Until a few days away, Cam x
Psychology A Level
I am watching the dust dance in the September sunlight when Adele waltzes in, almost fashionably late. She plonks down next to me and pokes her tongue in my direction. I poke my tongue out too and thus the ritual is complete. She smells of Body Shop perfume - white musk and Berkeley
Anna, the lecturer, bursts into the room making the dust swirl round like a swarm of crazed midges. We call all the lecturers by their first names and we don’t have to wear uniform and we can smoke in F Block. College rocks. I have no idea why the other girls opted to stay on at sixth-form to do their A levels – what a bunch of numpties.
Anna pulls at the rolled blackboard, which spins round noisily, stopping the chatter. It does not, unlike school, reveal some obscene phrase or phallic image, only neat lecture notes that Anna rubs away.
‘Today we are going to look a little bit more into the work of Freud,’ she says and turns to write on the board. Nobody groans, or flicks chewed up paper at her head; instead we all make a note. I write in green (green rocks) with my horrible, big, loopy handwriting the title for the lecture Freud’s Id, Ego and Super-Ego and put the date in the right hand corner. I sneak a peak at Adele’s pad to look at her neat, completely legible handwriting, and see she has done the same. I look to the front, with the honest intention of listening, but instead I stare unashamedly at Anna’s unfashionable brown corduroys and hairy moustache.
I stop chewing the end of my pen and write: Id – Unconscious mind – bit like our primitive desires and drives, e.g. forbidden thoughts.
Adele has her glasses on and looks like she is concentrating on the Freud case study, yet she surreptitiously pushes a pad of paper towards me. Adele and I always write notes during lectures; it is the norm. It says: well? I quickly scrawl back well what? Even though I completely know what she is talking about. I look straight ahead at Anna who is almost dancing about to demonstrate the magic of Freud. I am trying to block out Adele, who I can see out of the corner of my eye, poking her right index finger through a ring she has made with her first finger and thumb on her other hand. I can feel my face flush and hate myself for it. I wish I had gone to a mixed school, like Adele. I wish I could be relaxed like her, instead of going all pink and giggly.
Out of nowhere, an image of Freud pops into my head. He is wearing a brown suit and reclining back in a leather-seated rocking chair. He is smoking a pipe and wearing a monocle. I am confused and think I’ve got his face mixed up with Patrick Moore. It is completely annoying so I begin to rummage through the course text book to check, but I can’t find the image. I can’t think where it can be. I know I’ve seen Freud in a rocking chair; he is definitely in here somewhere. Adele has her stupid book shut.
‘What page is it?’ I whisper.
‘Not telling until you say,’ says Adele, a sly smile creeping across her face.
I huff in annoyance. That is so typical of her. I look to my left, Greasy Joe is sitting there (Adele and I have given most of the other students nicknames) and he has his book open. I spy the image of Freud and clock the page number. I flick, perhaps a little on the frantic side, to the right page and am instantly consoled to see that Freud does look like Patrick Moore, even if the resemblance isn’t quite a strong as I had thought. I am steadied: the anxiety slips away.
Anna is getting pretty excited now and it is quite easy to get caught up in her enthusiasm. All this Freud stuff is pretty fascinating when you think about it. I had better make some notes. I write: Super-Ego – the conscious mind that acts as our conscience, our moral compass. An image of the super-ego as a little angel sitting on my right shoulder jumps to mind. I can see her feather-like wings and halo made of tinsel. She whispers into my ear with a breathless urgency, a sweet, angelic child’s voice, but with a self-righteous insistence. She uses my full name, like my mother would do when she was angry with me.
‘You must listen to the lecturer, Kathleen,’ she whispers urgently. ‘Listen and make good notes; otherwise you’ll never remember.’
I dutifully make diligent, well thought out notes, but this does not appease the super-ego who is full of good, wholesome advice for me. ‘Keep your handwriting neat and make it smaller - like Adele; her notes are always so much better than yours. Don’t act like Adele though; she knows too much about boys.’
Once again Adele’s pad slides over, she has written: you did it didn’t you? About time you little prude, did the earth move for you?
My heart jumps and begins to beat strongly in my throat. It doesn’t go unmissed by the super-ego.
‘She knows what you did, Kathleen,’ she says. ‘I told you to stop. You went too far, Kathleen, now you’ll just have to tell her to leave you alone.’
Perhaps the angel could be right on this one. It is surely better just to shut Adele up and concentrate on Anna, besides I don’t want to think about last night. I can feel the secret warmth lying snugly under my clothes, but it is none of Adele’s business. I make an angry scrawl: Shh I write, my green ink flying in long, livid slices across the white paper, I am trying to listen. Adele snorts in frustration. I ignore her; besides it is easy to listen to Anna as she is so, well, excited.
