Caitlin’s two sheets of A4

Rebecca had asked me a question but I’m transfixed staring at the last page of my PowerPoint presentation, admiring my handiwork and the brutality of the stodgy heavy subject matter that I threw at them today and I fail to respond immediately. Today was a lesson in what academia can be. Perhaps it’s a life lesson for my students, although I’m unsure what they’ll take from it all. On a good day it can be difficult to make certain elements of Russian history a barrel of laughs. I had warned the students in the first class of the semester.

              “It can’t all be revolution and war. If you’ve come to this class expecting nothing but Bolsheviks revolution then you’re going to be disappointed.”

I always think that it’s the one point in the semester that I sound remotely cool. All university lecturers will deny it but they all want their classes to seem cool or fun or exciting or something other than an education. No one wants to give a flat dry delivery because the facts aren’t enough to keep students coming to class. They should be but they aren’t. That’s why we have to dress it up. This is university and no one ever turns up to all their classes. We actually state in the student handbook that all students are expected to attend at least seventy five percent of their classes to avoid failing a module. Students aren’t half as stupid as you’d think, particularly when it comes to this sort of thing. If I were a student and was told you have to turn up to seventy five percent of classes I would definitely see this as a green light to skip the other twenty five percent. Because today feels like the end of the world I went flat out to make Lenin’s agricultural policy even more painful than you could imagine. Which is probably why I’m surprised that any students have stayed behind at the end of class. I’m meeting Eric in ten minutes and I really hadn’t planned on anyone staying behind to delve deeper into Soviet agricultural policy. But then I am forever underestimating the misguided tenacity of Rebecca Marsh.

              “Miss. Caitlin. Miss. How long does my personal statement need to be?”

Rebecca is the only one in my class who calls me “miss,” as though she’s still in school.

              “Quality Rebecca, remember? We were talking last time. Quality is more important than quantity. Say what you want to say. Say it succinctly and don’t worry about an arbitrary word count.”

              “I got that. I really did. But I asked some other lecturers and they said that two sides of A4 is usually what they expect when you’re applying for a Masters.”

              It really does feel like the end of the world today. Murdering Rebecca Marsh seems like a valid option. I pack away my laptop and books in my backpack.

              “Do you know the ideal length for any application for anything? Actually, the ideal length for anything?” I ask, sounding like I am about to impart something that should change her life.

              “This is what I’m asking because I find that after a page I really think I’m just waffling on.”

              “There’s this philosophical idea that the best amount of words to convey anything is as few as possible and the ideal amount would be one.”

              Rebecca Marsh nods but it’s a confused nod.

              “Actually, the ideal amount is none.”

              There is a moment’s pause before Rebecca responds.

              “Are you saying you don’t think I should apply?”

              Alternatively, if you want to be that literal about it I could be saying that you should just leave your personal statement blank.

              “No, it’s just, well, it’s a philosophy. Don’t worry.”

              “I don’t do philosophy. But it does sound interesting. Do you think I should study more philosophy? Do you think that one and half pages of personal statement is enough? It’s like I did one page for undergraduate and if I did one and a half for postgraduate then I’ll feel like I’m showing some sort of progression.”

              Remarkably Rebecca is one of my better students. She has a genuine interest in my course. She has a fantastic memory. You can give her a fact and it stays in her head and she can analyse it to some extent and maybe she’ll get better at that over time. She does however struggle when it comes to thinking for herself. She wants to teach history. There is nothing stopping her. If she tries hard enough she could be me.

              “Caitlin, do you think I’ve got a realistic chance of getting a place on this course?”

              “I think you’ll be fine. A page and a half of a good personal statement is better than two pages of bad statement.”

              It all sounds glib before I even finish the sentence.

I am fully aware that as I walk to Eric’s class he will be of no help but I know he will make me feel better. I don’t need or want to explain to him why today represents the beginning of the end of the world but I had sent him a text saying, “It’s the end of the world. Want to meet for lunch?” Eric is a minor celebrity in the eyes of his literature students. He insists that his book sales are just enough to make him seem like a successful novelist in the eyes of an undergraduate class. But, as he tells it, “Because I teach them, these kids have now heard of me but have no idea who Stephen King is. Honest to God, I mentioned Stephen King and all I got was a room of blank expressions”.

              I’d told him that this was proof of nothing. I get blank expressions all the time. It’s one of two default settings students have.

