“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?