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, lemme see, can I help? Ice?’

  She looked at me with pure disgust.

  ‘I’m going to sleep in one of the spare rooms tonight. Just … sleep it off. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  ‘But Jess, sweet Jess in your dress …’

  She gathered up her score with her left hand.

  ‘I’m wearing jeans, you idiot.’

  I tried to follow her, but Mark pulled me back.

  The next evening her arm was held stiffly in a blue plastic brace, strapped against her chest. She was drinking tea in the kitchen with Franny and Simon, though at the instant I entered the room they made some muttering ‘time to work’ noises and bustled out. My pulse thundered in my ears.

  ‘What did …’ I began.

  ‘They think it’s going to be fine,’ said Jess, looking at her tea and not at me at all. ‘Just bruised, needs rest and then I can get back to practice.’

  ‘Oh, well that’s …’

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘it’s not. I’m going to lose a week of practice, maybe more. I can’t afford that.’

  ‘Jess,’ I said, making my voice soft and soothing, ‘Jess, it’ll be OK. It’ll heal.’

  ‘You don’t know that,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Well, no. But it’ll probably be fine, totally fine.’

  I put my hands on her shoulders, where she liked me to massage her. She stood up.

  ‘I’m sorry but I can’t … I can’t do this with you right now.’

  ‘But … it was an accident.’

  ‘I’m sorry, James, I just can’t. Not now.’

  Even once the brace had come off and she was practising again, she did not return to our bedroom. Sometimes I watched her practising in the conservatory from the side of the house, my view half-obscured by the Virginia creeper. Several times, Randolph came to help her practise and his arm around her waist and his swaying hips next to hers forced me to walk through the conservatory absent-mindedly, as if I’d forgotten a book.

  ‘For God’s sake, James,’ she said, ‘I wish you’d stop lurking here with that hangdog expression,’ and Randolph laughed, a low rumbling chuckle.

  After five or six days of this, I cornered her in the kitchen and spoke without preamble the question which was at the very top of my thoughts: ‘Have we broken up?’

  She was carrying a jar of jam, a packet of croissants, a plate, a knife, all in her left hand.

  ‘Um,’ she said, ‘do you want to break up?’

  ‘No. No. I don’t I … I love you.’

  ‘Then we haven’t broken up.’

  ‘But what … why are you still sleeping upstairs?’

  ‘I just need a bit of time, James. Just a little time.’

  ‘How long?’

  She exhaled sharply through her nose, a bull-snort of impatience.

  ‘I can’t tell you how long. But you’ll make it longer if you keep badgering me.’

  I stared at her, speechless.

  ‘Look,’ her voice softened, ‘we will talk about it, OK? But I’ve lost a lot of time. I can’t make time for all this now. That’s your problem, James. You need something other than me to think about. Just … do something else. Take your mind off it.’

  She stepped around me and back to the conservatory.

  The next morning I stood in the hall, sorting the post. It had become a comforting ritual, now that Jess and I no longer had tea in bed together each morning. There was a letter from my parents – I recognized my mother’s handwriting – one for Jess from her sister, several each for Franny – she had schoolfriends at different universities who wrote to each other ceaselessly – and for Emmanuella, in the distinct ive continental handwriting. And for Mark, a parcel from Cal
ifornia – these came at least weekly and had contained everything from a jar of cactus jam to a long fur coat – and a letter from Dorset. I didn’t notice him standing on the stairs above me until he snatched the letter out of my hands.

  I looked at him quizzically. He frowned, raising an eyebrow and said, ‘It’s from Nicola. You remember, Simon’s sister. She writes to me sometimes.’

  I laughed. ‘What, mad Christian Nicola?’

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t say “mad” and “Christian” as if they went together.’

  ‘Fine. I meant to say, “What, Nicola with the massive boobs?” ’ He beamed and said, ‘Happily I wouldn’t notice such things. Our friendship is on a more spiritual level.’

  ‘You’re not going to show me, then?’

  ‘Certainly not. Letters are private. What about yours, anyway?’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘it’ll just be my mother’s usual letter: a list of all the things Anne’s done, how proud she’s made them, how happy they are to have her as a daughter and what a disappointment I am by comparison.’

  I crumpled the letter up and thrust it into my pocket.

  I only came to read it just before bed, after yet another evening spent fruitlessly trying to understand my latest question sheet and – equally fruitlessly – to avoid watching Jess practise. And when I looked it was not the usual screed at all.

  The letter was in my mother’s rounded handwriting:

  Dear James,

  Daddy and I are very unhappy about your credit card bill. £270 in a bar! It’s too much, James. Anne thinks, and we agree, that paying this bill will just encourage you to do it again. You need to learn to be responsible with your money. We don’t want you to waste the opportunity of Oxford, especially after your results.

  So, we’ve decided we won’t be paying any more of your bills from now on. Daddy has changed the address so the bills will come to Annulet House. We hope this will help you to concentrate on your studies and not your social life.