“No one has sex in Water Langley.”  This was what Hilary and Caroline used to say to each other, although, really, it wasn’t their joke, but what everybody said on the school bus.  This was supposed to be 1973, the permissive society and free love, bra-burning and the mini-skirt, the Rolling Stones and Marianne Faithful, and John and Yoko spending a week in bed - but not in Water Langley.  

Once, Caroline heard one of her brothers boasting to her other brother about “having it off” with a girlfriend in the spinney, but, on listening further, she realised that the alleged incident had taken place the other side of the Lang Brook, over the border, in Suffolk.  “No one has sex in Water Langley,” said Caroline to Hilary.  “They just sit around and drink tea.”

“But, they must’ve done,” replied Hilary, a practical soul.  “I mean, how did we come into the world?”

“You tell me, Hil!” replied Caroline.  “I wasn’t born here.  You were.”

Hilary's face fell momentarily.  She thought she had made a clever and funny comment, but, as usual, Caroline had the perfect rejoinder.  Caroline was her best friend, the best best friend in the world, of course, but sometimes Hilary almost looked forward to going away to university and having friends who were normal and average.  Miss Harris, their headmistress, once referred to Caroline as a “Rolls Royce of a girl” and appointed her head girl.  Usually, the university thing terrified Hilary.  She would go, obviously.  It was expected of her, by parents and grandparents (who had not been to university), by teachers (who had) and by the whole village of Water Langley (substantially non-graduate).  But October was a long time off, wasn’t it?  Hilary couldn't imagine not being in Water Langley.

Unfortunately, October 1973 did arrive eventually.  Caroline went, with a glorious accolade, to LSE, and Hilary to Rushloe, in the Midlands, because it was a small, comfortable, university, and not too far away.  For the first few weeks, Hilary was fine, moving from wine and cheese party to wine and cheese party, meeting lots of new people (most of whom she would never see afterwards), and announcing (several times a day) that her name was Hilary Bowles, she was doing history honours and she came from Chenham in Essex.  She couldn't expect anyone to know Water Langley, obviously.  

Initially, she went around with her room-mate in halls, Christine, but, by mid-November, Hilary's friendship with Christine was becoming strained, largely because Christine, who was now a member of the university Christian Union, decided that her mission for 1973 was to convert Hilary.  Hilary pointed out, not unreasonably, that she attended church at home and, in fact, her mother was organist and choirmistress of St Catherine's, Water Langley.  “But,” said Christine, triumphantly, “not all Anglicans are Christians.”

The mission for 1973 was not the only annoying thing about Christine.  She wouldn’t stop talking, in a high-pitched, little girly voice, always about herself and God (in that order), and she hung around Hilary like a limpet, even following Hilary to the hall laundry, where, Hilary felt, she might reasonably expect to have some time to herself and her knickers.  Christine had also recently acquired a boyfriend, Graham, from the Christian Union, who had spots and greasy long hair, and wore a sweater with the slogan, “Carpenter from Nazareth requires Joiners”.  Hilary had never had a boyfriend.  Even allowing for the spots, the greasy long hair and the sweater, it all seemed rather unfair.  

Caroline also now had a boyfriend, called Piers.  In fact, all the girls from school seemed to have boyfriends and generally to be having a wonderful time at university, or so they wrote in their letters.  What was wrong with her?  Was she really so unattractive?  Well, she wasn’t flat-chested like Christine.  None of the women on her mother’s side were flat-chested, she reflected, thinking of photos of her mother as a young woman, a glowing English rose, with raven black hair and an hour-glass figure, wearing a long flowing, nip-waisted, New Look dress.  Hilary, on the other hand, was blonde and short, with a pale complexion, and customarily wore trousers, generally comfy cords.  Caroline was blonde too, of course, but Caroline’s hair, tied neatly back in velvet scrunchy, gleamed like silk, whereas Hilary’s hair, which she wore loose, always looked untidy, however often she brushed it.  

And here she was, taking her seat in the library at her hall of residence - again.  The library at Crofton Hall was quite cold that evening as the warden was now turning down the central heating thermostat, in response to Prime Minister, Mr Heath’s, plea for energy conservation.   It was something to do with the Yom Kippur War and the OPEC countries doubling the price of oil, but the girls of Crofton Hall didn’t know and didn’t care.  Hilary was talking about electricity, or the lack of it, with some of the other girls in the library when Christine appeared in the library doorway.  Immediately, Hilary stuck her face into R W Southern’s “The Making of the Middle Ages”, but, inevitably, a chair drew up beside her and a little girly voice was saying, “Hilary, I didn’t know where you’d gone!”

“Ssh!” hissed Amy, from across the library table.

