Pushing The Needle Too Far. Kitty O'Day Copyright © 2012 Kitty O'Day All rights reserved. PROLOGUE This is a tale I started writing at University eighteen years ago. It started as verses of 'stream of conscience' writing, but thanks to a corrupted floppy disk, was lost until I started remembering, re- working and finishing it this year. This is a story of forgiveness and redemption. How far a friendship can stretch; who is worthy of a second, third, fourth chance? My writing is influenced by prose and poetry, the fall of words on the page, the pauses that happen in our brains when we speak. The many opinions in our own heads. I am a dyslexic, I find writing and not seeing the words clearly very hard- but that doesn’t stop me loving language. So for everyone who is a bit of a grammar nut, please if you do see something that has slipped past me, let me know- send an e-mail and I'll change it. I know I need all the help I can get! ACKNOWLEDGMENTS A big thank-you to book club, who helped expand my reading knowledge; to Jo and Claire for their words of wisdom and time spent helping me and to my family. From all those years ago, thank you to my muse; for inspiration and friendship, you know who you are..... …..and you know where I am if you ever fancy a cup of tea. 1 CHAPTER ONE September 1995 Rose Sowray. My mouth is dry. I'm really nervous sat in the back of my parents car, we pull into the car park of the student accommodation. The air in the car is stale after the long journey and my Step-Father has been smoking. Even with the window open, if fills the car and I don't like it. The engine purrs to a stand still and is cut. A small ticking sound pricks at my ears as the hot engine cools. So this is it. Mum looks around at me. I'm sat here with a box of text books- all as yet unread- two suitcases are in the boot and some other stuff pushed into the bag at my feet. Not a lot for 19 years. 'You ready?' She says quietly. I think it is her that is not ready. So far I've grown up in a small northern town, crippled by its backward thinking and I feel drained by it all; not been anywhere and not going anywhere. I feel squashed. I loved school, the friends the work the social life, that was a whirl; but collage was a different world. I got ill. The ones I called friends melted away; so I worked hard to get out of that place. There is not a lot to do back home and no real jobs to speak of, the options are limited. Something a girl in my art class said comes to my mind, 'If I can't get a job, I'll get a baby.' The later was easier and required less effort. There has got to be more to life than that? Surely? So that is why I'm here- at University- trying to be better. I smile at mum but the tension is palpable, 'Yes Ma. I'm fine. The letter says I have to go to the student bar and let the housing officer know I'm here and get the room keys.' I rummage through the bag at my feet; but I know the letter is carefully placed at the very top. 'You wait here and stretch your legs. I'll go over the road to the bar.' I point at a large detached house that has been converted to a student union bar. A neon sign is turned on, lighting up the front bay window. I escape into the new air. The house looks as if it has seen better days, back in 1820 whatever it was probably quite something. Now it has a shabby coat of creamy-yellow paint and a weedy lawn- I assume the rest of the once impressive grounds are under the six blocks of flats, which are the fresher’s accommodation. My new home. I stop a moment to take in my new surroundings, just like home really. Once grand- now not so. 'And why did I turn down Oxford' 'Because you Think you're not cleaver enough and that posh folk will be better than you.' The voice inside my head is very strong willed. The outside voice less so. I am directed by a blonde lad who is checking new students in; I go to the managers office at the top of the stairs to get my door key. I walk over the wooden floor boards and my Doc Martins clunk loudly. I'm a little embarrassed to be making so much noise. They are the fashion back home, floaty skirts big boats. I wonder if they are here. I try to tiptoe upstairs. I fail. Clunk clunk clunk. Oh swallow me up. I take a breath at the top of the stairs and smile at the man at the top. He has a worn face and a fed up expression. I get the impression he does not like these 'freshers' days. He does not bother with a smile as he turns towards me, looking me up and down. Oh no, not him as well. What has he got against me? 'Name?' He says slowly; 'Rose Sowray.' I say with as much conviction as I can muster. He looks down at his clipboard list and flicks to the middle pages and I assume the 's'. 'Room 202' Tutbury.' He hands me a single key that is chunky and cylindrical, I stare at it. He signs a heavy, 'how many more times must I say this', type sigh. 'It is a security key it does both the main door and your room door, but not anybody else's door.' My face is still a bit of a blank. 'Go.' He shouts. 'Go and try it for yourself.' I am jolted slightly by his tone, smile a little and turn to rush back down the noisy wooden staircase. I stumble as I get to the bottom step. The student taking names looks up suddenly as I crash back into the bar. The girl in the cue looks me up and down and I'm sure she sniggers to her friend. I smile at her, mentally gather myself together and walk, straight for the door. Is that all you can do? Smile and say nothing? Mouse. Thanks, inner bitch, I need you like a hole in the head. This city although technically small seems overwhelming to me. We had been driving for quite a time through back streets and housing estates before we got here to the centre of it all. Redundant mills on the ends of rows and rows of terraces, textile mills, old pubs and railway warehouses; all derelict; once grand- now not so. Disappointingly not so different from home. I get back to the car and hold the key up in the air to show them like a prize. Which to me I suppose it is. After all that hard work I am here, to learn some more, branch out a bit. More importantly than that I'm out of my birthplace and also free from it. Time to start again, make friends and move on. We all trudge up the stairs to the top floor. I'm on the 'all girls' floor apparently. A skinny red haired chap popped out from the common room told me the first floor was all boys, middle mixed and top girls only. That might be fun. My mum has my bag, Step- Father has the two suitcases and I have my box of books and the key. The stair well is cool. The top door has been propped open onto the hot airless corridor. It is dark and my eyes take sometime to adjust. When they do I can see the door to a kitchen at the right end of the corridor. There is a room to my right and opposite that are the toilet and showers. In front of me is room 201 and to the left is 202. Next to that 203 and 204 is the end room directly opposite the kitchen. 205 is opposite 203 and 206 opposite my room. Eight rooms in total. I breath in, filling my lungs with the smell of 'new home.' 'Come on Rose, these cases are heavy' My Step-Dad bustles past me and into the corridor, breaking the spell. 'I think this is mine.' I point to the left at the silver coloured numbers on the door, 202. I smile, a good even number. The key opened my door as it had the front door of the block. The room is painted blue, long and thin with a window at the end. Behind the door to the right is the bed, well I say bed it is a mattress on a wooden plinth built into the wall. A thin wall juts out at the end of the bed. This is the wardrobe. It consists of two thin walls about three foot apart. There is a rail and the curtain only reaches half way across. Great what little clothes I have will be on permanent show, up for criticism. Ah well... A desk is next. A flat slab of kitchen work top braced by the wardrobe wall and the outside wall of the room.