Jonathan Coe - Number 11

There were about twenty or thirty pictures. Each one showed a number of students in various stages of drunken revelry, but none of them made Laura feel particularly cheerful. Rictus grins, pallid, luminescent skin and red-eye photography gave all of these young people the appearance of alien creatures, visitors from another planet who had somehow managed to colonize the bodies of human beings and learn the outward manifestation of their emotions while under the skin, at heart, lay something hollow and coldly mechanical. As for Rachel, Laura could not help thinking — as she had thought at the time — that there was something half-hearted, semi-detached, about her relationship to the rest of the group: in each image, her eyes seemed to be directed elsewhere, with a gaze that was at once far-seeing and inward-looking. The pictures were arranged in a sequence which began at the pub. In some of the earliest ones, Danny’s shoulder could be glimpsed in the background — and even Laura’s own left arm, once or twice. But the drinking and the photography had continued long after Laura and Danny had left, and the last few pictures had been taken out in the street, after the pubs had closed. They included one particularly disturbing — not to say pornographic — image which showed one girl (tagged as Rebecca) bent double over the pavement, apparently in the act of throwing up. Laura felt a sudden dismay that this moment, so private and so shameful, should have been not just captured in digital form but also uploaded for all of the spotty boy’s friends (and friends of friends, and, for that matter, anybody else who felt like it) to see. Had the girl’s permission been sought? She doubted it. Was she even aware that the picture was on public display? Laura doubted that too.

She shut the laptop down, sat back, closed her eyes and rubbed the lids softly. There was a slight ache behind her eyes now, something she always felt even after a few minutes’ computer use. One of the inescapable conditions of life in 2012.

She did not see Rachel again until the end of the week, when they had their regular tutorial meeting. It was late on Friday afternoon, and already dark outside. Once, this had been Laura’s favourite time of day: the hour after dusk, when lights went on around college and the yellowish glow of standard lamps from innumerable windows threw a patchwork of violet shadows over the whole of the main quad. Recently, however — in fact, why be vague about this, it was since the death of her husband — she had begun to feel differently, and now came to dread this hour, especially on a Friday, with the prospect of a long weekend in the countryside ahead of her, with only her five-year-old son for company. This depressing thought could not be put entirely to one side, even as she did her best to concentrate on the subject of Rachel’s Milton essay: or rather, its continued non-appearance.

‘I’m pretty sure I can get it finished by Monday,’ Rachel was saying, tugging at a strand of blonde hair as her eyes roved distractedly over the contents of Laura’s bookshelves.

‘Really?’ said Laura. ‘Well, that would be great. But don’t rush it. Honestly. It’s not a great precedent to set, but I am used to students handing work in weeks after the deadline.’

‘It won’t be a problem,’ said Rachel. ‘There aren’t many distractions at the weekend. All my friends seem to go home, for one thing.’

This, Laura had noticed, was another new phenomenon of university life: students who, in years gone by, would have regarded term as a welcome opportunity to live an independent life for eight weeks now went back to see their parents most weekends, to have their meals cooked for them and get their laundry done. But not Rachel, it seemed.

‘That must be a bit dreary for you,’ Laura said.

‘Yeah, but … well, Mum doesn’t want me under her feet. She works a seven-day week these days.’

‘What does she do?’

‘She’s a barrister.’

‘Ah! Is that what gave you the idea for your story?’

‘You read it?’ Rachel’s eyes flared with delight.

‘I did. And I really liked it. It’s nice to read something like that which feels as though … well, as though the writer knows what she’s talking about.’

‘My mum represents a lot of whistleblowers. In fact, that’s more or less all she does nowadays. It’s quite a growth industry.’

‘“You will be dispensed with/when you’ve become inconvenient,”’ said Laura, remembering the song lyric in which Rachel had shown such an interest. ‘She must see a lot of that.’

Rachel, not having expected the quotation, took a moment to recognize it. ‘Oh yeah — “Harrowdown Hill”,’ she said. ‘My own little obsession.’

‘Well,’ said Laura, ‘we’re all prey to those, now and again.’ She smiled an unreadable smile. ‘Have you ever been there?’

‘No. It’s not far from Oxford, is it?’

‘Not at all. And it’s even closer to where I live. I bought a house very near there, with my husband, a few years before he died. We both liked the idea of living in a village, in the country. Thought it would be good for our son while he was still little.’

‘I didn’t know your husband had …’

‘Last year.’

‘I’m so sorry. Was it …?’

‘Cancer? A heart attack? No. It was an accident. A stupid accident. Or at least …’ She tailed off. ‘Well, there’s always more than one way of looking at things, isn’t there?’

In the silence that followed, Laura made a quick, impulsive decision; and before she’d had time to think whether it was a good one or not, she heard herself putting it into words. Why didn’t Rachel, if she had nothing much else to do this weekend, come and visit her tomorrow, at her house in the village? She could take the train out to Didcot and Keisha could pick her up from the station. And then, in the afternoon, they could drive out together to Harrowdown Hill itself.

Rachel seemed doubtful at first, and Laura wondered whether the suggestion sounded too morbid. ‘It’s a really nice spot,’ she insisted; and then added, even more recklessly: ‘You could even stay the night if you wanted. There’s a nice spare bedroom which hasn’t been used for months.’

Later that night, thinking about it soberly, Rachel knew that she had accepted the invitation more out of politeness than anything else.

*

The village of Little Calverton lies a few miles east of Didcot. The name itself is mysterious, since there is no Large, Big or even Great Calverton, nor is there any record of there ever having been one. It is a classically beautiful Cotswold village, where property prices are (relatively speaking) still on the low side, thanks to the proximity of Didcot power station, the massive chimneys of which rise up less than five miles away. If you can reconcile yourself to this, there are bargains to be had in Little Calverton, and houses there rarely stay on the market for more than a week or two.

‘Nice country,’ Keisha said to Rachel, as they drove along a single-track lane between high hedgerows. Rachel did not answer, but nodded cheerfully: she was not sure, in fact, whether Keisha was referring to the surrounding countryside or to England as a whole, and did not want to appear insensitive by misinterpreting her.

‘Very different to Malaysia, I expect,’ she said, in a non-commital way.

‘Very different. But I like it. I prefer all this. I’m very happy here. Very happy in the UK. Very happy to work for Laura. She’s a nice lady. She teaches you, yes?’

‘That’s right.’

‘For a long time?’

‘Just a few months so far. But she’s great. It’s been great.’

‘Very nice person. Kind, generous. But sad, you know?’

‘Because of her husband?’