When I was an undergraduate, many, many moons ago I lived in shared halls with 11 other naive and struggling teens. It quickly became clear that food would disappear. At first infuriating, it eventually became apparent that to save your sanity you just had to accept it, perhaps even borrow a dash of milk from the fridge to even out the score. One young student- who for the purposes of this story I shall call Bridget- was unable to reconcile herself to this concept. Her upset became obsession.
Every day Bridget would measure her cheese. She would pointedly mark a fill line on her milk carton with a purple felt tip pen. She adopted an intricate labelling system, colour coding fridge, freezer and cupboard items. She started a list of what had gone missing, on what date and in what quantity.
I remember one fateful day some months into the shared housing experience when the riddle of the missing food reached its dramatic conclusion. Bridget made the mistake of buying something nice. The unwritten rule of student houses is that people will borrow the odd slice of cheap white plastic bread, a glug of questionable milk, a hunk of supermarket's own, extra mild and tasteless cheddar and this is acceptable behaviour. You may help yourself in turn. It is dangerous to buy anything branded, made of chocolate or alcohol or reeking of indulgence. You can stash these items in your room and eat them in secret but leave them in the fetid, festering communal kitchen and true thievery will occur.
I can't remember the exact date but it was winter. I know this because the long, dark nights and arctic-like conditions in the kitchen added to the claustrophobia we would all feel when Bridget's final mistake was unveiled. I'd seen her earlier that day on her way back from the 24 hour, ridiculously-priced Spar. In her plastic bag I saw the outline of a box of four choc ices. I knew then what was going to happen. I should have warned her. Later that night we were all gathered in the kitchen warming a pot noodle each cooking our respective dinners when Bridget entered the kitchen. She walked straight to the freezer to retrieve her box of four choc ices, appropriately labelled according to the elaborate system and sporting a circled 'B' in purple felt tip. She pulled out the box and shook it. We all froze. There was no sound, no reassuring thud of four choc ices. We all watched as Bridget realised what had happened. I don't know how long we stood there watching the multitude of emotions pass Bridget's face- loss, confusion, anger. Tom's pot noodle sat curdling on the side, he'd missed the window for the second mixing and failed to add the sachet of bbq sauce in the required moment. Dinner was ruined. Then it happened.
Bridget held the empty box aloft and whispered 'four choc ices'. We stared, she started to tremble and repeated it slightly louder. 'Four choc ices'. She carried on her mantra, each time a little louder than the last. You could hear the hysteria in her voice. She started to jab her finger into the stylised number four on the box. 'FOUR CHOC ICES'. We all stared. Her eyes had glazed over and she was completely white apart from two bright red spots high on her cheekbones. Still nobody moved. Bridget marched over to the bin and started to empty rubbish onto the floor, frantically searching.
'Erm Bridget?' somebody ventured. She wheeled round and spat venomously 'was it you?' We couldn't tell who she was looking at, she didn't seem to be able to see us. She started to unfasten the bagged up rubbish in the corner, spreading that on top of the stinking litter already strewn across the kitchen. She was on her hands and knees, sifting through it, breathing raggedly, mumbling incoherently. An age later, she stood up, smoothed down her skirt and left the kitchen. We saw her minutes later going through the wheely bins outside the kitchen window. It was dark, she couldn't even see what she was fingering. You could just make out potato peelings in her hair. I went outside to try and help her. She couldn't or wouldn't hear me. It was freezing. I can remember the stench. When she'd retreated to her room we cleared up the mess in perfect silence. It didn't need saying. Nobody touched her food again. We didn't mention that night to her or anyone.