He was here for one reason only: because he cared enough about our friendship to satisfy my request. The talk and tea were smooth, if also a wee bit awkward, until Father talked of Prohibition and how ardently he’d believed in its mandates all those years ago. “There is right and wrong,” he always said, and said again. “No gray. No in-between, right, Mr. Lewis?” He directed his question across the little table full of teacups and biscuits on flowered plates.
“Father.” I bristled at his harsh self-righteousness. “You believed in Prohibition for everyone but yourself. Don’t you remember when I poured your apricot brandy down the drain because I thought I was being helpful? Not wanting you to go against your very own beliefs?”
Father attempted to laugh and yet looked to Jack. “Impetuous, this one. She would as soon throw out her father’s brandy and get smacked than just leave it be.”
“See?” I said. “That’s the very thing. I thought I was right when all along I was wrong. And smacked to boot.”
The joke, if it was a joke at all, fell flat. The table sat silent.
“I shall just stop trying to be funny,” I said. “I always think I can pull it off and then I don’t.”
“Dear, you’re very funny when you’re not being rude,” Mother said.
Jack leaned close to me, whispered so near my ear I felt his breath. “I’m doing my best here.”
Under the table I nudged him with my foot and suppressed a laugh.
“Mr. Lewis.” Father lowered his voice as if about to lecture. “Our daughter has told us that you are moving your career to Cambridge, leaving Oxford.”
“I am. I shall start there in the new year.” Jack glanced at me. “It is Douglas who is quite upset that I’m giving up the nobility of an Oxford man. It seems I’d done my job convincing him that it was of the highest order. I have outdone myself to my own debit.”
“But isn’t that the case?” Father looked down his long nose to Jack.
“Father!” I spat his name. “This new job is an honor. They have created a position for Jack’s expertise.”
“As you say.” Father picked up his teacup and leaned back in his chair as if posing.
We allowed Father to talk all he wanted after that, not bothering to add or intervene. I longed to reach under the table and hold Jack’s hand, allow him to be the balance in this wobbly world.
When we’d finished, Jack stood first. “I can’t be late for my debate. Ms. Sayers and I will debate Kathleen Nott, and I must prepare. She can rattle. It was a pleasure to meet you both. Would you like to join me for lunch at Magdalen one day next week?”
“Jack, no, you don’t—” I started, but Mother interrupted.
“We would be honored. Yes, that sounds lovely. Better than all the sightseeing my daughter has been trying to plan. I’d rather shop and see Oxford than traipse into a cathedral or museum.”
As I bid Jack good-bye, I whispered, “By golly, are you aiming for a halo?” He only smiled in return.
As he walked away, I looked to my parents with slightly altered eyes. All of a sudden their approval didn’t mean quite as much. I didn’t need them to understand my life or why I chose it. I didn’t need them to soothe or placate me—something they had never been able to do anyway.
“I’m tired,” I said. “I might go back to the house and rest while you two go shopping on Regent Square. Tomorrow we’ll visit the boys at Dane Court.”
“Go on, Joy,” Mother stated with closed lips. “Your father and I will get along fine and see you soon.”
I stood, and Father did also to face me. “That Mr. Lewis is quite the friend to you, isn’t he?”
At last we could agree on something. “Yes,” I said. “He is.”
The remainder of my parents’ visit was as hurried as it was frenetic. Mother needed to go to Woolworths every other day and somehow needed at least six trips to the laundry. There were outings to the neighborhood shops, and even at night we needed to walk the streets to see how the shops appeared in the dark. Oh my, there were the promenades up and down Regent Street. Mother absolutely needed to see the hairdresser and the doctor （imagined illnesses）。 There was the cleaner and the chemist and the green grocers. I tried as desperately as I could to get them to sightsee, but alas, not much.
When we visited Dane Court, my prig of a father eyed the entire thing with an eagle eye bent toward insult. I at once thought of the many insulting editorial letters he used to send to the local paper, and how he raged when they didn’t publish them, because you see—he knew how to fix everything. If everyone in the world would only listen to him, all would be well and good and true. I thought of how Mother often reminded me that my birth was so difficult that she had to leave and recover at a dude ranch for months. Maybe that was where we went wrong—it all started with difficulty.