34. Cottage

I can’t believe it, I’m in cottage this term! With Fran and Nicky and Tina and … Michelle Webb, again. I am actually sharing a dorm with Michelle Webb. No, no, no! It’s so unfair. I am very happy to be in  cottage but sharing with Michelle is the worst. How will I survive? Why did they choose me to share with her? She hates me, Webb hates me. Cottage is cool though. It’s just far enough from the main school building that Webb won’t know what we are up to, except for bloody Michelle. That’s why they’ve put her in here with us, so she can spy. Miss X has her rooms downstairs but she’s half deaf anyway and I’ve never heard her say boo to a goose!

Fran is in the room next door. She has a room all to herself. I don’t know Fran very well but it turns out that I like her, a lot. She’s really cool. I mean it. She listens to the Jam and Brain Ferry, she has beautiful, bright (natural) red hair. Her dad has a parrot that talks and she has the most amazing handwriting. She’s also part Italian, Fran is short for Francesca. We spend hours on her bed, listening to music, talking about all sorts of things. I can’t quite describe what it is about her that I find so captivating. She is so different to me, maybe that’s why I like her. There’s something edgy about her. She’s more mature than I am, she knows more things, she’s melancholic and serious. She has an air of cool ennui. She’s into art and drama, she’s good at drawing and poetry. I am a little awe struck, not that I tell her that of course. I just really like being with her, I’m fascinated by her. She has written this poem about me…

Cups of coffee and hot lemon steam

Nina Ricci perfume seeps thr'

your clothes,

your dark curls

and wafts around

your cherry black eyes

where there is eternal laughter

(except when you can't use the phone).

Pastel coloured Benetton jumpers

Orange and lemon lipglosses

Happy memories of holidays in Italy

The familiar 'Flesh and Blood' tape

Hot views on politics and Anarchy

Anti views on (you know who)

The bubbling voice

that echoes laughter

that will always echo Sofì to me.

She sees me and that feels strange, unfamiliar and important. She sees me because she’s the sort of person who looks at things, I think she wants to see and understand and make sense of the world. And I like being in her orbit. Maybe I will be like her one day. Someone who sees things and people and understands them. I hope so.

I don’t know what’s going on with Nikki. I was so happy that we were going to be in cottage together, but she’s gone all quiet. She spends so much time by herself in her room and doesn’t seem to want to talk to me. I don’t know if it’s something I did? She’s not eating a lot either, she’s very thin and seems quite sad. Last term she asked me to go on a diet with her. She said that we would eat a small bowl of Allbran with milk for breakfast, two Ryvita with Marmite for lunch and the same for dinner. I said ok. I’m a bit podgy really.

Day 1, I made it through the Allbran for breakfast and the Ryvita for lunch but by dinner I gave up. This is not the life for me! But I don’t think Nikki has given up. She’s good at it. I don’t care enough about being thin, I just can’t do it, but I think she cares, a lot.

Petchy (Helen, but we are not allowed to call her that) and Sarah are in the room opposite mine and Michelle’s. They are so funny. Honestly, they are like a double act on the telly. They make me laugh so much. Petchy does these voices and accents, she pretends to be Margaret Thatcher and  prances around with her toiletry bag hooked over her forearm as if it were a handbag. I almost split my sides laughing.

We have this tiny kitchenette where we can make tea. I’ve never drunk tea before. I’m wasn’t allowed to at home when I was younger and I’ve never asked. I like making a mug of it and holding it while we lie around and chat. I don’t usually drink much of it but it feels nice to have it in my hands.

My periods have been really bad. Really, really bad. The pain is so acute tonight I can barely breathe. I can’t lie still. It doesn’t seem to make any difference what position I’m in my tummy aches so much, I’m in agony. It’s excruciating. I’ve tried walking around but that doesn’t help. I’ve tried taking paracetamol, but that hasn’t helped. I’ve tried distracting myself, listening to music, reading, rocking myself, rubbing my belly. Nothing helps. I can’t bear this pain. I think I’ll go out of my mind with the pain. How can anyone bear it? It feels like it’s so deep inside me. I think I’m moaning out loud but I realise I’m just doing it silently, in my head. I’m not sure I even know. And I’m bleeding so heavily. This can't be normal.

Michelle is fast asleep. It’s so quiet here tonight. I feel scared and alone. I want to cry. I peel off my duvet and slowly crawl out of bed. I open my drawer and take a few coins out of my purse and then make my way downstairs to the telephone in the hallway. I dial the number for Matron’s office and push the coin in when the voice says “Hello, Mrs Webb speaking” and the beeps sound.

“Mrs Webb, it’s Sophie, from cottage. I don’t know what to do, my period pains are so bad, I’m in agony. I can’t sleep at all. And I am bleeding so heavily. I don’t know what to do” I say again, beseechingly . She hasn’t said anything yet and there is silence at the other end.

“I’ve tried paracetamol” I say in a pitiful voice. More silence.

“Are you pregnant girl?” I hear her spit the words out “You’re pregnant, aren’t you?” She sounds angry and spiteful.

“I… I…” I don’t know what to say. I don’t understand. I’m bleeding. My mind is racing. Women don't have periods when they're pregnant. Why does she think I’m pregnant. Maybe she hasn’t understood.

“I’m bleeding very heavily Mrs Webb. I’ve got my period, it’s really, really bad, and the pain is unbearable, I don’t know what to do.”

“You’re pregnant aren't you?” She says again. There is only accusation and coldness in her question. “Make a hot water bottle and go back to bed”.

She puts the phone down and I stand there in the cold, dark hallway still holding the phone listening to the buzzing tone. I’m not pregnant, how could I be pregnant? I’m in too much pain and too scared and sad to make any sense of what she is saying. I’m so confused but all I want is a little bit of care and tenderness. All I want is a hug and some kind words. All I want is a painkiller that makes the cramping and this unbearable, relentless pain go away.

I make a hot water bottle, curl myself back into bed and eventually fall asleep, gently rocking.

********************************

It wasn’t until years later that I realised that Webb thought I was having a miscarriage. I was so young and naive at the time that the thought didn’t even occur to me. I was a young fifteen and I had barely done anything more than kiss a boy. And what if I had been, what if I had been pregnant and having a miscarriage…? The thought brings stinging tears to my eyes and a tightness in my throat. The idea that this is how I was treated when she thought I was having a miscarriage is so painful that I want to stop writing. It’s even worse than I thought it was at the time. Her inhumanity shocks and appals me. I wish with all my heart this was just a Malory Towers book and not a true story, my story.

My periods continued to be unbearably painful until they stopped for good when I was 42. So painful in fact that a couple of hours before I gave birth to my son I thought I wasn’t in 'proper labour' yet because the pain wasn’t as bad as my periods. Despite several hours of contractions and just two hours away from birthing him, I was waiting for the real pain to start. That’s how bad my period pains were and not once did I receive any sympathy, kindness or help from Mrs Webb.

Go to the next story: 35. Careers Advice