Chapter 1
‘Reclaim the Night!’ I was in my stride now, shouting at the top of my voice, waving the banner I’d quickly designed, assembled and put together in the tiny bedroom of the student house I shared with three others in the Headingley area of Leeds.
Not being overly artistic, my banner was somewhat amateurish, but what it lacked in finesse, it certainly made up for in intent.
‘Give our streets back to women!’ I yelled more loudly this time, determined, encouraging the others I’d persuaded to join me in the demonstration.
To be honest, it wasn’t much of a protest, and those who I had managed to get on board and who had started out with me didn’t appear overly enthusiastic.
Even less so when the drizzle that had been falling all morning from the lowering Yorkshire grey skies threatened to turn to full-scale rain.
I’d started out that morning with such high hopes of leading others in this protest, but they all, including myself, seemed, I now saw, slightly pathetic.
The idea that women were unsafe on the streets of Leeds at night appeared of little consequence to either the throng of students hurrying to lectures, or the general public scurrying to get under cover before the heavens opened.
I gripped my banner more tightly, saw the red ink I’d lovingly used to write my placard had run, until, like raspberry jam in rice pudding, it was a pink indescribable mess, the words no longer legible or decipherable.
The posters that Fliss, Frank and I had stuck up only an hour earlier were now bedraggled, half-torn by the rain and flapping against lamp posts and street furniture, slogans bleeding as the ink ran.
The pooling rainwater was leaking into my boots and I was really hungry but, never one to give up on a job, I started to shout once more and was relieved when the others joined in.
The chant echoed across the Parkinson Building, bouncing off the tall clock tower while a group pushed past with little more than a sideways glance, faces half-curious, half-irritated, as though the noise were no more than an inconvenient fire drill.
I felt my throat tighten, but not from the shouting. The bloody indifference around me was harder to bear than outright opposition.
‘Keep going, Anna,’ Frank muttered, at my side.
His cheeks were red from the cold, his nose, at which he now attempted a futile wipe with the back of his hand, beginning to run.
His hand-painted sign wobbled against his chest and part of me felt a pang of sympathy at his dedication to the cause.
It wasn’t just dedication to the protest, I knew.
He was doing it for me. Because I’d asked him.
‘They’re off to the Wimpy Bar now,’ he went on sagely, ‘only thinking of their stomachs, but in years to come they’ll remember this. ’
I nodded, gripping my placard tighter, knowing more than likely they wouldn’t remember, while aware my mouth was salivating at the thought of a juicy burger.
I’d only managed the crust of a week-old loaf of bread spread with the dregs of the Marmite jar for breakfast and my stomach rumbled loudly as a reminder.
Then I remembered: I’d made the decision to embrace vegetarianism only the day before.
With rain trickling down the neck of my shirt and sweater, I wondered if I could perhaps postpone my resolution for another day and join the carnivores in the queue on Boar Lane.
‘Come on, Anna,’ Fliss yelled, running forwards to catch me up at the front. ‘Let’s pack it in. I’m starving! I really don’t think anyone would begrudge us a sandwich in return for the walking and protesting we’ve done this morning.’
‘Keep up, Fliss,’ Frank shouted over our heads. ‘Free Nelson Mandela next!’
‘Next week that, Frankie boy,’ Fliss retorted irritably, wiping rain from her face.
‘Right, I’m off.’ She slung her wooden placard over her right shoulder like one of the seven dwarves setting off to work.
‘Had enough of this protesting lark for today. Only came along because you should try everything at least once.’
‘What, even sex with Ken Barlow?’
‘Why not?’ Fliss grinned back. ‘If I was two or three ciders down and in the mood, I’d probably go for a threesome with him and Deirdre.
’ Fliss was always up for anything and, while not a political animal, had declared, when I asked her to make up numbers, that she really ought to get involved in at least one student protest during her time at university so she would have something to boast about to any future idealistic children she might have. ‘Coming, Anna?’
I turned to look at Frank, defeat and disappointment clinging to every part of him like a cheap suit.
‘Sorry, Frank…’ I chucked my peeling cardboard placard into the nearest bin and wiped my damp hands on my duffle coat before shoving them deep into the pockets.
I needed a new pair of gloves – I’d lost one or both of every pair I’d ever owned.
