A Gift from The Bard

"Um, when are you coming back from university?" Emmy's voice brings me back to attention.

"Well, as I said, my final exam is on Wednesday and Mum's due to be driving down to collect me and all my stuff next Friday evening; why?"

"Oh, okay." She looks and sounds disappointed.

"What is it, Emmy?" I ask, touching her arm in concern.

"It's... well, it's our art exhibition next Thursday and Friday and outside visitors are allowed on Friday afternoon, but it doesn't matter," she says, a little bashfully.

"You want me to come?" I ask and she nods. "Emmy, I'd love too," I say sincerely. She's talked often about her artwork in her letters over the year, so I really would like to see it.

"You do? That so nice of you, but you won't be back, will you?"

"I'm not just being nice, I mean it. Anyway, I can ask Mum if she'll bring me back on Friday morning and if she can't, well, I'll come back anyway and then I'll go back with her on Saturday after my interview to collect my things."

"Cool, thanks Suzie," she replies happily. I notice that Beth is talking to Joe and so hasn't been listening to Emmy and me. I wonder... would she come with me to the exhibition if I invited her? I'd get to spend time with her alone, going up to London together, and maybe we could talk about more than the play. Of course, she might be working, so if she says no, it wouldn't necessarily mean she didn't want to spend time with me...

Just then our drinks arrive; a vodka and coke for Emmy (because all she can taste is the coke, she says), a white wine for Beth and a cider for me. I do like the taste but also it always makes me think of that party and the first drink after my time with a woman, with Kris.

Emmy and I don't stay for a third drink; others have already drifted away, including a rather glum-looking Danny and Beth who says she's going to walk with Donna and Joe. Besides, I have no desire to get drunk, not with studying to do tomorrow, and given that I can't really afford another drink anyway.

Emmy and I walk in companionable silence. Should I mention wanting to invite Beth to the exhibition? I don't want to upset Emmy but at the same time, I feel a sense of frustration with my life. Perhaps it was the taste of the cider and the memory of sitting in a dark conservatory drinking it after Kris left me. I'd vowed to change my life, to take control and be the person I wanted to be and, in some ways, I have done so. And yet Emmy is one of just five people who know I'm gay. It's not that I want to be all 'in your face' militant dyke, it's just... that's it, I want a reason to tell people: I want a girlfriend. Some non-solo sex would be pretty cool too.

"What are you smiling at?" Emmy asks suddenly.

"What, oh," I can feel my cheeks colouring, making Emmy grin with an all-too-knowing look on her face. "Yeah, okay, I was thinking about sex," I admit, "or at least how nice it would be to actually have a girlfriend to have sex with!"

"Yeah, I know the feeling, sort of," she commiserates.

"Really? There must be some guys around. What about whatshisname, Tom? I think he fancies you."

"You think so too, huh? The thing is, he's nice enough but doesn't make me think, you know, 'Wow, he's gorgeous.'"

"I understand," I reply, thinking of Tati and my reaction to her. A moment's silence falls again as we walk on. "Anyway, how's the work going? Are you nearly all ready for the exhibition?" I ask cheerfully to change the subject.

"Well, I'm getting there but there's still heaps to do. I'm going to have to work tomorrow, definitely, so I guess we can't meet up; sorry."

"No, don't worry about it; I've exams on Monday as well as the one on Wednesday so I need to revise."

"Not long now and it'll be the summer holiday."

"Except it looks like I'll probably be working," I say glumly as, suddenly, the thought of being a librarian is much less appealing. Still, at least I'll have some money.

I'm sat on the chair by my desk, the room filled with all my things packed into boxes and bags, my clothes in my rucksack and a suitcase. This has been my home for a year, a year that has been challenging but fun and where I have done well in some ways, especially academically and in the Drama Soc, but much less so romantically speaking.

Next year I shall be sharing a house with three others: Sean and Katya, who are both on my course, and Julie, Katya's friend who's studying French and Management. She seems nice enough, the few times I've met her. Still, that's all two and a half months away and in theory depends on my results, not that I'm likely to fail unless I spectacularly screwed up my exams without realizing it! The question is more how well I do because I really want to get a first and, even though the first year is only worth ten per cent of the final grade, I want to show what I can do. Anyway, no matter what happens, this is my last time in this room and when Mum arrives my first year at Bristol University really will be over.

