‘That’s why I’m trying to do,’ he says, his forehead scrunching. ‘But I also want to protect you, Stef-Stef. There’s no shame in not going to university. It’s a good thing to consider alternatives.’
As far as I’m concerned, there is no alternative. I gave up on my dream of being a vet because of my stupid chronic anxiety when I started secondary school, which was when I realized that a job that required so much interaction with people was not exactly made for me. In its place I put a new dream, smaller, but more achievable. I would be an animal trainer, ideally working with guide dogs or other service animals. You don’t necessarily need a degree or anything like that to be an animal trainer, but my academic heart was set on university. I researched until I had formulated my new plan: Zoology with Animal Behaviour. I’d learn all about animals in beautiful North Wales. It would be perfect.
When I first brought this up, aged fourteen, I quickly discovered that my mother didn’t agree. ‘But, Steffi,’ she said, frowning. ‘Steffi, you don’t need to go to university.’
‘I do,’ I said. As far as I was concerned, this comment made no sense. I had the online prospectus right in front of me. I was literally pointing to the course I wanted to take. ‘See? Eighty-five per cent of students are in full-time work after graduation. That’s pretty good, right?’
‘Anyone can work with animals,’ Mum said. ‘What I mean is, why put yourself through all of that if it’s not necessary? Work at the kennels, get some experience. Maybe you can work there full time one day.’
I shook my head. ‘I don’t want to work in a kennels – I want to actually train the animals.’
‘I’m sure you can get experience doing that too, love. Isn’t it fairly simple to get a job in a zoo, or something?’
‘Firstly, no,’ I said, irritated. ‘And, secondly, I want to go to uni. I want to learn all that stuff. It sounds amazing. Look, Animal Ethics and Welfare. Herpetology!’
‘What’s herpetology?’
‘I don’t know, but if I do this course I can find out.’
‘Steffi,’ Mum said again. It was both annoying and worrying how she kept using my name. ‘Do you realize how difficult university would be for you? You can barely talk to your classmates, and you’ve known a lot of them since you were very young. There are thousands of students at universities, of all ages and from all over the world. Not to mention lecturers and professors. Do you think they’d be as accommodating of your problems as Windham has been?’
Talk about a kick in the teeth. Mum and I have been having variations of this same argument ever since.
Last summer, after I took my GCSEs, the whole parental troupe and I sat down over dinner to discuss it ‘calmly and rationally’ (Keir) without any ‘sulking or slamming of doors’ (Dad). The five of us went to the nearest Ask and talked it all over for the first time.
‘I’m just worried it might be too much for you,’ Mum said. ‘Why not work for a few years and then see if you still want to go when you’re a bit older?’
‘Because I want to go now,’ I said, already annoyed. We’d been in the restaurant for fifteen minutes. ‘With everyone else.’
‘Everyone else can talk,’ Mum said.
‘Joanne,’ Dad said.
‘I’m talking right now!’ I snapped.
‘Stefanie,’ Dad said.
‘Are you sure it’s what you really want?’ Lucy asked me gently. ‘University can be a very overwhelming experience, even for people who don’t have any kind of social anxiety. I think what your mother is trying to say is that the benefits might not balance out the risks.’
‘Yes,’ Mum said. ‘That is what I was trying to say. Thank you, Lucy.’
I can never quite figure out if Mum and Lucy actually like each other.
‘It’s also a lot of money,’ Dad said. ‘I know you don’t want to think about it like that, Steffi, but it is the reality. It’s very expensive nowadays. You’ll be repaying the loans for decades. It’s not a cheap experiment.’
‘It’s not an experiment at all,’ I said. ‘It’s my life.’
‘It’s one small part of your life,’ Dad corrected. ‘Don’t go thinking it’s the be all and end all. Plenty of people don’t go. The majority, in fact.’
‘Why is it so important for you to go?’ Keir asked. This is a very Keir question. He teaches Philosophy at A level and likes to feel like he’s asking the deeper questions.
‘Because I want to,’ I said. Which was a shorter way of saying that I wanted to prove to myself that I could, that I didn’t want my anxiety to be the reason I didn’t do something so huge, even if it terrified me.
‘Do you understand why we’re concerned?’ Mum asked. She was using her put-upon voice.
‘No,’ I said flatly.
‘We care about you,’ Lucy said. ‘That’s why we’re concerned.’
We were having this conversation only a few weeks after the third anniversary of Clark’s death. I wanted to say, ‘I don’t even drive. It won’t happen to me.’ But what would have been the point of that?
Instead, I said, ‘I thought you wanted me to be independent.’
‘We do,’ Dad said. ‘When you’re ready. I’m not sure you are ready yet, love.’