CHAPTER SEVEN: THE FRESHERS PARTY

Now at University, Griselda decides to seek out entertainment

“So you are Griselda Entwhistle?” asked the pompous-looking young man holding a clipboard and standing in the entrance hall at the front of Scrumblenose University, what seemed a hundred miles from the rear entrance where Griselda had hammered on the splintery oaken door earlier that day. He was one of those men who find it absolutely essential to lean as far backwards as is humanly possible whilst he is speaking and it crossed Griselda's mind that the least of breezes would have blown him completely off his feet. It also crossed her mind that he can't have had much in his trouser department or the way he was standing would have emphasised it, and you can't really emphasise what isn't there. The idea amused her and it was all she could do to stop bursting into a witch-like cackle.

“That's what my parents called me way back when,” she replied, sniffing. “Griselda Entwhistle the Third. I don't know what happened to the first or second. I guess they died. Quite a lot of people died back then, you know. Especially babies: the world was full of nasty diseases, and they did beat even young children for breathing out of tune, which could be fatal, I suppose. It was the done thing. It was a bad time to be a baby, was back then.”

“Oh, how dreadful!” he almost shrieked, a look of sudden horror supplanting the glazed expression of boredom that had adorned his face, and Griselda decided he was probably gay. Not that she minded. She had met quite a lot of gay people in her time and they seemed very much the same mix of characters as did what she looked on as more regular folk. But this man appeared to be emphasising a kind of pseudo femininity in a way that was a little bit too obvious, what with his strange posture which suggested he might have no male genitalia at all, together with that frightening shriek.

“I've got over it,” she assured him. “You have to, you know.”

“Jolly good, I guess we all have to move on, though I dared say we should never bury past horrors completely,” he murmured, a little too quietly for one so almost flamboyant, and he cast his eyes over her legs that were displayed at their best by the tiny skirt she was wearing. “You look really, really nice,” he ventured. “And really, really nice legs too,” he added, almost brazenly.

So maybe you're not all that gay, she thought, and said “I look after them, you know. I rub salves and creams and liniments into them every single day and keep them in tip-top condition. If a girl does nothing else she's just got to look after her legs because she needs them to walk on, and we mustn't forget that boys like gawping at them.”

“And they're really nice,” he repeated, and she noticed that his eyes had started bulging. She didn't trust men whose eyes bulged when their trousers didn't.

“Thank you, kind sir,” she replied coquettishly. “I should imagine that your legs are a bit of all right too, but I can't see them on account of the trousers. That's the trouble with the males of the species: they keep their legs to themselves!”

“I ought to wear a skirt like yours and then you'd see them,” he ventured, and she grinned at his frivolity as wickedly as her young persona would allow. “After all, yours is a kilt, isn't it? And aren't kilts worn by men?”

“Not this sort!” she scoffed, and when she noted the near-pained expression her riposte had caused, “It's comfortable,” she assured him. “And a girl likes comfort, you know.”

“So do boys, sometimes,” he huffed. “Anyway, to business!” he muttered, clearly aware that he was getting so out of his depth he might be in danger of drowning any moment. “The thing is, you're a fresher so you can go through that door,” (he pointed) “into the great Hall where there's a party going on for all you raw recruits " and,” (he leaned towards her, which made a change) “maybe I'll see you and your skirt later!”

Not if I see you first, she thought, but grinned back at him. “Maybe you will,” she purred. “I'll bet there are a few things you can tell me, you know, things I ought to know about University life, and perhaps there are a few things I could teach you in return!”

He had the grace to blush when she said that, and look away. She grinned to herself. She was beginning to enjoy herself.

The Great Hall was a remnant of an earlier and grander time with a great deal of wood in its construction and in panels on its walls. It had a sombre and serious feel to it in much the same way as a condemned cell has a serious feel to it when seen from the perspective of the prisoner fidgeting through his final moments on Earth. Griselda looked around her. There was something oppressive about the place even though it occupied a huge space. The vaulted ceiling was great oaken beams and the spaces in between were cigarette-smoke yellow. The windows were leaded and made from the kind of old glass that distorts the world outside and at the same time were so high she could see precious little of that world anyway. The place oozed age and years of patiently waiting for something to happen.

Tables were arranged round the perimeter, with hand-drawn signs explaining what they were. One caught her eye. A free drink for anyone signing up to join the Holy Treehuggers, it read.

What's a holy treehugger? wondered Griselda, and she took her tiny kilt towards the sign.

A spotty youth stood behind the desk. He looked about twelve, but Griselda suspected that he must be at least eighteen to be at university at all. He looked at her, went pale when he took in her minuscule skirt with eyes that suddenly decided to blink almost in time with a faulty light fitting above their heads and then had the grace to look away.

“What's a Holy Treehugger?” asked Griselda.

