Chapter 3

Girton College is one of the thirty-one colleges which form Cambridge University. Established in 1869, the first college open to women, it was not until 1948 that degrees equivalent to those of male colleges were bestowed. In 1979 Girton became the first female co-educational Cambridge college. The College is a fine example of Victorian red-brick architecture. Like all Cambridge colleges, both architecture and surroundings are attractive – a good reason, quite apart from the high academic standards, to choose the place for study. Nadiya settled in, though as she was not resident at the college, her assimilation into the college social life was limited.

The course included Polish and Ukrainian as well as Russian studies: Slavonic studies in the Faculty of Modern and Medieval Languages and Linguistics.

Meanwhile, though, CC was about to sit the Solicitor’s Qualifying Exam – SQE – prior to gaining two years experience as solicitor before joining a firm.

The Universities of Oxford and Cambridge – ‘Oxbridge’ – are, let’s say, idiosyncratic. Apologies to any alumni. It’s not possible, here, to describe three years study in either one, the ancient traditions, the ‘dining in’, the formalities, so I won’t try. Suffice it to say, Nadiya graduated, Bachelor of Arts, with distinction. Her time at Cambridge was not without tensions. An attractive young woman, with that hint of an accent, she was approached several times by male students, despite her wedding ring, and a couple of times by females. She was polite, but firm, in declining. On a number of occasions, CC met her from classes, which helped. That level of achievement is not reached without considerable application, so even though she and CC – not to mention Pippa and Rufus – spent considerable time afloat during breaks, Nadiya was apt to bury her nose in a text, or pound a laptop – she had two, one with an English keyboard, and one with Cyrillic – at odd moments that she was not needed in the management of the vessel.

CC, similarly, needed to study to pass his professional qualification, and then to work, gaining experience, at Thompson, Thompson, Fuller and Kant. He was offered a place at the firm before Nadiya’s course was completed and was happy to accept. Indeed, he was made a junior partner as Nadiya graduated.

Nadiya Collins:

I cannot convey the impossibility of the changes in my life. The death of Babushka when I was twelve, and the descent into degradation, the rapes and beatings, until when I was fourteen I took a chance and ran away, not knowing where I was or where I was going, taking a chance of starvation or death by exposure rather than continuing the hell I was in. But from there, impossible chances. Sanctuary in, first, a boat. Serendipity. The elimination of the trafficking ring, that ring, anyway. My adoption by the family of one of my rescuers.

Before I ran away, my best hope, and that a thin one, was to be bought by a less abusive person. After, living with a wealthy, respectable family, ‘sister’ to one of my rescuers. Falling in love with another, Charles, and, miraculum miraculorum, he fell in love with me. University? Yes, university and not only that, but Cambridge, one of the most prestigious British universities.

Marriage. Beyond hope, I was married; to Charles Collins, sailor and law student.

Owner, or part owner, with my sister Philippa, of the boat which saved my life, Serendipity.

Three years as a married student, pursuing a degree in ‘Slavonic Studies’ while my husband – my husband! – continued his training as a solicitor. Our lives together were not without bumps in the road. I am a blonde, blue-eyed, shapely woman. Despite my wedding ring, despite making my married state unmistakeably clear, some of my male contemporaries did not want to take ‘no’ for an answer. I had to go to some lengths to ensure I was accompanied when on campus by a friend, and escorted to and from campus, usually by Charles; that often meant working in the library a lot.

As a last resort I did have some self-defence training. Charles made it clear that all sorts of legal issues arose with the use of physical force, no matter how justified, when applied to ‘entitled’ young men from powerful families. On the other hand, he emphasised that my safety was paramount, and we’d deal with any consequences. Happily, the question did not arise. I twice defended myself physically. In both cases the young men concerned did not want to admit the circumstances in which I kneed them in the groin.

Thus I walked away from the University at the age of twenty-two, in the robes of a Bachelor of Arts in Slavonic Studies, into the life of the wife of a junior partner in the legal firm Thompson, Thompson, Fuller and Kant. Strictly, I did not need to work. Idleness did not sit well with me, though. I worked as a translator in hospital and in court, and as a consultant in businesses trading with central Europe.

I found working with the hospital to be the most rewarding, emotionally, if not financially. I enabled communication both ways, between patient and doctor, nurse or therapist.

From time to time I met with women who had been raped, in hospital for obvious reasons. I was able to communicate with them just because of my own background, and to reassure them that the assault was not the end of their lives: yes, they’d been changed, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t enjoy a fulfilling and happy life in the future. The hospital often called me in specially for such people, not only those needing a translator.

Charles and I tried to get away on Serendipity regularly at weekends, sometimes alone, often with Pippa who was frequently accompanied by Rufus. That was the plan one August Friday, when I was called to the hospital Accident and Emergency unit. On arrival, I was taken to an examination cubicle and found there a girl. My immediate thought was, ‘that’s me, seven years or so ago.’

