The Writer and the Medical Student

I deposited my suitcase and laptop bag on the bed in my room, in Earnshaw Hall at the University of York. It was my first day back to start year two of my Creative Writing master's degree.

I was looking forward to this year, last year's final exam had been approved as a pass, at a first class honours level and, not only that, it had been accepted by a literary agent, one of those strange people who, if they take you on, undertake to market your writing not to booksellers but to publishers and mine, Richard Philips, had two such companies interested in mine. A police procedural novel with a central character that it would be easy to develop and write more tales about.

But for now I needed to unpack and go out to eat.

I still had stuff to bring up from my car, but that could wait. In half an hour I had my clothing away in drawers and cupboards and my laptop set up on my desk along with the charger for my phone. The toiletries went into my shower alcove and I was ready.

There's no catering on Sunday apart from snacks and whatever the union bars may be offering, so I took the shuttle bus into York and found an all you can eat Chinese Buffet for dinner.

I decided on a relatively early night so walked down to the Blue Bell Inn, a quaint, tiny pub down Walmgate, just two very small rooms and a central servery. But excellent beer and they always have a dark beer on and I do like dark beer.

I bought a pint of Old Peculier, drank it slowly and then made my way back to the railway station to get the shuttle bus back to campus. I needed to register on Monday morning and if I didn't get there early, I'd be stuck in the queue all day. I wouldn't get my student loan money for at least a week after I registered anyway, but the sooner I got the process under way the better and I worked on the principle that it was better in my bank then theirs. Not that it was a problem, I'd worked all summer behind the bar for my dad and had plenty of money squirreled away.

So, fifteen minutes after I arrived back at Earnshaw, I had my bed made up and was sound asleep.

I was up at six and out for a run before breakfast, got back, showered, dressed and was waiting by the door of our little NISA supermarket when it opened at seven.

Two bags of groceries and half an hour later I was in the shared kitchen, there were two on each floor, breakfasting on Croissants and cheese.

There were four queues in the foyer of the Sir Jack Lyons concert hall, one for returning students, three designated for new students with surnames beginning A to I, J to R and S to Z.

At eight am when registration opened, the longest queue was for returning students, the freshers would, no doubt, still be in bed. There were twelve of us in the queue for returning students and about ten spread between the other three. One of them was the most strikingly beautiful girl I'd ever seen, in the J to R queue. She wasn't tall, about 165 centimetres, but she was slim, pretty and had bright red hair, not orange, but actually red, a sort of very bright auburn. She was second in her queue; I was fifth in mine. Thanks to re-registration being a faster process then initial registration, we arrived at the long table at the same time.

I looked across at her and smiled, she looked back at me and didn't.

"Welcome to York," I said.

She just grunted and handed over her acceptance letter and her student loan documentation.

I handed over my student card, they swiped it, I signed the rental agreement for my room and I was finished. I took the welcome pack that they gave me and headed off to Blackwell's to spend a small fortune on books.

Really, we only had two set books for this term and I already had one of those. But one of the things I'd picked up in the first year was that if you wanted to be a good writer, you had to be a good reader. I'd set myself a target of reading at least one good novel a week this term. The term was ten weeks long so I picked out ten good novels that I felt I wanted to read, rather than needed to. Since my first novel, written last year as a course exercise was a police procedural and I wanted to continue in that Genre, I also bought a couple of police sergeants' exams text books.

I saw the girl again a few times that term, usually on the arm, or hanging onto the arm of some guy wearing one of the sports team sweatshirts that they seemed to favour. I think they felt that showing that they were in one of the sports teams would be more impressive to the female population and it seemed to work, since you seldom saw anybody wearing one without a girl, usually a first-year girl hanging onto them.

Suddenly it was December, specifically, Wednesday the seventh of December and term would be ending on Friday.

I was in the Alcuin bar with half a dozen of my fellow creative writers when the red haired girl walked in, as usual on the arm of a sporting non-personality. He looked like he'd started the party early.

My friends and I were discussing the relative merits of being a plotter against being a pantser when the incident happened. I was walking across to the bar to get a refill of my pint when I heard a female say, "NO!" very emphatically followed by a body slamming into me and knocking me across a table. The body was the guy the redhead had come in with.