‘So the id,’ says Anna, coming forwards and putting her hands dramatically onto the front desk, looking almost as if she could leapfrog over it, ‘is like the little insistent voice inside us all. The id is pushy and demands things that the super-ego has told us we are not to have. The id offers tantalising temptation, full of promise and loaded expectation.’
I imagine the id as a little cartoon red-horned devil sitting on my left shoulder. He has a cheeky look and carries a tiny spear that he lunges periodically towards the angel. The devil makes me chuckle as I think of him up there, dancing about like a mini tribal warrior.
‘But the id doesn’t get its way all the time,’ continues Anna, her eyes shining, ‘because there is the super-ego, making its demands and in the middle of it all is the poor ego.’
I listen for a bit then write: Ego – the self, oneself, the element or core of who we are. The ego has to negotiate the demands of the id and the control of the super-ego. It is in a constant state of flux.
I can imagine the ego, just as I did with the id and the super-ego, but this time the image is me, as a little embarrassed girl, chewing at my nails and poking a toe doubtfully into the waters of life. There I am, stuck in the middle as the wholesome angel and dancing devil battle around me.
I realise that they were there all along. It was the id and the super-ego fighting over what I should do last night. I am back there and this time I can see and hear them. I am back, once more, on Paul’s battered old futon. His parents are out, but his bedroom is still locked. We have just been kissing in the ad breaks, but I don’t even hear the television anymore, as all I know is the great heat within me. Paul’s hot breath on my neck, the knowledge that I am in danger of going further than ever before; the excitement is overwhelming. I can feel him through his jeans and there is a fizz of adrenalin that rushes throughout my body; a pulse of desire.
It is the id who pushes me on. ‘Go on, everyone else has done it,’ he says, his gold teeth flashing against his red skin. ‘It is natural, normal, you won’t be the freak virgin any more. It will feel nice.’
I relent a little and Paul jumps in reaction to my softening body by pulling at my blouse. He is so into this that it makes me more excited. Paul kisses me lower and I arch my neck in pleasure. That is when I see it - Paul’s stained and notched headboard. Immediately the super-ego seizes her opportunity to gain some control.
‘Each notch is another conquest,’ she whispers hotly. ‘You’re not special to him Kathleen, no matter what he says.’ I feel myself waver.
‘Don’t listen to her,’ storms the id. ‘She doesn’t know what it is like to live in the real world, just do it now, get it over with.’
‘Stop now, Kathleen, you’ll never get it back again. Your first time should be with someone really special, someone you love.’
‘Just do it, one bloke is as good as another. At least he is clean, he smells good and he knows what he is doing.’
‘Once it is gone you will be forever changed, you will always know you didn’t really love him.’
I push Paul away suddenly.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asks, ‘aren't you ready?’ His hair is ruffled and his chest, only just starting to broaden and sprout a few hairs is heaving with excitement and exertion.
I sit up and try to hide the sudden tears that have sprung into my eyes. I hate feeling like this – like a girly fool, confused and unsure where to go next. Paul puts his arm around my shoulders as I battle with the devil and the angel. I know I can’t hide from this any longer. My body, which for so long was like an unripe pear, can no longer be used as an excuse. Here I am, already a woman and yet I feel small. I can no longer run from Paul either. Whereas before there was nobody, here now sits the person who is willing, ready and obviously able. And yet I wonder if I can; I am unsure if I am truly ready to take this monumental step.
‘There’s no rush,’ Paul says softly into my hair, ‘we have the rest of our lives together. I can always wait.’
‘It’s a line,’ screams the angel.
‘Who cares? Paul is fit, you go on girl,’ chuckles the devil.
Adele’s pad is being pushed slowly over the desk and brushes my elbow snapping me back into the security of the warm pool of September sun. Katy reads: Spill the beans you secretive cow. I smile at Adele and write back: I’ll talk to you after all this Freud stuff – promise.
I wonder what words I will choose when I tell Adele about last night. I could keep it a secret; after all, only Paul and I know the truth. I can remember the walk into college this morning, when the warm secret feeling was stronger. I wondered if the crooked milkman gave me a sly knowing nod. The bin men that laughed and joked might’ve stopped to elbow one another playfully as I strolled by. Perhaps it was obvious.
Students are packing up now and milling out of the classroom.
‘You don’t have to tell,’ says Adele.
‘I know,’ I say with a sideways smile.
‘You tease.’
‘Let’s just say, that the id won.’
‘I knew it,’ squawks Adele. She links arms with her me and together we head off in the direction of F Block.
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