“Don’t be long!” Emily said, and Hannah nodded and ran up the steps.
Inside it was warm and stuffy, with a strong smell of something that might have been damp cloth or an oddly musty kind of BO. She made her way over to the rows of pigeonholes and peered inside her own. Nothing, apart from a library slip reminding her about an overdue loan. Which was really odd; her mother’s letter was a pretty regular Friday occurrence. Had it gotten misfiled? It wouldn’t be the first time.
She was just peering into the pigeonholes above and below her own when she heard a reedy voice behind her.
“Looking for something?”
She turned, with a jump, to see the porter standing there—the one she had met on her visit to Dr. Myers’s office. He had come out from behind the desk and was standing next to her, just slightly too close for Hannah’s comfort. She took a step back.
“No, I mean—I was expecting a letter. My mum writes to me every week. But I don’t know if it’s here.”
“Just arrived. I was about to put it in your pigeonhole.” He held it out towards her, between two fingers, and Hannah reached for it, but to her surprise he jerked his hand back, holding the letter just above her head, with what seemed to be meant as a jovial expression.
Hannah frowned, and he held it out to her again; and again, when she reached for it, he pulled his hand back.
This time Hannah folded her arms, looking at him, refusing to reach for the letter. Her heart was quickening in a very uncomfortable way. There was nothing she could put her finger on, but this whole interaction felt so deeply off-balance, so odd and unprofessional, that she just didn’t know how to proceed. It reminded her unsettlingly of that moment on the first day, when he had dangled the keys and then held on to them for just a beat too long.
“Can I have my letter?” she said at last, and was irritated to find that her voice wobbled a little on the final word. She glanced out the window. Emily was standing there, glaring at her. As Hannah met her eyes Emily held up her watch, pointing at the dial.
I know, Hannah mouthed through the glass, trying to convey her predicament. She couldn’t go out and get Emily or Ryan to back her up, that was too pathetic. But she did wish one of them would come in after her.
“Can I please have my letter?” she repeated, and this time her voice sounded stronger, more annoyed.
“Course,” Neville said. He gave a broad smile and held out the letter for a third time, and this time, when Hannah reached for it, her heart pounding, he did not snatch it away, but let her slide it slowly from his fingers. “All you needed to say was the magic word. I like polite little girls.”
For a minute Hannah wasn’t sure what to say. Polite little girls? Was it sexism? Was he coming on to her? Or was this just some weird paternalistic bullshit, like she reminded him of his own daughter?
Neville was grinning at her, as if waiting for a reply, but instead of giving him the satisfaction of a thank-you, Hannah turned on her heel, pushing back the door of the Porters’ Lodge so hard that it banged against the wall, and stumbled out into the cool night air, her cheeks still blazing with a mixture of anger and discomfort.
Afterwards, talking it over during formal hall with Emily and Ryan, she almost couldn’t believe her own memory of the exchange.
“And that’s really what he said?” Emily was incredulous. “That he likes polite little girls?”
“I mean—I’m pretty sure?” Hannah said. “It’s creepy, right? I’m not overreacting here?”
“Too fucking right it’s creepy. It’s gross! You should report him to someone!”
“Look, he’s got to be fifty if he’s a day, maybe even sixty,” Ryan said. “That’s my granddad’s age—and that’s just what they’re like, aren’t they? Old blokes. Different generation. You’ve got to make allowances. He probably didn’t mean any harm.”
“He probably didn’t, but the fact is, it’s really fucking patronizing! Please tell me you’re going to report this, Han?”
“What, she’s going to report him for being a bit old-fashioned? What’s next, me suing the scout for calling me ducky?”
“It’s not the same and you know it!” Emily shot back.
As she and Ryan continued their argument, the conversation drifted away, Emily ranting about sexism and the patriarchy, Ryan goading her by pretending to miss her point, but Hannah found herself preoccupied, thinking over Ryan’s words. Because the thing was, he was probably right. John Neville probably didn’t mean any harm. And she couldn’t see herself reporting the incident, as Emily had suggested. What would she say? He pretended not to give me my letter and I felt uncomfortable?
Because that was the bottom line. It wasn’t anything specific he’d said or done. And although the little girls remark was weird, there was not much else she could put her finger on. But he had made her feel uncomfortable. He had made her beg for a letter that was rightfully hers, and there was something about the power play underlying the whole exchange that made her skin crawl. She found herself surreptitiously wiping her mother’s letter on her knee, even though she knew it was ridiculous.
After dinner, Ryan and Emily disappeared to meet some friends of Emily’s from another college, and Hannah finished off the remains of the wine they had ordered with a group of girls from Cloade’s, who all knew each other. When they filtered away to the college bar next door, she realized she was more or less alone in the hall, apart from a group of tutors still chatting over coffee at high table and the staff clearing away plates.
At the door she found herself uneasily glancing at the golden light filtering out from the windows of the Porters’ Lodge, and wondering when the shifts changed for the night. Would John Neville still be there? Would he see her walking across the Old Quad? There was no other exit from the hall, and no way of getting back to New Quad that didn’t involve cutting across the line of sight from the lodge. It had been deliberately positioned to give the porters a clear view of visitors making their way across the college grounds.
She knew she was being slightly ridiculous, but at the same time, there was just something about the thought of him lying in wait, maybe even coming out to ambush her, that set her skin crawling with a mix of fear and revulsion. Had he really been shelving her letter at that exact moment? Surely the post came in the morning? Or had he held on to it, waiting for her to come and look for it so that he could play his strange little game?
She was still standing in the doorway to the hall, hesitating, when she heard a voice from behind her.
“Everything okay?”
Turning, she saw Will’s friend Hugh. He was wearing a bow tie and his academic gown, and his glasses were slightly askew in a way that made him look a little comical and perhaps a little drunk too.
“Oh, Hugh!” she said gratefully. “Yes, everything’s fine. I was—I was just thinking about turning in. Are you heading back to Cloade’s?”
“Actually I’m off to the library.” He straightened his glasses, blew his hair off his brow, and gave a slightly rueful grin. “Got to pull a late on an essay I was supposed to hand in today. I’ve got an extension until tomorrow—I told old Bates that it was written but the printer wasn’t working, when the truth is I’ve not written a word. Do you want me to walk you?”
Hannah hesitated. New Quad wasn’t really on the way to the library—at least, not without taking a considerable detour. But the thought of kindly, horn-rimmed Hugh’s reassuring company was very tempting.
“Would you mind?” she said at last, and then laughed. “Sorry, that’s such a stupid thing to say. You could hardly say no when I put it like that. Honestly, I’m fine either way, I promise.”
But maybe Hugh was less drunk than he looked, or more perceptive. Whichever it was, he shook his head.