Maya - Chapter four

September 1999

The student union canteen is an underground drum and bass club. The beat of people passing through is constant. Electricity flies as bodies spark off each other. They bump and grind their way from lecture to lecture like sweaty lovers dancing to synthesised bass heavy elation. Slipping through doors their hands touch, smiles widen, shoulders are slapped and cries of “yeah later….darling…absolutely…gotta run” create a melange of familiarity.

My feet shuffle independently of my brain’s instruction as I sip my tar coloured coffee, trying to blend in. My new trainers look naively white, sticking onto the end of too thin legs like the heads of giant lollipops. My crisply ironed denim jacket is stiff and uncomfortable, rather like me. A strand of uncontrollable brown curl falls continuously onto my face as I swat it aside like an irritating fly.

I have not spoken a word to another soul for two hours.

I reach for the timetable that sits neatly packed into my bright red folder. I should have bought a paler one, to blend in. This one flares, screaming my inexperience like a police siren around the canteen. Scanning the rows of endless black number and letter combinations, it dawns on me like a sick weight that I haven’t got a clue where I am supposed to be. I’ve been lost in this maze of corridors, people and rooms since I arrived here, amazed that somehow everyone else seems to know what the hell they are doing.

My watch flicks to 2.15 and I know I have to make this course introduction meeting in fifteen minutes. Locating C17 on my map I look around into the mass of people and take a deep breath. I grab my bag and files and make a bolt for the door, head down, attempting to be determined.

‘Hey! Jesus, fucking watch it!’ a big brown jumper shouts into my face. I raise my eyes only a millimetre to be met with a ferocious stare, quite over the top for a mere nudge. “Look at what the fuck you’ve done!” he continues to yell at on over the top volume. I notice he is aggressively gesticulating to a brown, wet patch on his white jumper.

“Sorry,” I mumble, wishing he would take his red face and brown patch quickly elsewhere. I can feel my face reddening as he draws onlookers to the scene. “I didn’t see you,” I continue. “I’m sure it’ll come out,” I add feebly, hoping this will end the debacle.

“Let me guess,” he stutters, taking a step toward me, “first year?” He is still angry. I’m starting to think he must have some obscene level of attachment to that jumper. “Don’t know where you’re going, yeah? But still can’t be arsed to lift up your bloody eyes and take a sodding look around you? £60 this cost me. Dry, fucking clean only!”

I’m desperate for him, me or the rest of the world to just disappear and can’t think of the quickest way for that to happen, save just walking off on this nutter. But, then he might follow me, shouting yet more obscenities about my lack of direction and even more of the university would know what an utter geek I am.

I’m struggling to think of anything to say and am considering getting out my cash card and offering just to pay for his god-damn dry cleaning when I hear a voice. “Owens, just get a fucking grip will ya? It’s a pissing jumper, fucks sake. Leave the girl alone.” Striding up behind me is a tall bloke, around the same age as angry stained man who is half smiling, yet grimacing at this situation we appear to be in. I’m relieved that someone seems vaguely on my side and throw him a sideways smile.

“Can’t your loaf recall two years ago Owen? Have all those knocks on the field really fucked up your brain cells?” he smirks, slapping stained man on the shoulder. Stained man seems slightly abashed and returns the smirk.

“Well, at least I’m not clinging onto my one and only,” he retorts to tall bloke who’s now standing next to my left shoulder. He smells of an aftershave I can’t place.

The two men’s smirks turn into smiles and they begin to laugh. I stand in the middle like a stuffed turkey, bemused by my situation. Slowly, stained man turns to look at me and in a voice unrecognisable to his previous aggressive tirade says, “just watch where you’re going then, eh?” I nod. He strolls off, stripping off his jumper and tying it around his neck.

“Aah, he’s such a jerk,” tall man says through a forced grin as he stares after his departing back. “A first rate knob.” He turns to look at me. “Going over the top a bit weren’t he? Only a bit of coffee. That twat gets drenched in beer at the SU bar every Saturday night; don’t know what the difference is myself.”

His genuine smile at me is the first pleasant look I’ve received all day. I realise that the smattering of words I’ve just spoken during this odd exchange are the first since this morning. The thought that they only occurred after a cup of coffee and an irate rugby player collided forces a smile to break on my face too.

“He was right. It’s my first day, and I am a first year,” I say, winding my stray curl around my finger. “Erm, sorry," I mumble. Why did I just apologise? What an idiot.

“Well, if I recall, I think even us second and third years were actually in your position once upon a time too,” he smirks wryly. “Although, we don’t, of course, like to talk about it.”

I shuffle awkwardly from foot to foot, unsure whether this is an invitation to continue the conversation or whether it's appropriate that I leave and end the possibility of further embarrasment. Thankfully, I'm saved the deliberation by an outstretched hand. “Ollie,” he says, smiling broadly.

“Sasha,” I reply, folding my palms into his hard, warm skin. It's lightly clammy. “Well, thanks, you know, for stepping in just then," I mutter quickly, swallowing my words. "It really was just an accident. I'm not normaly tha clumsy. I was in a rush and I didn’t……" I halt mid sentence. "Oh shit!” I swerve my head toward my watch. 2.28pm. That bloody course introduction meeting starts in two minutes and I haven’t a clue where the hell I’m going. “C17?” I splutter, grabbing my crumpled map and shoving it under his nose.

“Oh,” he laughs, “you’re late. No worries, C17 is on my way. Come on I’ll show you.” He turns and bounds down the steps as I scurry after him like an eager terrier, struggling to hold my slipping red folder and hike up the bag which slides incessently down my shoulder. He turns, checks I am following and slows down so we fall into step beside each other.

A bright sunlight falls down on my face and the greenness of the trees around the union startles me. The whole campus is lush and rich, one of the reasons I was attracted here rather than to one of the London colleges. Breathing in the fresh, campus air I feel grateful for the cleanliness in my lungs.

We turn a corner onto a cobbled street and stop outside a tall, white Georgian building. He points to the door. ‘C17 – Communications Department’. It was a mere two minutes away after all.

“Thanks again,” I say, grabbing my folder to my chest as it threatens to slip to the floor.

“No problem. Enjoy your time here. Comms is a cool department. You’ll have a laugh.” He turns to walk away, waving a hand behind him as he goes. I watch his retreating figure saunter down the street, all 6ft of it with dark, spiky hair. The fashion sense could be altered I muse, as he retreats further into the distance. As I turn the golden knob to the building and step into the air-conditioned room I have one firm notion in my head: that won’t be the last I see of that man.