text: UNREQUITED LOVE I can recall the first time we met as if it was yesterday. It was at the Drummond’s on the occasion of their daughter’s birthday; Edwina, the younger, if possible, even more obnoxious of the two Drummond girls. What I can’t remember is how old I was exactly. Thirteen? Fourteen? My mother, already, though we did not know it, evincing early signs of the dementia that would gradually reveal itself in all its horror, convinced herself that, as the Drummond family hailed from Scotland, I should do homage by attending the party dressed as the bonny Prince Charlie of historic note. Can you imagine? A house full of young girls, all dressed in their prettiest party frocks and I get deposited at the front door dressed in a tartan kilt, sporran and tam ‘o shanter! Before the door had even been opened by Mrs. Drummond, I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me as I watched my crazy parent speeding off down the gravel driveway like a bat out of hell in her Triumph Herald. Mrs. Drummond did not disappoint, breaking into hysterical laughter as the party girls gathered around her, taking their lead from that awful woman, forgetting their game of pinning a donkey with a tail and, instead, pinning their brutal scorn on my costume fail. How maliciously cruel children can be. Why is that, I wonder? Through my tears, I saw this ethereal figure; a fairy queen, complete with wand and gossamer wings, push her way through the mocking crowd, their sadistic laughter growing ever hysterically wilder, and taking me by the hand, lead me away from that house, down the driveway and into the house next door; her house I soon discovered. I’ll never forget, as I glanced back, just the once, through misty eyes, the stupefied look of the Drummond matriarch as she saw the object of her derision disappear from view. As soon as we turned into the adjoining driveway, my saviour, Emma, took me by my arms and looked me in the eyes. “They are horrid, horrid people. Take no notice of them. Until you arrived, it was my fairy outfit that was being made fun off. Come on, we can play in my room. It’ll be much more fun”. I had seen Emma around the town occasionally, a couple of times at the library that I could think of, but we had never met. I knew, from the uniform that she had been wearing on those occasions, that she attended the fee paying, private school, Rutherfords, while I, of course, went to the local public school, St. Sebastian’s. If it hadn’t been for my mother’s chance encounter with that dragon, Mrs Drummond, at the only hairdresser in the high street, I would never have found myself invited to a party at this end of town; the posh end. Yet, from the moment that Emma had rescued me, we two became the closest of friends. Emma lived with her father, Henry, just the two of them, her mother having died when Emma had been too young to really understand the pain of losing a parent. I never quite understood what it was that Henry did, something mysterious for the government but, in contrast to my own father, he seemed to treat Emma as an equal and there were no rules or restrictions in their house; they simply co-habited. Emma never referred to her father as anything other than Henry which, at first, I found disconcerting but I soon fell into this same easy rhythmic style. For his part, Henry seemed to be pleased that his daughter had found a real friend in myself and he left us to ourselves whenever I visited, which was often, after school and, at weekends, often staying overnight. That’s not to say that she did not visit me, also; she did. What I loved about her was that she never, ever, passed any comment on the difference in our living arrangements. Not that we lived in squalor but our house, although detached, was situated in a much less salubrious area and was a far cry from the splendour of the almost mansion in which she and Henry resided. My own father was a tax inspector; a fastidious, bookish man, constantly switching off lights that had been left on, straightening rugs, curtains etc; you get the picture. He was a good man, I have no doubt, but he struggled to cope with the dual burden of a daughter and a wayward wife. I don’t believe he had the slightest idea of how to raise a girl, being the youngest of five boys himself. Which, unfortunately, left me entirely in the hands of my mother. She, God bless her, still only in her thirties, had her own struggles: disappointment at how staid her marriage had become, a longing for something more... exciting... and a slow descent into madness. Somehow, Emma slotted straight in and, while unintentionally charming the pants off my father, also represented, to my poor afflicted mother, a glimpse of the life she, herself, had always longed for. For myself, Emma became the friend that I had thought I would never find. She was, though not conventionally beautiful, attractive enough to warrant the attention of boys as we wandered around town. I noticed this, of course, for it was not an asset that I possessed; my red hair and freckled skin, not to mention my poor eyesight, necessitating glasses, having the opposite effect. But, more than looks, Emma was a genuine friend. She never lied, detested patronisation, was intensely loyal and inspired in me a desire to be better. My school work improved dramatically as a result and my father was quite startled by my reports as I rose in the ranks from being an average student to the top of my class. All through our school years, though at different schools, we shared things that we had respectively learned, only serving