‘But you said we could get together and you’d let me read you my essay on the Theory of the State, Anna. I think it’s particularly deep and well informed. I also think you could learn a lot from it – help you with your own essay…’
‘Need to get to a chemist, Frank,’ I called over my shoulder. ‘Sorry… You know… time of the month…?’
‘Time?’ Frank looked studiously at his watch before the penny dropped. ‘Oh, right.’ His face flushed crimson. ‘Well, maybe later? Shall I call round this evening then? Or meet you in the library?’
‘You really shouldn’t encourage him, Anna,’ Fliss admonished as she took my arm and hurried me across the busy city centre towards Boar Lane. ‘He’s in love with you. You do know that. And he’s such a tosser.’
‘How do I encourage him?’ I asked, put out at being told off.
‘Well, all this bloody protesting and marching. You could have refused to play along with it. With him…’
‘Excuse me,’ I snapped crossly. ‘It was my idea to march today. He played along with me.’
‘Anna, he’d do anything for you. You know that. He’s been following you around like a lost soul ever since he first set eyes on you in the lecture theatre that first week of term last year.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what you want me to do.’
‘As I said, don’t encourage him.’ Fliss gave me a friendly nudge in the ribs. ‘Come on – food.’
‘I shouldn’t be wasting my money on burgers,’ I said, slightly mollified. ‘I’m broke. I can’t see my grant lasting until the end of term.’
Fliss gave me one of her looks. ‘I’d have thought with your dad only being a miner, you’d have been getting a fairly good grant.’
‘What d’you mean only a miner?’
‘Well, you know…’ Fliss trailed off, slightly embarrassed.
‘So, my dad spending ten hours underground like a bloody mole so your financier dad can have gas and electricity to heat and light his posh offices in London makes him inferior, less of a person, does it?’
‘I didn’t mean that at all. God, you’re uppity. No wonder you’re studying politics. All I’m saying is, that because my dad does earn more than most, I don’t get much of a grant. I’m dependent on him to give me what he thinks I need.’
‘And?’
‘And he doesn’t always cough up when he should. Spends his money on fast cars and mucky women.’
‘Mucky women?’ I laughed at that. ‘That’s a right Yorkshire phrase if ever I heard it.’
‘You know what I mean. Once he’s shelled out the school fees for my three brothers, given Mum her share of the divorce settlement – and she’s always demanding more – and paid an extortionate amount for the flat he now rents in Chelsea, there’s not a huge amount coming my way…
’ Fliss stopped talking, halting suddenly in front of one of the university’s office windows. ‘Well, fortuitous or what?’
‘And coming out with words like that, I can see why you’re studying English.’ I laughed, moving over to where Fliss had come to a standstill and was scrabbling in her bag for pencil and paper.
‘There you go,’ she said. ‘We both need more of the old spondoolies if we’re going to survive the term and not end up frozen to death on the mean streets of Leeds like the Little Match Girl.’
‘She froze to death on the streets of Leeds?’ I was momentarily taken aback. ‘I always thought it was Copenhagen or somewhere round that neck of the woods.’
‘Are you listening?’ Fliss elbowed me, pointing a red woollen finger at a typewritten notice in the window. ‘Look.’
‘Cleaners wanted? Is that it?’
‘Yep.’
‘And you want to be a cleaner?’
‘I actually like cleaning. Part of my obsession with wanting everything neat and tidy, I reckon. Look, it’s at Bodington Hall.’
‘What’s that? A stately home? We’d be chased around the bedrooms by some leery old marquis in his underpants.’
‘No, you daft thing. Bodington Hall. University halls of residence for first-year undergrads. I can’t believe you’ve not heard of it.’
‘Oh, right, yes. Of course. Think I’d rather be chased with a feather duster by a duke than mopping up vomit and condoms from kids out on the razz after leaving their mothers’ apron strings for the first time.’
‘You sound terribly superior, you know, now that you’re one year in.
Look, not bad money – it’d buy us a few Bulmers in the union bar.
And, don’t forget, you and I are off to work on a kibbutz in the summer.
We’ll need money for the flights to Israel.
We need to be booking those soon if you’re still up for it? ’
‘Still up for it? I can’t wait!’ Fliss and I had spent hours planning how we were going to spend the long summer vacation together.
‘Look,’ Fliss went on, ‘we could just sign up for a few hours a week to fit round lectures.’
‘It’s miles from Headingley.’
‘And how good is it that my mum has passed on her old Mini to me after getting my dad to cough up for a new one?’