I went sprawling into the lap of a girl I knew vaguely; she was on the second floor of Earnshaw and managed to spill about five drinks on the way.

"Watch where you're going, spaz," he spat at me.

"That's funny," I said as I got to my feet and apologised to the girl I was sprawled on, "I should watch where I'm going, yet you barrelled into me and knocked me over. I think you owe these people a drink."

"Do I?" he asked, "and who's going to make me buy them one. You?"

"Well it would be a much better gesture if you just offered, that way you'd reinforce your apology with action."

"Steve," the redhead said, tugging at his sleeve, "let's not make a scene. I pushed you and you knocked into him. He's right, you should buy these people a drink."

"And if I do, you'll do what I asked you to."

"No," she said, "I told you I won't do that."

"Then that's tough, I'll see you around bitch," he said.

He stalked off, nodding to four others in the bar who followed him.

"Be careful," the redhead said, the first words she'd spoken to me, "he can be vicious when he gets drunk, he may try for revenge?"

"Revenge?" I said, "For him knocking me over?"

"In his tiny mind he thinks the world should get out of his way. Let me buy you a drink to apologise for the idiot I was with."

"No, thanks," I said, "not because I hold it against you, but just because I never accept drinks from people I don't know the name of."

"Diana," she said, "Diana Jepson."

"Dan Collins," I said.

She held her hand out and we shook.

"So what are you studying, Dan Collins."

"MA in Creative Writing," I said, "what about you?"

"Medicine," she said.

"You're going to be here a while then."

"Five years, then two years pre-reg, it's a long time to get qualified. What are you hoping to do with your degree?"

"Write," I said, "or failing that, I'll teach."

"Do you think you can make it as a writer?"

"My first novel has been taken up by an agent, he's showing it to publishers at the moment, a couple are bidding for it."

"So you're likely to be an author, a published one, before you even graduate?"

"It's a possibility, but I'm not counting on it."

We spent the evening discussing our individual hopes for the future. She seemed sensible, she wanted to be a doctor, but she also wanted the things most girls of her age wanted, husband, house, the cottage, the two point four children, perhaps even a dog.

I walked her back to her room in Vanbrugh just before eleven, at the door she turned and threw her arms round my neck. Our lips met and stayed together for what seemed like a long time but, in reality was less than a minute.

"When do you have to leave for home?" she asked.

"I leave on Friday, any longer and I'll be sleeping on a bench by the lake, I'm on a term-time only agreement for my room."

"Will I see you next term?"

"Well, I'll be here, so there's a strong possibility," I said.

"I guessed that, I meant will I see you," she laid emphasis on the see both by stressing the word vocally and using air quotes.

"I think it's a possibility, would you want to?"

"I think it's a possibility. Goodnight, Dan Collins."

"Goodnight Diana Jepson."

She walked inside and I set off back to Earnshaw. I didn't see Diana around the Campus before it was time to leave. I was packing my laptop bag into the boot of my six year old Renault Clio. The car was a disappointment to me. I'd arrived home on the day I passed my driving test to see a brand new Ford Focus on the drive in front of the house and immediately jumped to the conclusion that my parents had bought me a new car to celebrate. Instead, they'd bought mum a new car and I got her four year old Clio, now my six year old Clio.

But, it ran, it was reliable and it was certainly good enough for the thirty mile trip home. I was just closing the boot lid when I heard a soft cough behind me and looked round.

It was Diana.

"Hi," she said, with a smile as I turned my head, "I thought I'd come round and say goodbye before you left. It looks like I got here just in time."

"Are you not going home?"

"My dad's driving up next Saturday to pick me up. We medics get different holidays to the rest of you."

"Oh great," I said, "where is home?"

"London, Barnet, Finchley if you want to be exact."

"Well, I'm told that I like to be exact."

"Here," she said, holding out a sheet of paper.

"What's this?"

"My number and address, in case you wanted to call me or write or something," she said.

"Thank you."

She turned to leave.

"Wait," I said, grabbing her hand to halt her departure, "I'll give you mine, just in case you feel like calling me, or something."

