Chapter 5 First real danger

 Chapter 5 First real danger

Meanwhile, what of the art?

  Everyone at the annexe had to stretch a canvas, three by four feet, 

using those corrugated steel bits you bash in with a hammer to secure a

butt joint. This is a very poor way to make anything and there was no
 
instruction or help provided. I felt a failure as my corrugated bits shot

 across the room or bent pathetically. Somehow the canvas was

 attached and primed.

 A tutor gave each of us at random a tiny snippet from a newspaper. This

 was to inspire a work of art. Mine said ’ summit could be disastrous’. I

wrote it out, it was longer than that, all about ice pitons. I then took

 orange and blue and yellow and green and worked with very diluted oil

paint around the writing so you could still see the shapes but not really

 read it. No one referred me to research other artists who used script,

 and no one called it text. I stood back a lot and waited for a feeling of

rightness and necessity before each mark. The colours reflected those

 used in fashion and interior furnishings at the time. No one came to

 really discuss it. There was no group discussion. Each student coped

 with their own encounters with the staff and were left unaware of how

 they were seen to be doing.

 

 

 Up at the Unviversity chronological progress through the history of art

 continued. Everything was justified with reference to something else.

 Seminar discussions took place, essays were marked with spelling

 mistakes indicated. I wrote about art nouveau and about Duchamp. I

read huge quantities of art history books. Beginners Italian trundled on.

  I attended a demonstration against the Monday Club, a right wing

 organisation that met in a local pub. As the police came in to break up

 the demonstration I saw one bobby thump each protester he passed on

 the stairs in the stomach and I managed to get out of his way.

   Otherwise politics wasn’t a huge concern. Everyone was against the

 US war in Vietnam and against apartheid. I would vote Labour but I

 didn’t join the party. The Swiss girl demonstrated against the

 exploitation of women in a beauty contest and joined the Socialist

 Workers a bit later, but mostly we were absorbed in college life, in going

to see groups play music, in meeting new partners, and, despite warning

 notices at the University that claimed hashish would ruin your genetic

 heritage, trying marijuana. I didn’t smoke and found it hard to inhale.

 We generally, the women, had nicknames for the blokes we fancied.

 Bryony was beginning to resent her steady’s assmptions and took up

 with someone with a double barelled name who couldn’t really be

 bothered to make love, then a man who played water polo and ruined

 her best velvet dress by clutching her with a sweaty hand during

 Engineer’s ball.

  I met The Milky Bar kid, who abandoned me without explanation,

Walter Raleigh, who worshipped me without my reciprocation and The

Persian who only exchanged looks and smiles. I went to Indian evenings  

where only the white people ate the brightly coloured swimming in fat

Indian sweets and a Sikh explained to me that what made a spoon shine

was the alignment of the molecules. Someone fell onto me in the

Playhouse bar and we both fell spectacularly through a door onto the

floor.I was in love at a safe distance with a man with big hands who
 
never spoke to me.I liked the way the room span round after a few

drinks.

  A man from Thailand asked me round and offered to show me dirty

 postcards and I laughed at him and left.

  A south American said he had to stay the night because the police

 would pick him up if he walked home.

  Bryony brought a tutor home who kept his trousers on so as not to be

 unfaithful to his wife, not realising Bryony would tell everyone the next

 day.
 
 I threatened Bryony not to bring home another tutor and Bryony

 told one she wouldn’t ask him in because I didn’t like him.

  A tutor asked me if I was a cork on the ocean and when I said yes said 

what difference could a cork make to an ocean and I said an ocean with

 a cork was different from one without one.
 

 Arthur Brown performed with a candle on his head. The Kinks came.

 People were still dancing, most still drinking, before the time when

everyone sat on the floor stoned or missed even going out because they

 were giggling and sleepy.

  At college we all wore yellow and had a party with yellow food and it

was filmed but no one had a copy afterwards. Everyone’s mouths were

 very red next to the yellow. “Yellow Submarine’ came out and ‘I am
 
curious Yellow’ and ‘Girl on a motorcycle’.

  And now was the time of the visit to the North of Europe to study art

 history, which the BA students took as part of their course. We were

 only able to take £50 cash each because the Wilson government had to

 impose a limit on taking currency out. Bryony’s Dad wrote to the home

 secretary claiming that she needed extra for books and she was able to

 take £100. This came in handy as all Chris’ money was stolen from

 under his bed in the Amsterdam youth hostel.
 
So how was it that I never met up with the others on the train to

Harwich? I failed to get up and look for them, then I failed to get off at

the station because I thought it had a slightly different name, and then  

the train was going back the wrong way. I got off at the next stop and

found there was no train to take me to Harwich in time for the boat. I had

to phone my Dad and wait in the signal box.
 
My Father arrived as soon as he could and drove as fast as he dare but

we arrived to see the ferry departing, only yards from the quayside.
 
Dad took me to a workmens’ cafe, carrying my little blue case, both

becoming aware that they were a middle-aged man and a young girl

only old enough to be his daughter but neither of us said anything.
 
 I caught the next ferry in the morning and arrived with only the address

of the first destination from which our group would be leaving in one

day’s time. If I didn’t arrive there were no mobile phones, I had only a

few hours to catch up with them.
 
The ferry was almost enjoyable. I succeeded in catching the night train

to Amsterdam. I was going to be fine.
 
 A young black man asked me in good English where I was going and

kindly offered me a lift to the hostel, and I accepted because I did not

want him to think I was racist.
 
 He drove out beyond the station quite a way into the suburbs and said

he just wanted to stop at his flat to pick up his post and then he’d take

me to the hostel and to come in.

    I went in and he said to sit down and why not have a coffee first?

Something finally kicked in below the not wanting to appear to be racist.

I refused coffee and demanded he take me to the hostel at once. He

said no one knew I was coming, they weren’t expecting me now. I

had my hand on the door handle and he was saying I had no idea where

I was, it was dark, no one would help me and I must sit down. I said I

would leave at once. He looked at me considering, he turned over the

situation. He agreed to take me now, I was being so silly, he meant no

harm. I almost thought he was right and I was being silly, he had not

touched me, but I stuck to it that I had to go at once, and he dropped me

at the hostel.
   
It was right next door to the station.
   
I staggered upstairs and into a room with my little suitcase and called

out,’Bryony, I’m here, its Mary’ and a voice replied, ‘We’re all men in

here darling’ and a room full of men laughed and I went up to the next

floor and found Bryony at last and a bed, I was shocked, upset, but

alive, unmolested, slept, and surprised the others by being there for

breakfast, which was oddly ham and cheese slices.
   
I never told my parents about this.