Some plush ballista
The Parker-Knoll was a greenish brown or a brownish green — very much the palette of the period, after the psychedelic patterns that hurt everyone’s eyes. It was very comfortable. Dad demonstrated the action. There was a lever that triggered the mechanism so the seat back reclined smoothly or surged back to the vertical. I struggled into the chair and had a go at operating it myself. The lever was no picnic for me to operate, but I loved the lower position with its altered view. When the lever was pressed again, I returned to a position from which it was possible to lurch upright without outside help. I wasn’t altogether confident of the mechanism, suspecting it of scheming to hurl me across the room like an ancient weapon, some plush ballista.
‘You’ll get used to it,’ said Dad cheerfully, inspecting the mechanism with definite admiration. It was as if he coveted a domestic ejector seat of his own. I could imagine his hand hovering over the lever, waiting for local pressure levels to become intolerable before he pulled it and was shot high in the air above Bourne End, not much caring which way the prevailing winds took his parachute from there.
‘I’ll get used to it,’ I said, trying to match the blitheness of his tone.
I doubt if Mum and Dad thought for a moment that I would be able to cope on my own, but for once their doubts didn’t mark them out. Every parent in Cambridge had the same misgivings. All the serried mothers were inwardly wringing their hands, and all the serried fathers were giving the mothers gruff reassuring pats that made them feel much worse. In A6 Kenny the ritual ended a little differently, that’s all. Instead of the father saying, with chaffing severity, ‘Well, are you going to make us a cup of tea now that we’ve come all this way, or are you just going to sit there?’ Dad asked, ‘Would you like us to make you a cup of tea before we go?’
It was Mum who would make the symbolic brew if I agreed. And so I said, ‘No, thanks,’ and they went, which meant that I was shot of my parents much sooner than your average fresher. Mum and Dad were well on their way back to Bourne End while the other mothers were still stressing the importance of washing whites separately, and the other fathers were explaining that buying rounds of drinks at the college bar willy-nilly was the fool’s route to popularity.
I had asked Mum and Dad to leave the door open and now I punted myself out into the common spaces of the staircase. A mother came bustling down the stairs from where she had been fussing over her chick. ‘He’s supposed to be seeing his tutor at 3.30 — Dr Mays. I’m afraid we’re totally lost. Is there anywhere we ought to be? Anything we should do?’
I raised my chin and supported it with my stick — my approximation of the stroking-chin-with-hand gesture, denoting thought. I frowned and then smiled and said Dr Mays would be along presently.
The flustered mum was enormously grateful and bustled back up the stairs to pass on these words of comfort. Of course I had no idea who Dr Mays was, but if it pleased this mother to put her trust in a stranger it pleased me to play along. It was good to know that I had the look of someone who knew things. That was a definite advantage, and I didn’t have many.
That first evening in Downing I could hear the other freshmen ritually revving up their record-players. The volume rose in stealthy and then flagrant increments until the noise became outrageous. I could hear Beatles, I could hear Stones, statements of counter-cultural allegiance, though the Beatles had recently betrayed their devotees by breaking up — having found out the hard way that being a guru is an exhausting business. Not everyone can stand the pressure of other people’s hopes. I could also hear something rather wild, with squawks and squeaks and a deep harsh male voice wailing.
The whole upwelling of noise was a sort of instinctual ritual of arrival. The new intake was marking its territory with music. I have no doubt that there were students on the staircase whose tastes ran to the gentler strains of folk or the singer-songwriters then coming into fashion. But first night in college is no time for the roundelay, for the ballad. What marks territory is rhythm, glandular presence, energy that explodes into a chorus.
I had a gramophone of my own — a brand-new Hacker obtained direct from the factory in Maidenhead. I had a few albums — I could contribute my pennorth of racket. The machine had been set up and plugged in by Dad before he left. Yet the labour of removing a disc from its sleeve and manœuvring it down onto the spindle was daunting. I didn’t feel up to it. I was tired from the effort of keeping two illusions going in a single day, the mirages of Bourne End and Cambridge University, even if I couldn’t quite claim the double-strength Maya of jet lag. I wanted to go to bed, really, but that too seemed a daunting effort. There would be a meal available in Hall in an hour or so, but it seemed more fitting to fast. Perhaps I should let the toxins of my old life drain away before I started to build a new self on new food. In other words, I was a little intimidated by my new surroundings.
My shoulder ached from the drive. The technical term is adhesive capsulitis, and it has always comforted me to know the technical terms. Yet the common description is a good one. Frozen shoulder. It sounds as if it was coined by someone who had personal experience of the condition, not just a bystander or coiner of slogans.
I used my stick to draw the curtains, by pushing with the rubber tip, sealing myself off in what was to be my nest, this educational cave. The curtains moved smoothly on their runners to shut out the outside world, so I could tell myself that at least something was working as it should.
There was no toilet en-suite, of course, but Dad had delivered my maroon leatherette commode to one of the cubicles of the communal toilets, so I could manage perfectly well.
For the first time in my life there was no one hovering to offer help, however little I wanted it. I don’t mean that I didn’t already perform my own chores, in terms of changing clothes and brushing teeth. My snorkel technique impeachably improved. I had managed well for years, but I had always been aware of Mum in the background, seething with the need to be needed. Even in India there was some sort of back-up — if I had dawdled beyond a certain point Mrs O would have issued gruff orders for Kuppu to assist me. Here I was really on my own, and that took a certain amount of getting used to. It would be wrong to say that I missed it, but I registered that it wasn’t there, the mothering tide against which I had struggled to swim for so long, swimming until my shoulder froze from the effort of keeping afloat.
It’s never easy to get to sleep in a new place, where you don’t instinctively know where the pee bottle is, for instance. The Margaret Erskine Dream-Cloud provided the chief element of continuity. As I lay awake on the bed I could hear the mournful chiming of a church clock — every hour on the hour, as confirmed by the Relide watch from my childhood, still keeping good time despite the inferior glow which faded long before morning. There was something wrong with the chime of the clock, so that one strike was replaced by a muffled thud. It maddened me, as if I couldn’t help making a connection between the defective chime and something inside myself. A dull thud where a clang should be.
In the morning I met my bedmaker, a thin woman of about fifty with yellow hair. Her manner was frantic motion from the moment she edged open the door, pure distilled bustle. She had knocked so quietly that I hadn’t been sure there was anybody there. ‘Morning, Mr Cromer,’ she said. ‘I’ve brought you a cup of tea.’ She put it carefully on the desk. ‘I’ll just have a quick go-round and get out of your way. I’ll say one thing — there’s not a lot of room to man-oover.’