attention to my mug, watching the tea-bag globe swirl a trail of brown through the milk. Paul cut himself a slice of bread, which he covered in a thin, even film of blackcurrant jam. “So Jeanie,” he went on. “I know about your family. I know where youlike to take holidays. And I know all about your flatmate, the terrible Una. But what do you actually do for a living? How come you’re here for six months?” Watching me, he set his perfect teeth into the sandwich.
Now let’s make this clear: it was a little after seven thirty on a Sunday morning—not a time, you might think, for virtual strangers to start quizzing a girl on her life and career path. “I’m going to be a social worker,” I said. “You know, to help people. Think about the needs of others. Devote myself to—um—social well-being.”
“Oh, I see. You’ve just finished the training, then?”
“Yes. I have a master’s degree.” Well, almost.
Paul looked interested. “Really? So what kind of social work do you do? What do you specialize in?”
“Family issues,” I blurted, and then felt myself turn four shades of puce. “That is, I think so. Possibly. If I—that is, if I—”
“If you—?” he prompted.
“It’s very complex,” I said seriously. “Government funding. Limited opportunities. Decline in welfare state. Recession. It’s not easy to know what you’re best at. Course only one year long. And—I’m only twenty-four,” I finished snappishly, detecting a faintly derisive glint in his eyes. “I don’t have to have everything sorted out yet, you know!”
“No, of course not,” Paul returned thoughtfully, collecting crumbs from the plate with his last morsel of bread. “So you’re done with your course, but you don’t actually know what interests you. I see. Perhaps—” tones very polite—“you’ll find out exactly what your focus is while you’re here?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Paul looked absolute innocence. “While you’re visiting Q, I mean. Perhaps you’ll have some sort of epiphany, a magical moment, and realize what it is you want to do. Since I assume—” he paused (“Go on,” I growled at him)—“given the state of the economy, you’re not just out here treading water. I assume you’re applying for jobs.”
“I applied for one in Cumbria a few weeks ago,” I said a little desperately, and Paul arched his eyebrows. “Did you, indeed? In what town?”
I swallowed. “Small place, you wouldn’t have heard of it.”
“Try me. I know Cumbria quite well as it happens; I have an aunt from Kendal. I spent much of my childhood boating on Lake Windermere, pretending to be in an Arthur Ransome novel. Beautiful part of the country! Has there been much immigration in the area recently? What’s the demographic these days?” He sat forward.
There was that lecture on “preparing for job interviews” held beneath the flickering lightbulb of Wolsey Hall 103, of course, but I slept my way straight through it. Una and I had hosted a particularly raucous party the night before (the police were called, but then, as Una said, if they don’t thump the door down the music isn’t loud enough). I woke up at one point to hear Professor Simscod talking about “demographic surveys” for interview research, then slumped under the chair and went back to sleep with my head propped on my ring-binder.
“Cumbria is an—er—rural community,” I asserted now, hopefully. “Cumbria is in the Lake District. Cumbria is known for two things, lakes and hills.” (Think of something, think of something—)
And then (it was as if a light had gone on in my head): “You know, there are some really interesting parallels between Cumbria and Connecticut,” I continued, determinedly wrestling my serpentine adversary. “That is to say, youth centered in urban areas, older people in the countryside. I think there are fascinating opportunities for research, actually. For an—um— comparative
Now let’s make this clear: it was a little after seven thirty on a Sunday morning—not a time, you might think, for virtual strangers to start quizzing a girl on her life and career path. “I’m going to be a social worker,” I said. “You know, to help people. Think about the needs of others. Devote myself to—um—social well-being.”
“Oh, I see. You’ve just finished the training, then?”
“Yes. I have a master’s degree.” Well, almost.
Paul looked interested. “Really? So what kind of social work do you do? What do you specialize in?”
“Family issues,” I blurted, and then felt myself turn four shades of puce. “That is, I think so. Possibly. If I—that is, if I—”
“If you—?” he prompted.
“It’s very complex,” I said seriously. “Government funding. Limited opportunities. Decline in welfare state. Recession. It’s not easy to know what you’re best at. Course only one year long. And—I’m only twenty-four,” I finished snappishly, detecting a faintly derisive glint in his eyes. “I don’t have to have everything sorted out yet, you know!”
“No, of course not,” Paul returned thoughtfully, collecting crumbs from the plate with his last morsel of bread. “So you’re done with your course, but you don’t actually know what interests you. I see. Perhaps—” tones very polite—“you’ll find out exactly what your focus is while you’re here?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Paul looked absolute innocence. “While you’re visiting Q, I mean. Perhaps you’ll have some sort of epiphany, a magical moment, and realize what it is you want to do. Since I assume—” he paused (“Go on,” I growled at him)—“given the state of the economy, you’re not just out here treading water. I assume you’re applying for jobs.”
“I applied for one in Cumbria a few weeks ago,” I said a little desperately, and Paul arched his eyebrows. “Did you, indeed? In what town?”
I swallowed. “Small place, you wouldn’t have heard of it.”
“Try me. I know Cumbria quite well as it happens; I have an aunt from Kendal. I spent much of my childhood boating on Lake Windermere, pretending to be in an Arthur Ransome novel. Beautiful part of the country! Has there been much immigration in the area recently? What’s the demographic these days?” He sat forward.
There was that lecture on “preparing for job interviews” held beneath the flickering lightbulb of Wolsey Hall 103, of course, but I slept my way straight through it. Una and I had hosted a particularly raucous party the night before (the police were called, but then, as Una said, if they don’t thump the door down the music isn’t loud enough). I woke up at one point to hear Professor Simscod talking about “demographic surveys” for interview research, then slumped under the chair and went back to sleep with my head propped on my ring-binder.
“Cumbria is an—er—rural community,” I asserted now, hopefully. “Cumbria is in the Lake District. Cumbria is known for two things, lakes and hills.” (Think of something, think of something—)
And then (it was as if a light had gone on in my head): “You know, there are some really interesting parallels between Cumbria and Connecticut,” I continued, determinedly wrestling my serpentine adversary. “That is to say, youth centered in urban areas, older people in the countryside. I think there are fascinating opportunities for research, actually. For an—um— comparative
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