Unable to sleep, I finally got up at two in the morning. I went down into the kitchen and made a cup of herbal tea. The house was very still; not a sound came from the water pipes or the drains. I sat on the sofa to drink my tea in the light of the street lamp opposite. I remember the silver light through the blinds; the dancing silhouettes of the trees; the warmth of the mug between my hands. I must have slept a little, because the next thing I remember was feeling cold, and looking down, and seeing grass under my feet. Had I gone outside in my sleep? The grass was damp and very cold; looking over my shoulder I saw the open kitchen door and golden light pouring out onto the ground. But the door to Dominic’s house was white. This one was a poisonous green; and I realized that it wasn’t Dom’s house at all, but some kind of painted scenery, behind which lay some terrible knowledge that, once seen, could not be forgotten.
There came a sound from under my feet; the ominous sound of something big approaching through a tunnel. There was a ventilation grate in the grass right at my feet; the rising air lifted my nightdress. In a moment I would rise just like a Chinese sky lantern. Behind the ominous green door, the golden light had faded. A shadow, like that of a tall, tall man, crawled out onto the bright green grass. And I heard a voice: I know where you are. You can’t hide from me, Becks.
And the worst of it was that the terrible voice was not the voice of the monster, but the voice of my brother Conrad, and when I awoke, it was daylight, and the kitchen door was open wide, and there was grass between my toes, and the dry salt of tears on my face.
3
King Henry’s Grammar School for Boys, April 25th, 1989
It never ceases to amuse me how, in films, a character always wakes from a nightmare suddenly, with an audible gasp, sitting bolt upright, as if someone had slipped an ice cube into their pyjamas. My nightmares have always been silent; suffocating; heavy as sand; and I awake in darkness to a dreadful paralysis. Eyes unable to open; limbs weighed down, unable to move; and the knowledge – the certainty – that, this time, there will be no end to this, no awakening to the world; that I will stay here in the dark for all eternity, with him, relentless; inescapable –
My therapist tells me this phenomenon is called sleep paralysis, and that it lasts only seconds. Sadly, this waking knowledge does nothing to change the experience. It had been a long time since I had had an episode, and it was the first time that I had ever knowingly walked in my sleep, although from the open kitchen door and the muddy state of my feet I understood that this must have been the case. I had no memory of getting up, or going into the garden, or of going back into the house. The dream of the green door and of Conrad’s voice from out of the ground was already losing coherence. The rest had already vanished into one of those memory sink holes that I knew so well from childhood.
I checked the time: it was five-fifteen. I showered quickly and, silently, went back into the room I shared with Dom. Dominic was still asleep – I slipped in naked between the sheets. Dominic said something in his sleep – he was a frequent sleep-talker – and threw an arm over my shoulder. I pressed my body closer to his, smelling his musky night-time scent. I was not expecting to sleep, but I must have dropped off after all, because I awoke at seven o’clock to the alarm at my bedside, feeling surprisingly rested. The sun was shining through the blinds, and I felt suddenly, unexpectedly good. I kissed Dominic on the mouth – he was still mostly asleep – and went to the wardrobe, where my school clothes were hanging. I looked at my unworn trouser suit, hesitated over a powder-blue twin-set and matching skirt, then decided against it. Instead, I pulled out something from the back of the rack, pulled it on quickly, and said to Dom: ‘I have to go. Make sure Emily has breakfast, OK?’
Dom opened one eye, then both. ‘You’re going in like that?’ he said.
I grinned. ‘You were right, Dom. There’s no point in trying to fit a square peg into a round hole. I’ve done my best to follow the rules, and I’m tired of trying to hide.’
At that, I grabbed my attaché case, quickly brushed my teeth and hair, and set off to King Henry’s in my little blue Mini. I knew that Scoones and Dr Sinclair always came in early; Scoones to use the Banda machine before the other members of the Department came in, Sinclair to drink coffee and read the papers before Assembly. Most of the rest came in later, and boys very rarely arrived before eight. Thus it was that I was able to enter the Departmental Office at 7.40, carrying a dry-cleaning bag, and watch both Scoones and Sinclair’s mouths drop open at the sight of me, in a scarlet miniskirt, black sweater and high-heeled knee-length boots.
‘Dr Sinclair,’ I said, and smiled. ‘I’ve given a lot of thought to what you said to me on my first day regarding the dress code at King Henry’s.’
Sinclair’s face was marble. Scoones’s appeared to be made of ham. I smiled again, and held up the dry-cleaning bag: ‘As you see, I’m wearing a skirt. But if you feel that you would prefer to update the King Henry’s dress code, I’ve also brought my trouser suit.’
There was a pause, as Scoones and Sinclair stared at me, bereft of speech; Scoones with a look of horror, and Sinclair with a quiet kind of surprise. I held his gaze in silence: I was always good at poker.
For a moment I thought he would call my bluff. His eyes were – I would have sworn it – amused.
Then he gave a tiny nod.
‘Wear the trousers, Miss Price,’ he said. ‘You can change in my office.’
4
King Henry’s Grammar School for Boys, April 25th, 1989
It was the smallest of victories. And yet it was significant. I had found an opening in the patriarchal façade: not quite a door, but a weakness.
I’ve never understood why men think of us as the weaker sex. Women are built for endurance. If men had to bear even half of what women typically endure – menstruation, childbirth, hormone surges, menopause; not to mention the daily attrition of catcalling, mockery, silencing – they would be reduced to tears. Men are surprisingly easy to break. Maybe it’s because they have fewer trials to overcome. The men and boys of King Henry’s were served their privilege every day with a generous side of tradition. None of them ever questioned their right to enter through the hallowed gates. I have had to hack my way through the stone and sinew. I have had to fight a war for every step of progress. But that was the first of my victories – a small one, but it mattered. I had faced Dr Sinclair and found that, far from being a giant, he’d been a windmill all along.
I spent the rest of that morning in a warm haze of triumph. It was as if the terrible nightmare had released some power in me. 4H were inclined to misbehave; I squashed them without flinching. At Break, Higgs made some lewd comment; I swatted him away like a fly. I met Scoones on the narrow stairs leading up to the office, and he was the one who flattened himself against the wall to let me pass; another little victory that filled me with hope and confidence.
‘You’re looking a lot more cheerful today,’ Carrie said, when I joined her for lunch in the Common Room.
‘I’m feeling all right,’ I said with a smile, and told her about my encounter with Scoones and Sinclair that morning.