to enhance our education. Literature, especially, was a lynchpin. We both adored reading and would pass books back and forth, spending hours discussing various plot lines, dramas, tragedies and romances. For both of us, the outside world simply didn’t exist. We needed no other companions, content, solely, in each other’s environments. Obsessive? Possibly. Possessive? Definitely not. At least, I don’t believe so; the question of having to share Emma with somebody else simply never occurred so it was not something that I had to deal with and, I assume...would like to believe... that she felt the same way about me. Even when it came to vacations, It just seemed to evolve naturally into Henry expecting me to be a part of their holiday plans. In this way, I discovered new countries, languages, customs, food. I remember, after returning from one magical trip to Italy, when I first introduced pasta to our household and my father thought it had to be eaten in its solid form; our usual meals, up until that time, emanating mainly from cans. It was a wonderful time of discovery for me and, I can honestly say, for Emma, too. Though quite different to the type of holiday that she had become accustomed to, she absolutely loved being a part of my family trips to the seaside, the British fare of fish and chips, jellied eels, cockles, candy floss and funfairs, staying at cheap boarding houses, my father’s perverse habit of placing a knotted handkerchief upon his balding head as protection from the sun, my mother’s ever more daring bathing costumes. It was a world hitherto unknown to her and she revelled in it and we became ever closer. Then, of course, talk of university threatened to interrupt our idyllic world. For the first time, it appeared that our single path would start to veer in separate directions. As this realisation began to take hold of me, I felt quite calm, reassuring myself that we would still have our vacations to look forward to and, perhaps, could visit each other occasionally during term time although my ambitions were geared towards a lesser university town somewhere in the north of England while Emma, as per Henry’s wishes, was destined for the more auspicious, hallowed halls of Oxford. To my surprise, it was Emma who seemed to be the one upset at our forced parting. Why, she pleaded, could I not apply to attend the same colleges as she? The thought had never occurred to me; nobody from St. Sebastian’s had ever aspired to Oxford. It simply did not happen; we knew our place in the hierarchy of 1950’s English life. Yet, after Emma had begged me to, at least, try, the thought grew within me and I asked myself: why shouldn’t I have the same opportunity? There really was no difference between Emma and myself. In fact, because we had shared so much of each other’s education, our trips abroad, the countless books that we had jointly read, intellectually , we were exactly on par with each other. My joy at opening my acceptance letter from Balliol was as nothing to Emma’s when I broke the news. She had been accepted at Magdalen but it meant that, for the next three years, our lives would remain entwined and we began to speak of sharing lodgings in Oxford. My father’s reaction to my acceptance surprised me greatly as he burst into tears. He had never before shown such emotion. As for mother, she celebrated by purchasing a bottle of “plonk”, the cheapest kind, imbibing the entire contents herself and, then, running half-naked down our road proclaiming to all and sundry that her daughter had been accepted for Oxford. Unfortunately, at the time, father was at work and I was at Emma’s and there was nobody to stop her. A policeman discovered her, comatose, on a park bench in broad daylight, surrounded by gawping onlookers and, thankfully, covered her exposed parts, before another passerby recognised her and she was returned home, oblivious to her actions. Sadly, this compulsion at public exposure was to become more and more prevalent. Oxford brought about a great deal of changes to my life. For the first time ever, I found myself sharing a flat with, not just Emma, but two other girls. The reality of “digs” had come as a harsh surprise to both of us as we discovered that two girls, alone, could not afford the exorbitant cost of a flat in a university town. We were forced to take in two lodgers and both girls seemed to be good choices, one from London and one from Surrey. They were not party girls and, like ourselves, were intent on making the most of their university education and achieving good careers once they had graduated. At that time, it was not quite the norm that it is today and men ruled the roost in business. As well, of course, I, especially, had to adapt to this new way of living. At first, I was intimidated, I freely admit, by the intellects of those other students around me and it took me some time to really find my feet and come to terms with the fact that, actually, I was just as intelligent, if not more so but, gradually, I found my tempo and began to embrace my new existence. But another far greater change was happening; one that I found totally unexpected. It was the age old tale of the ugly duckling evolving into a swan as I found my body changing alarmingly. I had, of course, experienced menstruation pre-university but no noticeable differences in my bodily structure had accompanied my periods. Yet, now, it was as if I was possessed by a living organism; something inside of me was altering. Each morning, as I stared into the bathroom mirror, I noticed another change. My facial structure