“If you want, you can come back and have a look at my collection another time. Would you like that?” Mrs Brown asked.
Emma nodded. Mrs Brown led her outside back to where the other children were playing.
Emma couldn’t sleep that night and during the night left her room and got into bed with her parents.
“What’s the matter?” said her father, sleepily.
“Nothing,” said Emma. “Just a bad dream.”
And Emma enjoyed her time with Mrs Brown outside kindergarten classes. She learnt to understand the beauty of butterflies and Mrs Brown taught her all their names. She used to like reciting them to help her get to sleep. Mrs Brown showed her how to use the sleep jar to capture their beauty and eventually this seemed to Emma as natural as breathing. Mrs Brown gave her a poster of butterflies which her father hung up on the wall at the bottom of her bed. Sometimes, Emma would go to sleep imagining a halo of butterflies above her head, their wings delicately fanning her and casting patterns on her face.
Mrs Brown had taught Emma not to fear death and to appreciate that it could even be beautiful.
August 1970
Leaving Mrs Brown’s was difficult for Emma. She’d discovered so much about mixing with other children and her final report was full of glowing endorsements of her character, such as: “pleasant and helpful”; “friendly to other children”; etc. Emma thought the fact that they’d shared her secret of butterfly collecting had gone a long way. Primary school was the next step.
Emma’s parents had chosen St Thomas C of E Primary School partly because it was within walking distance of home, but mainly because of the insistence of her grandmother who felt that Emma’s development was missing religious direction. Neither of her parents had any particular religious inclination and they found it easier to follow grandmother’s recommendation than to resist it and suffer the consequences. Grandma decided to accompany Emma for the interview.
The school was made of red brick and there was a large, ornate crucifix hanging on a wall in the hallway. Emma was wearing her favourite blue dress and had her hair in a ponytail. When Emma went in for her interview, there were two kind looking ladies on the other side of a desk and they both wore a funny hat which Emma thought looked a bit like a sail.
“Well, hello, young lady,” said one of the ladies, “you must be Emma.”
“I’m very pleased to meet you, miss,” said Emma.
“And you must be her mother,” said the other lady, looking at her grandmother.
“Goodness no, I’m Emma’s grandmother,” she said. “I thought it would be helpful for Emma as I’m a churchwarden. And anyway, Emma’s mother isn’t feeling too good today.”
“But there’s nothing wrong with m…” Emma tried to say, not believing that Grandma had fibbed.
“Emma, don’t speak until you’re spoken to!” interrupted her grandmother.
“Well, it is a bit unusual for a parent not to be present at the interview,” said the second lady, turning to look at her colleague, “but I think we can make an exception on this occasion. And of course, we are delighted to hear that she is a child of God.” The two ladies smiled at each other in a horribly smug, self-satisfied way.
“So, tell me, Emma, can you tell us what your favourite subjects are?” asked the first lady.
“Well, I really like biology. I especially like butterflies, I think they’re beautiful.”
“And what would you like to be when you’re grown up?” asked the second lady.
“I want to be a doctor like my daddy,” said Emma.
“I think she means a nurse,” said Grandma, butting in.
“No, I want to be a doctor and look after people like my butterflies,” said Emma, with a certainty that was unusual for a child of her age.
Emma started at St Thomas C of E just a month after that.
Emma’s first experience of the new school was endless repetitions of the Lord’s Prayer, ‘Amens’, saying grace at lunch and daily homilies which she didn’t understand.
The first hurdle in Emma’s quest for further education started in a biology class.
“Now, everyone, we’re going to talk about animals and why we like them. Who wants to start?” asked Miss Berry, the biology teacher.
“Please, miss. Please, miss,” said Emma, waving her hand in the air.
“Yes, Emma, what’s your favourite animal?”
“Butterflies, miss; I think their wings are really beautiful,” said Emma.
“Very good, Emma, and we know that butterflies were created by the good Lord because he wanted us to be surrounded by beautiful things. Isn’t that right, children?”
Responses were mainly “Yes, miss” but Emma thought otherwise and put her hand up again.
“Yes, Emma, what would you like to say?”
“Well, miss, Mrs Brown said that butterflies happened because of something called natural selection and that their beautiful wings were to improve their chance of mating.”
“Did she really…” Miss Berry started saying, but she rapidly got drowned out by other children asking such things as: “What’s mating?”; “Do butterflies have willies?”; and so on.
The class rapidly degenerated into the sort of chaos that must have existed when the first insect crawled out of the primordial soup. As the presumed ringleader, Emma was taken to the headmistress’s office to explain herself.
The headmistress looked at Emma very sternly from beneath her headpiece and said: “That simply won’t do, Emma, now please study this.”
She put a copy of the King James Bible on the desk in front of Emma.
Emma took it, said “Thank you, miss,” and then returned to the class which had moved on to discussing caterpillars and their mating behaviour.
Religion or no religion, Emma settled into St Thomas C of E and the nuns eventually got used to her. Emma’s end of year report read: “Emma is clearly not a child of God but nonetheless shows academic potential and should be encouraged to pursue interests that do not lead her into conflict with religious teachings; a nursing career should be ideal.“
Her grandmother certainly agreed with that career choice and she was also delighted to see the growing collection of bibles at home.
October 1976
“Okay, class, please sit down,” said Miss Hancock, the chemistry teacher. “Last week, we looked at the group one alkali metals which I’ve put up on the blackboard as a reminder. Today, it’s the turn of the group two earth metals. Now, who would like to come up and write them next to the group one elements?”
A few hands went up, including Emma’s, but without much enthusiasm. Emma felt someone briefly touching her back.
“Yes, Emma, would you like to come up?”