She was sitting on a plastic chair, hunched over. I guessed that she was blonde, though her hair was dirty and matted. “Hello. My name is Nadiya.”

She looked up. “Кто ты?” (Who are you?). I smiled. Russian. I could do this.

“My name is Nadiya Collins. Once I was Nadiya Babichev, but I was rescued from slavery. Now I am married to a lawyer who loves me. I would help you if you wish.”

“You want to help me? You can help me?”

“I know some people who can help you. Not like the ones you’ve run away from. Are you in pain?”

“No pain. Sore. Hungry.”

“Let me see what I can do. What is your name?”

There was a long pause. I could understand that; a few months of abuse and being addressed as ‘cunt’, ‘bitch’, ‘slut’, makes one lose one’s identity.

“Stasia.” Pause. “Anastasia Smirnova.”

“Thank you, Stasia. How old are you?”

“I am fifteen.” Hesitation. “I think.”

I nodded. Plenty of time to explore that. “Excuse me while I talk to the hospital staff. Will you go with me?”

“Where will you take me?”

“I will take you home with me. I could call the Police, but I worry what would happen to you. The current Government don’t like immigrants much.”

She didn’t respond immediately, but sighed. “I will go with you.”

I went to the reception desk. “I’ve spoken to the girl in B3. I don’t think she needs hospital attention, but she does need help. She will go with me and I will do what I can for her.”

“Just a moment, Nadiya.” The receptionist left the desk, and returned a minute or so later with a junior doctor in scrubs.

“Nadiya! How are you?”

“Quite well, thank you, Claire. Yourself?”

She laughed. “Bearing up. Bearing up. You’ve spoken to our waif?”

“I have. She needs help, but I think not medically just now. I propose to take her home with me. I have ... contacts, you know.”

The doctor turned serious. “I see. Well, we can do without any more work, especially with complicated problems. Do you mind signing for her? How will CC be?”

“I will sign. Charles will understand.”

Formalities settled, I called a taxi, rather than walk through the city with Stasia. That dropped us off outside the flat, and Stasia climbed with me the metal fire-escape to our front door. Once in there, I showed her to the bathroom, and told her to have a hot shower and wash her hair. I found clean clothes – too large for her, really, but better than she had on. Jeans, t-shirt, panties, sweater. Once she was cleaning up, I called Charles.

“We have a guest, Darling. I need to call for help for her. Just don’t be surprised when you come home.”

His hesitation was barely perceptible. “Whatever she needs,” he said. “I’ll be home about six, I expect.”

I then called Alex Smith, and got an answering machine. I left a message. “Alex, I have a new friend who needs help. Please call me when you get in.”

I’d barely hung up when the phone rang and I picked up.

“Hey, Nadiya! How’re you doin’?” That was Zoe’s voice, rather than Alex’s.

“I am well, thank you, Zoe.”

“I should think so, Master of Arts*! Alex won’t be home ‘til quite late, so I thought I’d ring you back right away.”

*(Zoe was jumping the gun. Cambridge, Oxford and Dublin award a Master of Arts degree on application a couple of years after graduating BA. https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wik. Thanks to ‘Solitude’ for this information)

“That’s good, Zoe. I was at the hospital today, and they asked me to talk to a girl who had little English. It was obvious to me that she’d been trafficked. The only thing I could think of was to get her out of sight. Don’t know how she escaped, or why she came to the hospital, so I’ve got her here at home.”

“Okay. You’ve done the right thing – yelled for help. Can you get her here tonight? The quicker she’s out of the city where they lost her, the better, don’t you think?”

“I suppose.” For some reason I was reluctant. Zoe made good sense, and it took the responsibility away from me. “CC and I were going to head over to Serendipity this evening.”

“Hey! Great idea! You’ve a cabin for Alex and me, haven’t you? I’ll bring extra supplies.”

That was unexpected, but when I thought about it, good sense. As befits an advanced psychology student. “Okay ... We’ll be leaving on the tide about midnight. Come to the Hythe Quay.”

“Excellent! I expect we’ll be in Maldon about eight, if that’ll suit. I think Valda has a date, so it’ll be just the two of us.”

“We’ll have something for you to eat, I expect.”

“Thanks! See you then.”

A click, and I put down the phone just as Stasia emerged from the bathroom, wet hair tousled by towelling, wearing a pair of my jeans, not too much too big for her, and a light sweater over a t-shirt. I could see why she’d caught the attention of the traffickers.

“Thank you. I feel a little better now.”

“You look better. Let’s dry your hair, yes?”

I took her into the bedroom, sat her at the dressing table, and began to dry and brush her hair.

“What is going to happen to me?”

“I am going to introduce you to some people who can keep you safe, people who saved me six years ago. We’re going sailing with them.”

“I have never been sailing.”

“Neither had I, then.” As I brushed her hair, it began to gleam gold, long and straight.

“Beautiful,” I sighed.

“Chto eto takoye?” (what is that?)

“Your hair is beautiful. You are beautiful.”