Of course, Mum hadn't been hugely impressed by my asking her to collect me on Friday morning. Even telling her that it meant we wouldn't have to encounter the Friday evening rush hour wasn't terribly persuasive.

"It means taking a whole day off just to come and get you," she pointed out, "and I'll still have to get up just as early and I just get the morning rush hour instead of the evening one."

"I guess so," I conceded.

"Was there another reason you wanted to come back early on Friday," she asked and I just knew she was thinking 'boyfriend'.

"Actually, there is: Emmy has asked me to come and see her work at the end of year exhibition at her Art College on Friday afternoon," I admitted. Alas, I'd been right, and Beth will be working.

"And you don't want to disappoint your best friend." That made me think a moment; I've been very aware of how Emmy and I have never regained the easy intimacy we'd had before the night of our joint birthday party. It's partly through the hurt it caused both of us but also, for me, a feeling that I simply cannot let myself get that close to her again and that I must deny the nagging attraction I still feel towards her. Despite that, and however much I fancy Beth, Mum was right: Emmy is still my best friend.

"No, I don't but also I really want to see her work. Don't worry though, Mum; I'll come home myself on Friday and then I go back to Uni with you in the car on Saturday after the interview." She looks at me for a moment, thinking.

"No, that's silly, to spend all that money on a fare home. I'll come and get you on Friday morning, if I can get the day off, of course."

And so, here I am, sat waiting just after ten o'clock on Friday morning. I feel all jangled inside, glad to be going home yet still worried about my results and wondering about what comes next. Perhaps it's just all the things around me, signs of something ending, or perhaps it's what the summer holds, with the play and Beth and the attentions of Tati.

There's a nervous knock on my door. "Yes?" I call, quite glad of the distraction. The door opens and there is Robert from the room two doors down, his head poking timidly round the door as he pushes his glasses up his nose with one finger. He's a Maths student and has Asperger's Syndrome, which makes him a bit shy and awkward but, underneath it all, a kind and decent man. "Hi, Robert."

"Um, hello Suzie. Joseph told me you were going home today so I've come to say goodbye. Er... goodbye; have a good summer."

"And you Robert. When are you going home?"

"I have two more exams. I have Algebraic Calculus on Monday, which should be alright, and on Thursday I have Fundamentals of Statistical Analysis, Unit One but I don't think I shall like that. Um, thank you for helping to make everyone keep the kitchen clean."

"That's okay. I didn't do it just because you don't like a messy kitchen; I don't either and it's wasn't fair that it was mainly you and me cleaning it."

"That's very true; it wasn't fair. Well, goodbye then Suzie," he says, holding out his hand to shake.

"Bye Robert. Good luck with the exams and have a good summer. Maybe we'll bump into each other next year."

"Are you not... oh, you mean next academic year, of course, not in nineteen ninety-eight; silly me. Yes, maybe we will." He looks uncertain. "I'm going to the library now to revise. Bye, bye."

"Bye Robert," I say again as he turns and leaves. I go and look out of the window and there, down below in the parking spaces opposite the halls of residence, is Mum's white car. A moment later the door opens and Mum climbs out to turn and look up at the Halls and I find myself waving happily. Mum's eyes continue to scan the windows until, finally, she sees me and gives a brief wave back.

I pick up a box of books and files with the notes I've made and essays I've written over the past year. It's probably the single heaviest item in the room and I almost put it down again but decide that I can't really expect Mum to carry it and that, if anything, it'll be even harder to carry the more trips I've made. At least I'm carrying it down the stairs and not up.

Puffing and panting I plonk the box at Mum's feet and give her a hug. "Thanks so much for coming today, Mum."

"Well, so long as you're grateful I don't mind. Anyway, it got me out of the office for the day, I suppose. Let me open the back of the car. Will I need to put the back seat down do you think?"

"Um, yes, probably," I admit.

"Okay then, Suzie; I'll sort that out and you can get some more of your stuff down." I almost make a comment about Mum doing the easy bit but manage to stop myself; Mum's been good coming to get me so I shouldn't complain if she doesn't want to trudge up and down four flights of stairs to the second floor, carrying armfuls of my things. She does help, of course, but only after I've completed my fourth load.