I found the little notebook that I normally carried with me in my laptop bag and a pen, then hastily scribbled down my name, address and both the landline and my mobile numbers, handed the paper to her and, with a quick kiss on my cheek, she was off.

I went back upstairs for one last check that I had everything from my room, then after saying goodbye to a couple of others on the way out, climbed behind the wheel of the car and set off for the thirty-mile trip home.

I was home in just a little under forty-five minutes and we had a full house when I arrived. My parents, my brother Simon, my sister Christine and my grandmother.

"What's this a reception committee?" I asked as I walked into the kitchen.

"No, just the family gathering for dinner on Friday evening," mum said, "welcome home, darling, how was your first term of your second year?"

"Not as hectic as the first year was," I said, "but then, I knew my way around and had the first year under my belt."

"Have you got a girlfriend, yet?" Christine asked.

"No, I haven't," I said, "but perhaps next term I will."

"Oh, a likely prospect?"

"A possible prospect."

I'd been home almost a week when I cleared my laptop bag out and found the paper with Diana's contact details. I tried her mobile number but it went straight to voicemail. I then tried her home number, that was answered, by a female voice that obviously wasn't Diana's, it had a similar accent to hers, but sounded older.

"Oh, hello, is Diana in?" I asked, "my name's Dan I'm a friend from university."

"No," she said, "I'm afraid she isn't, she's out with her boyfriend can I give her a message?"

"No," I said, "no thank you, that's fine, I was just calling to check that she'd got home all right, she left after I did."

"Yes, she's fine, she got home last night. I'll tell her you called. David was it?"

"Dan," I corrected her.

Ah well, I thought as I cancelled the call, maybe she isn't a prospect after all.

When my sister got in from school she found me sitting in the living room doing nothing.

"Hey big bro, what's up, your face looks like you'd like to go out and smash something."

"Nothing a hug from my favourite sister wouldn't cure," I said.

"I'm your only sister," she replied, "but you can have a hug anyway."

She gave me one.

"So, what's happened that made you like you want to go out and beat half the town to a pulp."

"Oh, nothing," I said, "just me being silly, How was your day at school."

"Same old grind, A levels are a lot harder than GCSEs."

"I think, at least that's what I've gathered from lecturers at uni, that they're not just about getting you into university in terms of grades, I think they're also to get you used to working at university. You're being spoon-fed less by your teachers now and being expected to work more for yourself aren't you?"

"Yes and they don't push us to get things done."

"That's what we get at uni, we're expected to take responsibility for our own workloads."

"Well, it's a lot harder," she said.

"You just have to make sure you have all your Is dotted and your Ts crossed," I said, "it's all down to good organisation and study habits."

"I'm sure I'll get there; I just wish there was a shortcut."

"There is," I said, "the shortcut is called working hard."

"I suppose I'll just have to do that, then," she said with a sigh.

"And you can do it, you're the brightest of the three of us."

"Says the nineteen year old who is having his first novel considered by proper publishers."

"Yes, well, considered is the operative word."

"They'll take it and you'll be famous and rich," she said.

"I may end up famous but I don't think you'll ever see me rich."

"So what do you have to turn out this year?" she asked.

"A romance novel, you know, Mills and Boon stuff."

"You, romance?" she said, laughing, "you wouldn't know romance if someone hit you in the face with it."

"Hey, I can do romance," I said, "the trouble is if I do write one and sell it, I'll have to use a female pseudonym."

"You can use my name if you'll split the royalties with me."

"Thanks, but I'll make one up, Rosalind something."

"Plowman," she said, "Rosalind Plowman sounds good."

"All right, I'll use that if I ever publish a romance."

"Do I get royalties?"

"Don't push your luck," I said, "I was right, a hug from you made me feel a lot better."

"So what was making you feel worse in the first place?"

"Well it turned out that my potential girlfriend at uni appears to already have a boyfriend at home."

"Ah well, better to find out now, bro, rather than later."

"I suppose so and realistically, if she'd give me the sort of impression of being interested that she did and still has a boyfriend back home, then maybe I really don't want to get involved."

"I agree," she said, "hey, I know a girl."