              I’m waiting outside as his students start to exit his lecture. I peer around the door. He’s still talking to a small group, who all seem enthralled. He’s giving the autobiographical speech. I’ve heard it all before. If I’d written half a dozen novels I’d be sick of people asking me if my work was autobiographical. Eric gets a kick out of it. He throws Dostoevsky my way all the time, thinking I’m erudite enough to have read Dostoevsky when I really haven’t.

              “It’s like Dostoevsky says, life is always better in fiction. Even today people want their lives to be like a novel or TV or any work of fiction. But when your fiction is your life that’s different. They want to tear you down for being a fraud with no imagination because, fantastic life stories aside, all you’re doing is writing down crap that happened to you and they think anyone can do that. Even though they can’t. Not really. Tell them it’s all fiction and they really do think you’re a writer.”

              Then he usually goes into a long rant about how everything is autobiographical. The guy who wrote Space Alien Wars always claims it’s the most autobiographical thing he ever did because although he has never gone to war with a race of ten legged green frog like aliens it did act as one giant metaphor for how he felt about the socio-economic era he was writing in. Obviously Eric’s students lap this up.  

              We do pub lunch. We drink wine. Neither of us have any more classes today and the pile of marking I have on my desk is actually easier to do with two glasses of wine inside me.

              “I seriously do want to join your imposter syndrome seminar,” Eric tells me.

              I run the course every year for the PhD students. It’s something I know inside out. But I am loathed to talk about it with anyone outside of the class.

              “Why? Why don’t you ever want me sitting in on it? I’ll sit at the back of the class and quietly pretend to believe that I’m a fraud.”

              “You won’t need to pretend. You do feel like a fraud. I know. You tell me every week. It’s the only reason we talk to each other because we know we’re both frauds.”

              What follows is one of those wholly unnatural pauses. There is no reason for it, other than that I am wrapped up in an overwhelming thought, a feeling, that I’ve never felt like more of a fraud than I do at this moment. All my glibness is gone. I try to pretend that I’ve stopped talking because I’m chewing on something or trying to swallow. I hide behind my wine glass. Sipping wine is a reason to not be speaking. Let Eric do all the talking.

“It has to be better than that PhD class I had to go to where Margaret Atkins gave us a guided meditation session to make us get in touch with our creative sides”.

He goes into hypnotist voice, softly and blandly speaking.

 “Imagine a giant strawberry. It’s just a normal strawberry but watch it, describe it to yourself and watch as it begins to grow. It keeps growing until it becomes ten feet tall. Touch it. How does it feel? Take a bite. How does it taste? Is it sweet? Describe the sweetness.”

Imposter syndrome seminar, it’s primarily about acknowledging that little voice that tells you that you’re a fraud and carrying on regardless. No one is an absolute expert. All you can ever be is knowledgeable and full of good ideas. Deep down everyone is a fraud. Just carry on regardless of everything. I touch my belly. I stare at my wine glass. Oh god life’s going to change.

              “Was there something you were going to tell me? There was an end of the world you wanted to share.”

              Snap out of it.

“Rebecca Marsh is applying for the MA in Russian History. She wants to know how she can explain away her whole life in her personal statement in just two sides of A4.”

This could seem like the end of the world to some of the teaching staff around here. It’s probably not as cataclysmic as admitting that I’m pregnant, but I can’t admit that to Eric before anyone else. The father should probably know before my best friend does.

When I go to the office I have every intention of marking papers but don’t. There is no perfect time in your life to be pregnant. Twenties or thirties or forties. There’s even an argument that says teen pregnancies aren’t a terrible thing. I would say that the least perfect time is when you’re not sure how you feel about the father, particularly if you think the father is sleeping around, particularly if you don’t think you love the father.

              Mum had me when she was in her twenties. I wasn’t planned but I turned out ok. I think Mum did too. Karen who shares my office is my age but looks a dozen years older. She’d had her second child a year ago and she’s only recently turned thirty. I go jogging every day and do the best I can to keep myself looking thirty one. Oh God, I’m going to have to give up Pilates too at some point, I guess, probably, perhaps. Moshing at concerts is definitely out.

              Karen pokes her head around my desk. I almost jump out of my seat.

              “Are you ok? You look a bit pale?”

              She knows. Good grief. Somehow having two kids makes you spookily telepathic when it comes to detecting your colleague’s unwanted unborn child.

              “Actually, you know, I’m not feeling so great.”

              “Go home,” she ushers, waving me out of my seat, shooing me away.

She knows. She can’t but she does. How the hell can she know? Or, possibly, in all likelihood she just thinks I look ill and need to go home. Do I really look so bad? I look at my monitor screen as my computer closes down. My reflection really doesn’t look well. I’d tell it to go home too.

