England, my love (English)

© Maid Marion

ENGLAND, MY LOVE

I spent the winter term of 1981/82 in Manchester, England. At the time, co-educational student halls of residence did not exist, so I lived in a small room under the roof in a hall of residence for young women only. It was located on a quiet side street with only a lending library, a launderette and a liquor shop.
I registered at the lending library and picked up crime novels by Agatha Christie, science fiction literature and Asian cookbooks. I stayed up until the early morning hours, reading the books and writing down recipes from the cookbooks. Eventually, I would fall asleep, only to be awoken by the cleaning lady, who was appalled by my supposed laziness. All the other women would have already left the house at 8 o’clock to attend lectures and would only return in the early evening. Initially, I also travelled to university, but the bus service was unreliable. You often had to wait a long time for a connecting bus, so in the end, I gave up and tried to improve my English by reading. One of the girls once told me, “Marion, you make such an effort; you try so hard. I admire that about you.”

I became close to a young woman named Judy who was studying German, and we spent a lot of time together. She introduced me to English literature, including “Watership Down” and “Anna of the Five Towns”. Every evening, around six o’clock, the young women would swarm into the large kitchen, which had several gas cookers, and cook their dinner. Afterwards, we all watched TV. There were two shows my flatmates particularly loved: Crossroads (similar to Gute Zeiten, Schlechte Zeiten (Good Times, Bad Times) in Germany) and Coronation Street. The latter was to be the template for the German Lindenstrasse a few years later, but of course, I didn’t know that at the time.

British feature films often mocked the mentality of the Germans, especially in the military sphere. There were lots of shouts of “Jawoll!” and snappy soldier salutes. People asked me if I was offended by these jokes, but I just said no because I know that Germans are different today, and these clichés are no longer true.

Most of the female residents didn’t have boyfriends, or so it seemed to me because there came no men to our home. The girls were probably fully focused on their studies. However, one of them, Cheryl, did have a boyfriend who visited her regularly and beat her up every third time on the average. We didn’t see anything because it happened in her room, but we heard her screams. One day, when things got really bad, we gathered around the table in the living room, discussing what to do. Finally, we unanimously decided to call a neighbouring police station.
About an hour later, an officer in a rain cape arrived, and it was Cheryl, who opened the front door. “Don’t worry about it,” she said to the man, “we were just having a bit of fun and teasing each other.” What more could we do if she wouldn’t let us help her? Where there’s no plaintiff, there’s no judge...
A few streets away from our residence was a small sauna. For £1 (about 4 DM at the time), you could use the sauna and participate in free gymnastics exercises, which felt especially good once the muscles were made supple by the heat. One woman rubbed baby oil on herself while inside, which, of course, clogged the pores and defeated the purpose. But overall, the sauna sessions were soothing and enjoyable.
Once, in the sauna, I made a funny remark—a pun. When a woman poured water over the red-hot stones with a ladle to moisten the air, I quipped, “Water on the rocks...” and everyone laughed! (In my home town’s disco, where I often went as a young woman before I moved to Saarbrücken to study at 18, such a drink was called an “Eskimo drink.”)
Another German student lived in a nearby hall of residence. Sometimes, we met up and went to a pub called “Star Inn” with live music by local artists every Wednesday night. Those evenings were always enjoyable. Once, I visited her place to cook with her. We had agreed that she would get the food and I would get a bottle of wine. This seemed fair, as good wines were very expensive in England at the time and probably still are today. The prices started at £6 (about 24 DM!) and went up to £20 (about 80 DM!). In an attempt to be economical, I purchased a large bottle of red wine for £2. But it turned out to be a bad buy – the wine tasted like pure vinegar!
I once travelled to London by train, arriving at Victoria Station before taking a bus to the small London suburb of Ealing, where my friend Hildegard was staying with an elderly lady. She was also spending her term abroad there and attended lectures at the University College London. We got on well and had a lovely few days together. Once, as we went into the village, we passed a hairdressing salon with a sign in the window offering free haircuts by apprentices who were being tested. I hesitated at first, as I had a small bump on my left temple – some kind of inflammation. The area was very red and swollen, and it also hurt, so I felt self-conscious. But in the end, I decided to go for it. All the other women in the waiting area had long hair, which, of course, was more suitable than my short stubbly head. Since I was the last one, and as compensation for the long wait, my hair was cut by the boss of the hairdressing salon himself. He was very kind and carefully trimmed around my bump. And when he was done, I just looked in the mirror and thought, I look beautiful!
The six months flew by in a flash, and it was time to say goodbye. A last time, I went out for Indian food with some of the girls (as we had done several times during my stay), we went to the pub with the live music one last time and said goodbye to the innkeeper, who had always served us kindly. Finally, the lorry driver with whom I had travelled to England half a year ago was at the door to take me back to Germany.
The truck driver wasn’t exactly harmless, by the way. He had already tried to hit on me during the ride, likely expecting that I would sleep with him in exchange for the free ride. However, I wasn’t interested. For one, he wasn’t my type; he was unkempt, greasy and smelled of alcohol. I managed to extricate myself from the situation by giving him a bottle of whiskey.

I wasn't safe from sexual assault at the pub on the ferry either. All I wanted was to enjoy a beer in peace, but soon a man joined me at the bar and brazenly grabbed my breast. I reacted immediately and slapped him.

It seemed that near my booth was the men’s room, and I could hear the sounds of drunken truck drivers retching and puking loudly. This worried me; I feared my driver might be too intoxicated to drive safely the next morning and might be involved in an accident.

Half asleep, I thought to myself, I hope he doesn’t fall out of the cab drunk in the morning!

And that’s the end of the story!

© Maid Marion

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