"I'm sure you know a few," I said, "what's special about this one?"

"She's single."

"That's an advantage," I said, "how old is she?"

"She's in the upper sixth, so two years younger than you."

"That sounds good, maybe I should ask her out."

"I can put a word in for you if you like?"

"I think I can manage that myself, if I can get to meet her."

"I'll see what I can arrange," she said.

I half expected Diana to ring me at some point in the day and make some excuse, she didn't. I assumed that she was too embarrassed, either at leading me on or at being caught out, I wasn't sure which, but that was my assumption.

It was Christmas eve before she did ring me, it was to wish me a Merry Christmas. I wished her one back and hung up.

I had a couple of dates with Christine's friend Hannah, but it was never going to go anywhere and on January 5th I loaded my things into the car and set off back to York.

I left home on a cold but bright morning and arrived in York, thirty miles away to torrential rain. After I parked the car, I decided that, apart from my suitcase and laptop bag, the rest of my things could stay in the car while I got inside.

By the time I had things set up and my suitcase unpacked I had a dilemma. I was hungry, I had no food in and it was still raining.

The answer came to me as I sat at my desk, idly surfing the net. A couple of the food outlets on campus did deliveries to your room. Ten minutes later I had pizza on the way. Not my favourite food, but quick, cheap and hot. That plus the fact that a twelve incher would feed me both now and later was the clincher.

They promised me twenty minutes and, true to their word it arrived within that time. Thankfully they'd cut it into eight segments since my crockery and cutlery were still in the car.

I ate two, closed the box up, used a marker pen to put my name on the box and walked through to the communal kitchen to stash it in the fridge.

By the time I finished eating, the rain had slacked off to a thin drizzle. I grabbed the fold-up cagoule that had been in my suitcase, pulled it on over my head and braved the drizzle to bring the rest of my things in.

Soon I had my laptop connected to my printer, my crockery, cutlery and three pans in my cupboard in the kitchen and most importantly, my christmas present from my parents set up. A 24 inch television with a built in DVD player. I plugged the aerial fly-lead into the socket next to the one for the network connection and used the remote control to tune the set into the channels available.

By the time I had my room set up as I wanted it, it was time to eat again. I finished my pizza and took the empty box, together with some other rubbish down to the communal waste bin behind the building and decided that I needed a pint. I headed off to the Goodricke bar, since that tended to be the liveliest on a Sunday evening.

Not on this Sunday evening, it seems that the student body had collectively decided to not arrive until the term actually started the next morning, that or they were all in their rooms resting from their journeys back. But, at eight o'clock, there were only three people in the bar and I didn't know any of them.

I had a couple of pints, drinking slowly and, when the place showed no signs of becoming livelier, walked back to my room, got myself ready and went to bed. It was nice to be able to lie in bed, watching Sunday night TV.

The TV was still on when I woke up at three, switched it off, turned out the light after walking down the corridor to the toilet and went to sleep.

On Monday morning I didn't need to register, just turn up for my first lecture, which this term was financial accounting, something which I would need since I was planning on a career where I'd be responsible for my own finances.

A useful course that would qualify anyone passing it for a level three qualification in bookkeeping and accountancy.

I was happy that I didn't see anything of Diana all week, I felt that if we did meet it might not be pleasant, I had things I would want to say to her about honesty and openness.

I went home for the weekend, probably running away from a potential argument. It was, in fact four weeks into the term before I saw anything of her and that was a fleeting glance of her coming out of the library with some male I didn't recognise, their arms around each other's waist.

I wasn't angry, I wasn't even disappointed, the 'out with her boyfriend,' comment from her well, whoever had answered the phone, together with the length of time it took for her to respond after I'd called her and the four weeks of being back at uni without her even acknowledging my return made the point. I had thought that maybe there might have been something between us, but that obviously wasn't going to happen. Ah, well, plenty more fish in the sea.

I just got on with my studies for the rest of the term and, at the end of it, I went home for Easter.

I had a good four weeks off at Easter, caught up with what few friends I had, went out a few times with my sister's friends, none of which created any sort of spark and went back to uni a week early. I'd decided that if I was going to be bored, I may as well get ahead on my work.