‘Not exactly old, Fliss.’ I did try hard not to be envious of Fliss’s bright yellow Mini; her ability to move around under her own steam rather than relying on Shanks’s pony or Leeds Corporation transport.
‘I know, I know, I’m very privileged.’ Fliss pulled a face.
‘As you keep reminding me. But don’t let your social conscience stop you from accepting a lift.
The bus would take you a good fifteen minutes.
We could say we’ll only work in a pair. And, if it makes you feel any better, you can put petrol in the Mini every now and again. ’
‘Surely they want older, experienced cleaners?’ I frowned. ‘Not students like me who can’t even keep her room tidy.’
‘Speak for yourself.’
‘I know, I know, your room is clinically clean.’
‘Come on then, I’m up for it if you are. Let’s investigate.’
Half an hour later the pair of us were seated at the front of the Wimpy Bar, feasting on a burger and fries in celebration of the start of our new careers as halls of residence chars.
It had all been pretty straightforward – the university obviously desperate for someone to clean up after the first years who had moved in at the start of the academic year.
‘You’re not expected to clean the students’ rooms,’ the woman in personnel had explained, obviously relieved that someone – anyone – had applied for the work.
‘It’s the kitchens, mainly, in the one hundred self-catering flats.
Students are not the best at cleaning ovens and leaving sinks unblocked.
’ She’d given a little moue of distaste.
‘Despite notices up telling them not to put fat down the sinks.’
‘One hundred self-catering flats?’ I murmured through a mouthful of food.
‘One hundred greasy disgusting kitchens we have to get stuck in to?’ Knowing that I was going to have a bit more money in my pocket had me enjoying the burger without a sense of guilt.
And, just one day into a state of vegetarianism, the food tasted like nectar.
‘No, no.’ Fliss shook her head. ‘Each kitchen is used by five bedrooms and is a shared facility.’
‘How do you know?’ I took a last bite of my food, wiped my mouth and leaned forwards.
‘I had a bit of a thing with a guy there last year. I’ve been in one of the flats.’
‘Have you? I don’t remember that. And you went into the kitchen?’
‘Yep. And the shared sitting room.’
‘Pretty disgusting?’
‘Yep.’
‘So, twenty kitchens then?’
‘Yes, but we’ll be responsible for ten of them, I think she said. Two others have signed up as well.’
‘Well, that doesn’t sound too bad,’ I said. ‘We just need to look at our timetables and work out the hours we can do and when we can fit it all in round lectures. Could we do it in the evening, d’you think? It all sounds fairly flexible.’
‘It has to be. The supervisor is desperate to have anyone cleaning there. But no, we can’t be cleaning ovens and dusting round the TV when the students are back in there, cooking and eating on their knees in front of the TV.’
‘We were never allowed, as kids, to watch TV while we ate,’ I said, remembering. ‘I never got to watch Blue Peter. It was always on as we sat down to eat and my mum was pretty strict about not eating while the telly was on.’
‘What? You had supper at five o’clock?’
‘We had us tea then, yes.’ I laughed at Fliss’s face. ‘You posh southerners probably had supper much later?’
‘Well, yes, I watched Blue Peter and then ate a long time after that…’ Fliss broke off, her eyes moving from me towards the back of the restaurant, as I went into some detail about my childhood in Rothersley. ‘Shh, don’t look, don’t look… I said don’t look…’
‘Where am I not supposed to be looking?’ I laughed, moving my eyes down to the table and then, curious, immediately back to a noisy foursome making their way past our table to the entrance.
‘It’s him,’ Fliss squeaked.
‘Who?’
‘The one I’ve been going on about since the beginning of term. You know!’
‘Oh, the squash-playing all-American preppy jock?’
‘I don’t think he’s American,’ Fliss now said, her face assuming an uninterested demeanour as the man in question walked within inches of me, a beautiful blonde hanging possessively on to his arm.
‘Looks too upmarket for the Wimpy Bar.’ I smiled. ‘OK, yes, I can see where you’re coming from. Wouldn’t be my cup of tea. I mean, I can’t imagine him joining in with our protest this morning. And that’s what’s important, you know, Fliss.’
‘Get your priorities right, Anna,’ Fliss said sagely. ‘I think,’ she went on, once the four had left the restaurant and she began fanning her heated face with a napkin, ‘I think what is important is that he’s absolutely bloody gorgeous. And I intend to find out exactly who he is. And have him.’