If I have the time . . .
CHAPTER 11
Between two rivers, in the wistful weather,
Sky changing, tree undressing, summer failing
“SONNET VI,” JOY DAVIDMAN
September in Oxford is a glory of color and silken air, of golden hues and ivy-covered hope. It was like being transported to the land of a fairy tale you’d forgotten you read.
I ambled next to Jack as he swung his walking stick with each step, his fisherman’s hat settled crooked on his head. We crossed High Street for my first view of Magdalen College, which rested regally on the River Cherwell. I stopped midstep. “Stunning!” I stared at the college’s stone tower with six spires reaching toward the bluest sky. A great fortress of walls and doors surrounded the limestone buildings. It was a painting, a diorama from a fantasy movie, the architecture medieval and mystical.
“My first view of it stunned me the same,” Jack said. “It still does. It’s just as beautiful as you draw close. Come.”
“You know,” I said, “after the bustle of London and the bombed-out spaces, this feels pristine and untouched.”
A wistful expression passed over Jack’s face, but then he turned to me and nodded. “Yes, we were spared the bombs—Hitler planned on making Oxford his own and he wanted to save it. We’d watch the planes head here and then veer to the left or right using the river as their guide.”
I glanced up as if the planes were whirring overhead. “I’m so glad to be here.”
“I’m quite happy you made the journey.” He smiled at me.
Phyl and George walked ahead and through the great wooden door of Magdalen, leaving Jack and me alone. The yellow leaves formed a plush carpet under our feet while a few still clung to the trees by their fragile stems. Gravestones were as common along the sidewalks as benches or stone walls.
We ambled; I was in no great rush. We passed the gray weathered wooden doors to Magdalen, as grand as the castle doors I’d seen at Buckingham, and Jack motioned for us to first walk across a stone bridge. Halfway across he paused and we stood together, leaning against the ancient wall and absorbing the sight of the River Cherwell. We stood, our shoulders only a breath apart, as a line about rivers from Shakespeare’s King John came to me. “‘Trust not those cunning waters of his eyes, For villainy is not without such rheum.’”
With a sudden laugh Jack lifted his face to the sun and finished. “‘And he, long traded in it, makes it seem like rivers of remorse and innocency.’”
Our eyes met, widened, and together we said, “King John.”
Jack removed a case from his pocket and took out a cigarette, striking the match hard against the flint in a swift movement. He set the fire against the end and puffed until it was lit. This was all done slowly, carefully, as if he had all the world’s time to complete this singular act on a stone bridge over a river. Below, punts were crowded against the banks, lashed together and held tight, waiting to be chosen. The willow trees swept downward as if to stroke the river, their branches waving with a breeze.
I broke the silence. “This river,” I said. “It’s very much like life.”
“How so?” Jack turned to lean against the stone parapet, taking a long drag of his cigarette.
Well, that would teach me to speak without thinking. “The water flowing,” I said decidedly. “It reaches its end at the sea no matter what.”
He considered this. “I believe life is more like a tree. Each branch differentiating as it grows. Each an individual choice.”
“Jack.” I pointed at the river flowing beneath us. “That is the river of life. It’s bound by its edges but still it is free. Do you sometimes debate for fun?” I asked with a laugh. “Just to see if I can keep up with you?”
“Ah, no—I am quite sure you can keep up with me. But the river, as beautiful a metaphor as it is, isn’t right for our choices in life. We don’t all meet in the same place, as rivers do.”
His eyes were deep and rich brown, and I wondered what they saw in me—he knew how to hold kind attention, a presence.
“Choice.” I bent over and picked up a handful of leaves, let them fall through my fingers. “What if we choose wrongly? Do we burn in an everlasting hell? You believe this?” I tossed a leaf at him. “As you wrote in The Great Divorce? You can’t take any souvenir of what you love with you?”
He laughed. “I have enjoyed our correspondence, yet it is even better to be chatting with you.”