“I was just saying to Hilary that I didn’t know where she’d gone,” answered Christine, smiling munificently, completely unaware of the third year medic, sitting opposite, glaring at her.  “I've been looking for you everywhere!”

Hilary tried not to hear.  She re-focussed her attention on Clovis, Louis IX, Charles the Bald and Charles the Fat.

“How long have you been here?”

Christine, who was incapable of speaking softly, would go on and on until she received an answer. “Not long,” she replied.

“How long?”

“Half an hour.”

“Ssh!” said Amy again.

“Sorry!” Christine smiled again.  

Silence for five minutes.  

“It’s cold in here.”

Hilary nodded and Amy rolled her eyes.  Hilary thought of the coal fire at home. Most other families in Water Langley had their chimneys blocked off when they had central heating installed, but Hilary's mother, who didn’t really approve of central heating, kept their fireplace, a decision which was now paying off in spades.  Then Hilary spoke herself.  She couldn’t help it.  “We’ve got a nice warm fire at home.”

The third year gathered up three heavy medical text books and stomped out the library.

“Sorry,” Hilary muttered, going red.  

Silence for another five minutes.

“Hilary, are you coming to the prayer meeting tonight?  It’s at nine.”

Hilary didn’t reply.

“We’ve been praying for peace in Northern Ireland.”

“That’ll take a long time, Christine!” retorted Amy.

“Yes,” said Christine, earnestly, “in Thessalonians, we are asked to pray constantly.  We’re praying for the students of Derry Technical College and their chaplain, Bill Macready.”

Hilary recognised the name Bill Macready, somehow, somewhere, from the television news, perhaps.  She was looking forward to the prayer meeting eagerly – not because she wished to attend herself, but because Christine would go, and, for just an hour, leave Hilary in peace.  Amy was now getting up from her place, saying she wasn’t in the mood for working.  Hilary followed Amy out the library and rang her mother from the hall payphone, to whinge about Christine.

“It’ll soon be Christmas and you’ll be home in three weeks,” replied Hilary's mother, Margaret.  

“I can't stand Christine and the CU for another three weeks, Mum!”

“Is the CU really praying for Bill Macready?” Margaret asked.  “A long time ago, before you were born, he used to be curate at Water Langley.”

“Did he?”  On principle, Hilary wouldn't summon up any interest in anyone Christine talked about.

“When he was at Water Langley, Bill was an Anglo-Catholic, wore a cassock with capes and a lacy cotta, and was always wanting to hold services with bells and smells.  I wonder if your Christine realises this!”

“It’s probably not the same bloke.”

“I think it is.  Someone at church mentioned that Bill was now a college chaplain in Ireland.”

 “Mum!” Hilary interrupted.  “Everybody’s having a brilliant time at university except me!”

“No, they’re not!”

“They are, Mum!”

“I can tell you someone who isn't.  Andy Newton.  I bumped into Connie at the Post Office this afternoon.”  Constance Newton, Hilary's mother’s friend, had two sons who had attended Water Langley Village School with Hilary.  Constance was forever boasting to Margaret and Caroline's mother about her boys’ wonderful O Level grades, A Level grades, Associated Board grades - and any other grades she could drop into the conversation.  “Poor Andy!  You know he’s just started at St Luke’s Medical School in London?”

“I thought he was going to Manchester.  Constance was talking about it all last year.”

“Well, he’s at St Luke’s now.  And he’s got this rare tropical disease and been put into isolation at St Luke’s Hospital.”

“Oh dear.”

“The poor boy isn't allowed to see anyone.  Connie is having kittens.”

“Which rare tropical disease has he got?”

“The professors of medicine at St Luke's don’t seem to know.  Connie says he’s got a sore throat and a runny nose.  It must be very boring for him in hospital.  Why don’t you drop him a line?”

When Hilary put down the phone, it was five past nine and Christine would be at her prayer meeting.  Hilary rushed upstairs to their room, made a cup of tea (without Christine commenting that she preferred coffee) and put on a cassette (without Christine telling her about her favourite groups).  She wrote to Caroline, a jolly, cheerful letter, to match Caroline's jolly, cheerful missive, which had been all about boyfriend, Piers, and parties at LSE. 

After writing to Caroline, she started another letter, to the unfortunate Andy Newton in isolation at St Luke's Hospital.  She intended, after a few pious platitudes about his health, to repeat her jolly, cheerful letter to Caroline, but she was fed up with pretending.  Four pages later, Hilary was a bit shocked at what she was writing and was contemplating tearing it up and starting again, particularly as its contents would go back to Constance, and, thereby, all round Water Langley in a matter of minutes. 

Then Christine returned and, before breakfast the following morning, Christine, doing her good deed of the day, posted both Hilary's letters in the Crofton Hall post box.