              I grab my backpack and stuff my papers inside. “I’ll get some of this done at home.”         When the world really does come to an end we’ll probably still, out of a lifetime’s habit, make sure we grab our marking on the way out.

Dear unborn child inside me, this afternoon we are off to see your Daddy. His name is Ray. Nothing good ever came from a Ray.  I look down at my belly as I stop my car at a red light. “Sorry. You can be the exception. You and perhaps Ray Davies. I’ll throw in Raymond Chandler too, but that’s it.”

              Ray works in the financial sector. I’ve never held this against him. Ray likes me and I like Ray. I have been seeing Ray for a month. We’ve had the discussion about not being exclusive. Dear unborn child in me, your very existence goes somewhat against the agreement we had about exclusivity. I park the car a short distance from Ray’s flat. This is Hampstead. Daddy lives in a very posh neighbourhood. But he lives in a very small flat. Grownups call it a bachelor pad. We don’t want to live there. And I don’t think he wants us to live there either. But I think we’ll just sit here and wait for Ray, wait for Daddy. Daddy Ray. Yeah, we can just sit here and wait, for an hour. We can wait and then tell Daddy Ray that you exist and see what happens.

              I slump in my seat. There is no perfect time to tell the father of your unborn child that you are pregnant with his child unless you absolutely love the man and he loves you, which in that case any time is perfect. I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth and it seems to have a calming effect. I am fully aware that I don’t know how to do this, or at least how to do it right. I think of all the options. I could text or email to say I have important news.

Hi Ray. I have great news. Meet me for a drink. Due to recent medical issues with me I’ll have to leave off the hard stuff. Hi Ray. Something happened the other night and we really need to discuss the consequences. Ray, we never discussed this, do you like children?

              I have to sit here for an hour until he comes back from work and maybe if he’s gone for a drink after work it will be even longer. At what point do I give up? That’s the spirit. I just got here and I want to give up already. I check my phone for messages. Rebecca has sent me an email.

              “I think I’ve got a page and half of statement that I am almost happy with. I know I’m taking liberties a little bit but could you look it over for me?”

              I’m about to reply to Rebecca when I catch a glimpse in the rear view mirror of someone walking towards Ray’s flat. My first thought is that I know this can’t be Ray because he should still be at work. How funny it is what tricks the mind can play. Right now, in my current emotional state, everyone is going to look like Ray. My next thought is, shit, that is Ray. He’s early.  I’m caught off guard. Instinct takes over. I slouch even further into my seat and I fumble for the keys and start the car. It splutters and chokes. Start. Come on. Start damn you. No. Stop. You’re being a child. I look in the mirror. He’s getting nearer. I turn the keys again. And again. Start you stupid rust bucket.  “For fuck’s sake!” I bang the wheel. The car hoots. Ray looks my way. He’s still too far away to make a positive I.D. The car makes another sputtering sound and then begins to purr with life. I put my foot down and wheel spin away, half mounting the curb and clipping a wheelie bin as I go. I speed to the end of the road and catch my breath. Does he know my car? Did he see me? Shit. Shit Shit. No time to dwell on my stupidity. I take a right turn and drive within the speed limit along several back roads until I wind my way to the large car park by the heath. I rest my head on the steering wheel and blow out a huge breath and then spit out a laugh and then a sob and then a heaving sob and then a flood of tears and then a little more laughing and I gasp for air. Breathe slowly. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. And again. In the boot of the car is a gym kit. I tell myself to put my trainers on and go into the heath. Practical thinking calms me down a little. I text Eric and ask him to meet me.

I’ve been sitting on a bench on Parliament Hill for an hour, staring at the London Skyline. It’s a warm evening but it looks like it’s about to rain. I’m none the wiser about life. Eric must have come straight from the University. He shouts as he approaches.

              “This isn’t one of our heath picnics that I’ve forgotten about? It really isn’t the right weather for it.”

              I look up at the overcast sky. I must look like hell. Anyone can tell I’ve been crying. Eric sits on the bench next to me. “I have no food on me,” he says with a smile.

              “I’ve been thinking. If you asked me at the beginning of her degree I’d have to say that Rebecca Marsh is not the best candidate for a Master’s degree.”

              Eric says nothing. He nods.

              “I would have done anything to dissuade her from applying. But recently it’s been on my mind that I really don’t have any right to tell anyone what to do with their degree. And you know why I would have tried to talk her out of it?”

              “There are probably a lot of good reasons.”

              As Eric says this I feel a small droplet of water from the sky. Neither of us acknowledge it.