“It's our w-w-way of w-w-worshipping,” stammered the youth, still blinking. “We express our l-l-love of the good l-l-lord by hugging his trees. It's what gods l-l-like”

“How adorable!” enthused Griselda, privately thinking it sounded anything but. Yet she was intrigued. Maybe it was the blinking, but she looked at the youth as he twisted his fingers into unlikely knots. “Tell me more.” she asked, fluttering her own eyelashes. “I might be interested. I'm looking for something esoteric.”

“Y-y-you can join us if you l-l-like,” invited Spotty (her mental name for him). “Th-th-there are all s-s-sorts of benefits from t-t-tree hugging! And I can offer you a f-f-free d-d-drink as a welcome if you agree to s-s-sign for membership!”

“I might,” Griselda assured him, “but do you mind me making an observation?”

“N-n-no,” replied Spotty.

“Well, I notice you have a speech impediment and if you'll let me I'll invite an old aunt of mine to cure it. She's good with speech impediments. She cured the Prime Minister!”

“The P-p-prime minister doesn't st-st-stutter!” said the youth, clearly shocked at any suggestion that he might.

“I told you my aunty was good,” sighed Griselda. “She's helped all kinds of famous people over the years and they're always grateful. They wanted to give her a knighthood but she wouldn't have it. She says that if an old woman can help her fellow man or woman during her journey through life then that is reward enough. That speaks volumes, don't you think?”

“She sounds like a g-g-good egg to me,” he muttered. “Wh-wh-what do they call you?”

“I'm Griselda,” she told him. “I know it makes me sound like am old woman, but a girl can't help her name, can she? What do I call you?”

“I've g-g-got a weird name too,” he told her. “I'm Lucifer, f-f-for my sins! But tell me about you're granny. Is sh-sh-she really a g-g-good egg?”

“Oh, but you mustn't call her that! People say she's a witch because she looks like one, but she's allergic to eggs.” It didn't really make sense, but Griselda knew that nonsense often appeals to some people and suspected that Spotty " or Lucifer " might be in that category.

“I'll b-b-be careful if I meet her, then,” nodded the lad. “Do you want a f-f-free drink?”

“What have you to offer?”asked Griselda. “I mean, with my complexion I have to be careful.”

“Tea or c-c-coffee?” he suggested.

“No brandy? Strong spirits? Methyl alcohol in pints?” She looked totally innocent even though her words suggested a dark and thirsty inner-soul with a penchant for drunkenness.

He looked shocked. “Only when we worship!” he exclaimed. “If you want a f-f-free drop of that kind of stuff then you must join us at a holy service in the wood outside the m-m-main g-g-gate! Then we lift up our voices in holy worship and hug the trees, and pray that our lord comes down and lays his breath on us and gives us his blessing.”

“You mean he doesn't usually lay whatever you said on you?”

Spotty shook his head sadly. “I'm afraid we're not blessed very often,” he said quietly. “Though there are old stories of how we were blessed almost on a daily basis way back when the Holy Treehuggers were first formed, but these days, well, we must be great sinners or something!”

“How very sad,” she murmured, not saying what might be very sad. She liked being obtuse. It gave her a sense of superiority.

“You can come t-t-tonight,” he suggested. “There's a clearing in the wood outside the main d-d-door, and we meet there. There's b-b-beer and w-w-wine and p-p-prayer, and you'd be most welcome, and while y-y-you're drinking and carousing there are trees to be hugged and " and " and kissed!”

“Kissed?” she asked, incredulously. Surely not even a madman would kiss a tree? And this spotty youth, this Lucifer, didn't look like a madman. Not quite.

“Even trees need to feel loved,” he told her, his face almost obscenely serene. “They are God's creatures, and we must kiss them.”

“I thought creatures had legs and back-bones,” she retorted, scornfully.

“Like sn-sn-snails and sl-sl-slugs?” he asked, as if it was a stock question from a mind that hadn't thought it up itself.

“Maybe,” she almost conceded. “So is that all there is? Kissing trees?”

“There's beer and wine and s-s-stronger drinks, with p-p-pork pies and sandwiches,” he told her.”And m-m-music and dancing.”

Her eyes lit up. This sounded like an opportunity for fun, and she was already missing Thomas the Greek and his Crown and Anchor. She was no big drinker, but she did enjoy the odd feeling of relaxation some of his less diluted drinks encouraged in her.

“I'll come,” she said. “What do I wear? Anything special?”

He looked her up and down and concentrated with what struck Griselda as being very greedy eyes on her legs. And those same eyes that seemed to want to devour them as they emerged from the crisp pleats of her smart little tartan kilt.

“C-c-come as you are,” he squeaked. “You're practically perfect as you are. That'll be perfectly all right.

And she had the grace to blush when it crossed her mind that she knew exactly what he meant.