"Phew, all done," I say after tucking my duvet into the irregular space between two boxes and the suitcase. "I need to return my key to the Student Accommodation Office; do you want to come with me and I can buy you a coffee from The Interchange after?"

"I think I'd rather get going actually, Suzie dear. We can stop for something to drink and maybe a bite to eat on the way."

"Okay, Mum, but let me pay... I haven't spent all my student grant, well, not quite."

Emily

I had an unexpectedly nervous time waiting for Suzie at the station, worried that she might decide not to come at the last minute. Perhaps she had spoken to Beth and agreed to go out with her instead; I know Suzie and I are good friends but she really fancies Beth. It was definitely a relief when I saw her as she turned the corner into the station's forecourt and even more when she seemed so happy, even excited to be there.

As we walk towards Turner Hall, where the exhibition is being held, why am I so nervous again? Perhaps I just want her to like what I've done; maybe I'm worried she'll think I'm odd, my ideas weird. More than anything, I wonder how she'll react to the final piece.

"Suzie, um... you will tell me what you really think, about my work, won't you?"

"You want me to be completely honest?" she asks and I nod. She nods back. "I understand. I guess it's like when I'm acting: I want people to like it but not just pretend to. Is it okay to say if I don't understand something?"

"Of course, though I suppose art is more about what it makes you feel and think rather than, like, a specific meaning."

"So there are no right or wrong answers?" she smiles.

"Well... I suppose if you fall around laughing at something that's supposed to be serious it means the artist has cocked up badly."

"Yes, I'm afraid that's what people will do with the love scene between Joe and me, when Beatrice and Benedick admit their love and I ask Benedick to kill Claudio."

"I'm sure they won't Suzie." It occurs to me, and not for the first time, how scary being on stage must be. I guess this is my on-stage moment. "Come on then," I slip my arm through hers and tug her gently up the steps. "My work is in its own room so it's not the first thing we'll see."

"Sounds intriguing," Suzie replies. "Have the organizers saved the best till last?"

"I wish!" I smile. "No, it's because... well, you'll see. Anyway, I'm kinda glad because seeing the other students' work first will give you an idea of the range of stuff people do."

I lead the way up the short flight of steps and through the foyer into the main hall. Screens divide the hall into bays with each student given a bay. We've had to display not only the finished final pieces but also the preparatory work and the best of our portfolio from the year. Not surprisingly, Suzie loves Amy Lockwood's work, which is very naturalistic and accessible and technically very accomplished. However, she has had a hard time with lecturers and other student decrying her work as too conservative and conventional. I feel it's unfair and not just because I admire her skill and the way she shows a sensitivity in what she paints but also that too much credit is given to the idea regardless of how well it is executed. Nevertheless, her poor treatment has encouraged me to try to be more experimental.

At the other extreme, I've never liked Carl Henkel's type of art; art that seems aimed just to shock. He can certainly talk the talk -- if by that you mean the kind of bullshit that's supposed to make the viewer feel stupid if they don't agree. In his case, it's his paintings or models of cocks, or as he always refers to them, phalluses, turned into objects such as railings, a shovel, railway sleepers or a rolling pin. His works feature disdainful-looking women and they represent, according to him, 'the emasculation and subjugation of men by militant feminism'.

"I really don't like this bloke's work," Suzie complains with a look of distaste.

"Too many penises?" I ask quietly, teasing her. Though I smile, her expression remains serious.

"No, it's that his so-called message is bollocks. Women aren't subjugating men but still struggling to get anything like equality. It's getting better in the West but in so much of the rest of the world women are regularly abused and degraded and relegated to being second class citizens." Her voice is as full of passion now as when she acts. "Emmy, isn't art supposed to hold a mirror up to life to show something real and true? This... drivel fails miserably! If he'd painted dicks as clubs or police batons keeping women down, or as rockets or bombs or guns, or women carrying giant cocks on their backs, then maybe he'd be saying something honest!" She stops, her rising voice cutting off abruptly, and looks around at the two or three people nearby who are staring at us. Suzie gives them an apologetic smile. "Sorry, I don't mean..."