              “Arguably. But above all else I thought she’s never going to be the type of academic she wants to be. She could fake it for a very long time but she’s never going to feel like she belongs. There’s a type. And I’m not it either.”

              More rain droplets, big fat ones fall. Neither of us move.

              “Whatever happened to imposter syndrome? You know that no one ever truly belongs, that we’re all just ignoring our more fraudulent nature. I always liked the idea. I liked the idea of simply passing on our little bits of knowledge.”

              The rain starts to fall harder. I smile whilst looking down, trying to carry on, pretending we don’t notice the weather. Eric plays along too and makes no effort to draw my attention to how we are starting to get wet.

              “Lately it’s been hard to see why I should, pass it on that is, or even if I want to. But what else am I going to do with all this knowledge, all these ideas, other than impart them to others and hope they’re listening? And I think of the Rebecca Marsh’s of this world and I’m aware of this idea she has, that what she studies will define her or lead to any one job. And I just don’t want to think that life, that everything, is so bloody easy to boil down to one thing. Because it isn’t, however much we want it to be. Stop me if you’ve heard this one before. What’s the ideal amount of words to convey anything?

“None. Philosophically speaking. In one idea of a perfect world we never have to explain ourselves. We’d simply know. But it’s just one theory.”

“We spend all our academic lives trying to prove how such complex ideas can be turned into easy explanations. When Einstein was asked if he could summarise his theory of relativity he said that he couldn’t, that it was too complicated.”

              The rain has really stated to pelt down. It’s still warm. Neither of us flinch. I see his floppy fringe starting to get soaked, dripping wet. His shirt is sticking to him. Drops of water drip from my hair. We continue to pretend that there is no rain.  Eric pauses before offering any response.

              “I suppose, if we could pick one easy explanation of who we are and what we do there’d be no need to set a word count for any application. We’d never need to bullshit to sell ourselves ever again. We’d not need to convince our students that there are no rights and wrongs, just interesting ideas that we know. But as it stands we’d probably get removed to some hippy commune.”

              He laughs at his own joke. The rain isn’t letting up. We both look like we’ve been swimming with our clothes on. I laugh and then blurt out, “I’m pregnant and I just didn’t want to be pregnant at this stage of my life and if I did want to be pregnant I’d really have made a better choice of who the father is. Eric, I’d be such a fake parent. If it were up to me my application for parenthood should be utterly rejected. I can’t make a single argument for it.”

              Eric pauses, probably making sure I’ve finished blurting.  He has a look on his face that says, “Oh that’s what this is about.”

“Everyone fakes parenthood. You know this, right? The bit they can’t fake is that they actually love their kids, even if they don’t love the father. Although you do know that you do really have to tell the father? You have told him?”

“I know. I tried but I freaked out and ended up running over his wheelie bin when I saw him approaching. Which is sort of what brought me here.”

              What brought me here is that whether there’s a simple answer or not I struggle to see the point of it all. I always thought that before I settled down and had a family that the point to everything would be clear. I stand up and look out at London. How lucky I am.

“I suppose only in fiction do you get such a perfect setting. This should be happening in a laundrette somewhere. It probably would in one of your novels.”

“You have your own washing machine and Nora does all my washing for me. No one would believe us.”

In the evening I’m sitting cross legged on my bed in my sweats and t-shirt. I place my hand on my belly and imagine how I’m going to balloon. Jogging is probably a no-go but I’ve googled whether or not you can still do Pilates whilst pregnant. You can. It turns out it might even be beneficial to my pregnancy according to some websites. At least I’ll have an excuse to eat whatever I like. All attempts to freeze time will have to be aborted. Nature finds a way for you to grow up. Rebecca had sent an email saying, “It’s really hard to fit your life into two pages but I think I’ve done it.” Good for her.

              Dear unborn child, I have to admit I’d never intended for you to come along at this time. I always thought that I’d have done everything I want to do by the time you came into my life. I thought I’d be exactly who I wanted to be. I thought I’d know a hell of a lot more than I do. I’m not stupid and neither will you be. I know that no one ever really feels ready for this. God, I’m so not ready. But I will be. I have questions and you’ll have questions too. I have years to rehearse the answers and there will still never be a perfect explanation for all the questions that we have. Will you blame me for never loving your Dad or if you never know your Dad will you hate me for that? Will you hate him instead? Please don’t. Will you want answers? That’s my life, giving answers, pretending to have answers, pretending to be an expert. Will you settle for the fact that that I never know everything but more often than not I’ve got an inkling? Dear child of mine, If I could write it all down on two sides of A4 then I would.