Heathercanhardlybelievethe time it’s taken to purchase, pack and sort Georgia’s belongings in readiness for today. The car is filled to bursting. How can one student possibly need all these things? Heather is sure she arrived at university with a small knapsack and an ancient trunk of her granny’s.
How had this day been for her parents? Her own mum had seemed unperturbed when she dropped her off aged eighteen. She hadn’t even kissed a boy by then. A babe to the lions. Had her father even come? She couldn’t say for sure. Taxidermy, his most morbid of hobbies, was just taking hold at that stage, so he may have been working on a chance kill. Her father was at his happiest when he found a wildlife corpse on a forest walkat that time. She wonders if he is still as obsessed, and if either of them has an inkling that their only granddaughter has such a momentous day ahead. And that she, as a single mum, has a heck of a lot to navigate today, as well.
She will not cry. She will not cry.
Are there statistics on mothers’ cry rates on drop-off day?
Probably something near 450%.
Heather waves to the young man in high viz and drives, as directed, into one of the designated offloading spaces. Georgia’s new home, John Logie College, is a purpose-built collection of self-catered buildings, eight bedrooms per house and located right by the beach. A five-minute walk along the golden East Sands Beach would bring Georgia to the old St Andrews harbour and then into town. The location is stunning.
‘We’re here,’ Heather says in what she hopes is a light and breezy voice.
She glances at her daughter. Georgia’s hair is perfectly styled into a sleek brown curtain, whilst Heather’s is pulled into a messy ponytail. Their hair is similar in terms of tone and texture, but Heather’s now has a few streaks of silver. Probably more given the fortnight she’s just had.
‘Uh, huh.’
Georgia has barely spoken since they left Edinburgh two hours ago and right now seems transfixed by the procession of students carrying boxes from bulky SUVs into the square apartment blocks. Might one of these perfect strangers become Georgia’s new best friend for life? A life partner? Her future son-in-law?
Heather is getting ahead of herself. She tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
‘Right. Come on then. What does the e-mail say?’ She leans across Georgia’s knees and extracts the printout from the glovebox of the car. Georgia sighs. Loudly. Heather understands why. Georgia thinks she’s the only student with a parent so uncool as to bring an actual hard copy of the joining instructions with them. But what else was she to do? She likes the solidity of it when everything else in life feels as flimsy as tissue paper.
With check-in complete and the keys in Georgia’s hand, it’s time to locate House 62. The tiny map given to them at the desk is impossible to navigate. Georgia gives up after five seconds – thankfully she’s not studying Geography – leaving Heather to rotate the scrap of paper by 360 degrees four times before she gets her bearings. During this time, Georgia is groaning and shaking her head. The one thing that she makes clear, however, is that they must not ask for help.
Eventually, once Heather establishes which way is north, they find the appropriate building. House 62, like its neighbours, has a royal blue door, is grey and square with four windows on each of its two floors and faces directly onto the sea.
The sea wind whips the loose strand of hair from Heather’s ponytail and causes it to lick across her face. She’d forgotten how breezy it can be by the coast. She hopes the wind won’t instigate one of Georgia’s ear infections, which can last for ages once they take hold. Freshers' flu coupled with severe otitis might be enough for that nasty man’s prophecy to ring true.
85% chance of failure, he’d said.
Where did he get that statistic? And why has it stuck in her brain as it has?
Like a persistent tick, it rolled around her head every day through the three weeks it took to get Georgia packed.
85% chance of failure, 79% chance of depression.
There it is again.
‘Lovely to be so close to the sea, don’t you think?’ Heather says.
Georgia grunts.
It takes over an hour to carry the contents of Heather’s small car up the flight of stairs to Georgia’s room.
‘Right, let’s get unpacking,’ Heather says as soon as the last box is in place.
In truth, she knows they could do with a break. Both she and Georgia burn up food fast. She’s detecting a sugar slump in herself, so Georgia’s bound to be feeling a dip in energy. However, Heather knows the rules from the online parents' forum: get into the kitchen as early as you can and secure the best cupboard and fridge shelf available. Time is of the essence. Besides, there’s another matter Heather needs to take care of in the communal space that Georgia is entirely ignorant about. It’s something other proactive parents have advised her to do, given Georgia’s unique circumstances.
‘Why don’t you get started on your room, honey?’ she suggests. ‘Unpack your toiletries and bathroom stuff into that plastic caddy we bought, and I’ll work in the kitchen.’
Georgia eyes her suspiciously, but seems to tire at the idea of a confrontation – any of her new flatmates could walk in on them and make a snap assessment if they are found quarrelling from the off.
She shrugs. ‘Okay, whatever.’
With permission effectively granted, Heather rushes into the kitchen area. She opens and closes each cupboard in quick succession. They’re the first ones here. As expected. Good. The online forum parents would be proud.
SCOTT