Emma walked up, feeling confident that she knew what to write on the blackboard. She heard sniggers from behind her but she didn’t take any notice. Miss Hancock handed her a piece of chalk and Emma turned to write on the blackboard. She got as far as writing ‘Mg’ next to ‘Na’ and then the giggling erupted into laughter that rippled around the classroom. Emma turned around to find the reason for the merriment and saw that that all her classmates were laughing at her. At the same time, Miss Hancock reached out and removed something that had been attached to Emma’s back with a safety pin. Emma looked down and saw that it was a crudely constructed pair of wings. One of her classmates shouted out “It’s butterfly girl!” and the class dissolved into another peal of laughter. Emma singled out the ringleader, a girl who’d been sitting immediately behind her, and glared at her. And in a brief moment when they locked eyes together Emma felt a wave of emotions that traversed from joy and happiness to outright fear and horror. Her classmate’s eyes rolled up and her entire body started convulsing. The rest of the class gradually realised what was happening and their laughter turned into screams. Miss Hancock came running to the aid of the seizing pupil and tried to hold her arms to prevent her from harming herself. Emma took the opportunity to leave the classroom, closing the door quietly behind her.
Once outside the classroom, Emma ran to the nearest toilet and shut herself in a cubicle. She felt a combination of shock and excitement and, for the first time in her life, realised the potential of the ability that she’d kept hidden away. She shuddered, feeling frightened by the implications. She noticed a loose screw in the toilet roll holder and pulled it out of the wall. She briefly gazed at the sharp point and then lifted her skirt and scratched her inner thigh as hard as she could. Although there was little blood, the pain was sufficient to restore equilibrium and she was able to think more clearly. It was clear that her ability belonged somewhere in her future but she had no idea where or how. She shuddered again and scratched.
January 1977
Emma was confused by relationships and generally felt pulled in opposite directions by people she came into contact with. Her mother’s fear of intimacy and refuge in religion made life at home like walking on eggshells. Emma saw a lot of that in her own interactions. Religion and the conflicting messages about sex didn’t help either: “go forth and procreate but keep sex hidden from prying eyes” seemed to be what she was hearing all the time. Her schoolgirl crushes had remained just crushes only expressed in her diary, but she’d had to end that when her mother discovered it and read the contents. Luckily, she’d never made any mention of her ability in her diary, or otherwise a fearsome reprisal would have been inevitable. Not surprisingly, after what she'd learnt of her mother dropping her at the end of the bed in the belief that she was evil, she found it difficult to confide in her mother in case that set her off again. She’d had some fleeting, intimate contact with a boy at school who reminded her of Danny from kindergarten, but she didn’t trust him or herself sufficiently to allow this to develop any further. She found that lying about friends and relationships came easily to her and no-one seemed to doubt the veracity of what she told them. Her parents had recently acquired a dog from a patient who’d moved abroad, and Emma discovered she enjoyed spending time in the company of an animal whose trust was implicit and unconditional. And gazing into its deep, dark eyes proved to be an unexpectedly useful way of testing her ability.
December 1980
The train journey from Guildford to Oxford was fraught because of snow on the line. Emma’s anxieties about the interview and being away from the comparative safety of the village were in danger of going off the scale. Her parents had offered to drive her there, but the thought of her mother ruining everything was too much. Going to Oxford had been something she’d decided on and ultimately she hadn’t allowed her mother a say in the matter. Her mother had been dead against her doing medicine of course – “That’s for boys, you should be a nurse” – but that had just spurred her on. Of course, her father approved, but he never said that openly to her mother.
Emma actually arrived at St Helena’s with time to spare, as the interview wasn’t until 2:00 p.m. She wandered around the grounds; St Helena’s had a sort of no-nonsense feel to it with solid buildings and acres of land which made her feel more as if she was in the countryside than a city. There was also a sense of purpose in the way that people moved about, which was very different to the way in which classmates at school lounged about aimlessly.
Emma checked through the literature that she’d been sent in the post and read: “You will be welcomed by a strong, independent, and diverse College with a history of encouraging forceful and individualistic students. The college is committed to encouraging its students to excel, both academically and personally.” Although she couldn’t in all honesty imagine seeing herself as ‘forceful’, ‘individualistic’ seemed fairly apt. But Emma wasn’t sure that she’d be able to convince the college tutors.
“Now,” said the Tutor for Medicine, “Our next candidate seems promising. She’s expected to get straight ‘A’s and her father is a GP. He didn’t go to Oxford but he sounds a solid enough fellow. And we don’t see many candidates from her school. Oh, and another thing, in her personal statement she talks about relieving suffering – whatever that means – so we’ll need to ask her more about that.”
“Please come in, Miss Jones, and have a seat,” said the Admissions Tutor. “My name is Dr Edwards and I’m the Admissions Tutor. This here – he points to the Tutor for Medicine – is Dr Michaels, who’s the medical fellow, and over in the corner we have the Dean, the Rev Bryant.” They all nodded to say hello.
“May we start by asking you why you chose St Helena’s?” asked Dr Edwards.
“Well,” said Emma, “there’s part of me that’s quite conservative and respectful of the tradition of an old university like Oxford, but there’s also another side of my character which wants to break the mould and do something different; perhaps that’s the ‘individualistic’ quality which St Helena’s is well known for. I’m also a keen musician and would love to play in the new music building.”
“I think we’ve got ourselves a musical firebrand here,” joked the Dean. The others laughed. Emma stared very pointedly at him.
“Actually, I think my music is more likely to put out a fire than start one,” retorted Emma.
“Very good,” said Dr Michaels. “Now, why have you chosen medicine?”
“Well, my father’s a GP,” said Emma, “although I think I’m more interested in complex cases that need careful thought – not really run-of-the-mill general practice. And there’s something that appeals about helping people to understand their illnesses and therefore cope with them better.”