A woman steps forward and, with a little lurch of horror inside, I see it is Leah DeVere-Jones, one of my tutors. "Please do not apologise, young lady; I think you have just given a very valuable and accurate critique of Mr Henkel's work and I only wish he were here to have heard it." She looks at me. "I wonder what your friend will think of your work, Emily," she smiles and then, with a nod, moves away. Now I'm really nervous about Suzie seeing my work.

"Sorry, Emmy," she apologises quietly, "I hope I won't get you into trouble for my outburst."

"No, it's fine," I reassure her. "Everything's been graded by now anyway. Come on, I want to show you my work." I take her hand and lead her quickly through the doorway at the side of the hall and to the second room on the left. It's a relief that there's no one else there.

"It's dark!" she exclaims.

"Yes, you'll understand why in a minute; anyway, there are spotlights for the different pieces." I hesitate, wanting to prepare her a little more. "I suppose I ought to say that my works are a sort of what are called 'installations' in that the piece and the location work together. Come on." I lead her into the dim room and press the first light button, which reveals my sketches and preparatory work covering three small screens. "These are the sort of buttons you find in the hallways of blocks of flats," I explain. "They turn off automatically after a minute or two." Suzie nods and studies my drawings.

"Sketches of people?" she asks and then adds, "They're so good, Emmy."

"I needed to get a feel for how to show body language and expression," I explain as, after a couple of minutes, the spotlight switches off automatically and we move on to the next small bay with my first sculpture that is just an indistinct, pale shape in the gloom. There are two more of the light-switch buttons lit with a dim light, one marked 'Press me first' and the other 'Press me when it's dark again'.

"Interesting," Suzie murmurs as she presses the first button. The light flicks on to show the plain white, slightly stylised form of a hunched old man using a stick. Suzie examines it, looking at it from different angles. "It's an old person, a man I think. It's... quite good but why no details? The face is like a mask," she asks turning to me.

"Wait a moment," I tell her and as if on cue, the light goes out. "Okay, now press the other button." She reaches out and presses it.

"It's broken..." she says as the gloom remains unchanged but then gives a little gasp as she sees the eerily glowing face of a child on the previously blank face of the statue. "How..?"

"It's fluorescent paint under ultraviolet light," I explain. "I really wanted just one button that turned on each light in turn but no one knew how to do that so I had to have two buttons. Um, what do you think?"

"It's certainly disconcerting and a bit spooky," she admits, studying the glowing features. "It's a child's face on an old man... he looks worried or sad..." She notices the glowing word on the plinth on which the statue stands. "So the piece is called 'Trapped'... yes, I understand: it represents that feeling of still being a child inside an adult body, yes?"

"Yes, exactly," I say with relief. "I actually got the idea from a TV programme on dementia; it was so sad seeing this one man staring at his reflection like he couldn't work out why he looked old and wrinkled."

"I think we all sometimes feel like a child inside an older body," she replies as the face vanishes. "Emmy it's so clever. Are there others?"

"Yes, come on," I say and lead her to the next bay where she immediately presses the light button. She studies the family group I made, with a child sat between a man and a woman. I watch Suzie's face as the spotlight goes out and she reaches for the second button. I wish there was a little more light, to see her expression more clearly. Under the UV the man appears to be looking away to the left while the woman gazes at him. Between them, the child stares down sadly. I wait for Suzie to speak.

"'Ignored'," she reads from the base. "So... a broken family: a distant father, the mother desperate for his love and attention and the child ignored. It's horrible... very clever, but horrible."

"Really?"

"Oh yes. It's the way the figures look so innocent until you see the faces. It's like how a family can look so happy from the outside and yet actually be rotten within." Suzie gives me a slightly concerned look and I suspect she wonders if the piece is about my own family.

"In case you're wondering, the little girl isn't me," I assure her and this is mostly true, at least now, and easier than trying to explain how Dad had a brief affair years ago and when I felt very like the little girl I've sculpted. Mum had said I couldn't tell anyone, not even Suzie who was, even back then, my best friend and so I hadn't; she still doesn't know how much she helped me during that time. I should tell her sometime, but not right now.