began to adjust; my cheekbones becoming sharper, my lips more pronounced. Suddenly, I found the face staring back at me to be, dare I say it, attractive. My flat chest began to sprout; at first, slowly but, gradually, developing into full blown breasts. For the first time in my life, I had to purchase bras. It is hard to explain fully what this meant for me, the perennial wallflower; a person who had never thought herself to be attractive in any way. Now, it was I who attracted admiring glances from fellow students and I liked it. This feeling was enhanced when, on a trip back home, I persuaded my father to pay for the cost of contact lenses. Back then, they were what was known as the “hard” kind. Not only were they made of hard plexiglass but they were, also, hard, as in difficult, to become accustomed to and, many times, I almost abandoned my efforts but I persevered and, upon my return to Oxford, the effect was startling. Emma, of course, had noticed all of these alterations, not just in my looks and my bodily shape but, also, in my newfound confidence as a result of my late development. She embraced it, encouraged me, loaned me a bra until I could purchase a new one. She it was who gave me advice on new clothing, designed to enhance my looks. But another change had begun to take hold of me. As if all of this was not enough, I also began to develop feelings...feelings of desire. To my consternation, I found myself having secret thoughts; thoughts of nakedness, sensuality, a longing to kiss and embrace. Despite all of the admirers who now surrounded me, only one person was the object of my fantasies, the person I had loved platonically for all these years: Emma! It is difficult to express my torment; the agonies I endured each night as I lay in my bed thinking of her, so close yet so far way in an adjoining room. So many times I thought of rising and tiptoeing into her room, laying beside her but I could never find the courage. My studies suffered as a result of this all consuming lust. I felt exhausted, depleted, such was my passion. Throughout it all, her devotion to me never wavered. She was the same lovely girl who had rescued me that day, taken me under her wing, welcomed me into her family home, learnt to love me, share with me, encourage me. She it was who had pleaded with me to apply for Oxford. Could it be... possible... that she might harbour similar thoughts for myself? Oh, not the bookish, skinny thing that I was but this new, feminine form that I had become. Was there even a chance that our special relationship could develop into something more passionate? How many times I asked myself this question, searching, ever searching, for clues; in her eyes, the way she spoke, the hugs she gave me. How many different interpretations I came up with. She did, she didn’t. She did, she didn’t. On the last evening of our first full term, several students from Balliol were gathering to celebrate at Marlborough and we were each assigned specific foods or drinks that we had to bring with us. I invited Emma and she, of course, accepted. I had been tasked with supplying a bottle of champagne and, to compensate for my Magdalen intruder, I brought two bottles along. Having never before visited Marlborough, both Emma and I were entranced by the beauty of our surroundings on this warm, early, summer evening. In particular, we were both fascinated and mesmerised by the incredible design and shape of the maze that took up a huge part of the grounds. Having consumed one bottle between us, we wandered through the maze, the tall, dark hedges towering above us, determined to find our way to the centre. Round and round we went, in and out of verdant channels leading to dead ends and forcing us, giggling hysterically, to retrace our steps and start again. At some stage, I popped the cork on the second bottle and we took sips, froth running over and down our dresses. As I looked at Emma in the moonlight, the bubbles of champagne dribbling from her mouth as, intoxicated, she chortled with joy, I felt an overwhelming urge to take her in my arms and kiss her wet lips. Impulsively, I moved closer and locked eyes with her. It was now or never. For one bittersweet moment, I closed my eyes and experienced such ecstasy, such a sense of achievement as our lips locked. Emma; my Emma. As I opened my eyes, I was appalled to see the look of revulsion on her face, the sheer incredulity, a look of... betrayal. As she pushed me away and staggered back, still staring at me as if I was some monstrous thing, I tried to reach out, stammered my remorse, attempted to explain my feelings but she turned and ran from me. The greatest friendship I had ever known, over , disappearing from sight, never to be revived. Half drunk, I tried to gather my thoughts, my head spinning. She mustn’t speak of this; my perversion. I lunged disjointedly after her, realising that, inadvertently, she had taken a path to a dead end, one we had only just returned from. I came upon her crouched on the grass, her back against a hedge, sobbing mightily. “Emma...” “Stay away from me”, she screamed. “How could you? After all these years. I trusted you...” I don’t exactly know what came over me at that point. A sense of enormous loss, of course. But, more than anything, the realisation that the one thing I wanted, the only thing, would never be mine and nothing could fill that void. If I couldn’t have her, I would make damned sure that nobody else would. I raised that heavy bottle and brought it crashing down upon her unprotected head...again...and again...and again.