“You named yourself after a dog, and you don’t drive.” I laughed, and he took a step forward with his stick, glancing over his shoulder to see if I was following.
“Now maybe you know all there is to know.”
“I doubt that,” I said as we caught up with Phyl and George.
“Darling,” she called out and came to us. “I must be going if I’m going to catch the last train.”
“And I,” George said, “must return to Malvern. Today has been a pleasure.” He bowed his head and tipped his hat before walking away.
I thanked Phyl, and once again Jack and I were alone. We talked and strolled through Magdalen’s grounds until the afternoon sky’s pink hues hinted toward evening.
Our parting was polite, and when I told him that I’d be there for ten more days, he smiled. And that man, when he smiled . . . it was the only thing you wanted to see. His face was so serious in photos, yet in person both animated and buoyant. He seemed continually prepared to burst into laughter if given the chance. I wanted to give him every chance.
I didn’t know whether to embrace him or shake his hand. In the end I did neither, as he wrapped both his hands around the top of his walking stick. “My brother, Warnie, will be available tomorrow. Would you like to meet us here for lunch?”
“I would very much like that,” I said.
“Where are you staying?”
“With a friend of a friend, Victoria Ruffer. Meanwhile I’ll be taking full advantage of the city, walking and admiring. The autumn here might be the most beautiful I’ve ever seen.”
“Yes, it’s glorious. Autumn makes all things seem possible.”
“It is spring that does that.” I swept my palms open like a flower blossoming. “All that life coming back from frozen earth.”
He gave a sly smile.
“What? Did I say something awful?”
“No.” He shook his head. “But you certainly have your own opinion about everything. I knew this from your letters, but now I can see it’s true all the time, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I’m awful that way. I know.”
“I’m not yet sure it’s awful.” He looked at me closely then, as if seeing me for the first time.
We parted ways, and I headed along the storyland sidewalks of Oxford, back to Victoria’s. I knew what I would do the minute I shut the door to my little guest room: write a poem. What else was one to do with these emotions that seemed to say, like springtime, that the world was about to begin anew?
CHAPTER 12
Even the bells in Magdalen tower were ringing
Death to the drooping afternoon
“SONNET VI,” JOY DAVIDMAN
The second day in Oxford arrived, luminescent, the honey-hues of sunlight falling from the leaves to settle on the grass like spilled paint. The air was as clear as glass and soft as cotton. I rolled out of bed and into the day, expectant.
Lazily, I started a letter to home and also set my eyes for a quick read-through of my Second Commandment article before leaving to wander toward Magdalen for lunch. Fifteen minutes later, when I reached the college gate, I paused, the old fatigue threatening at the edge of my bones.
“No,” I said out loud. “We are here in Oxford and healthy and well. We are going to see Jack and meet Warnie.”
Something in the trees and the river breathed of holiness, and I said a silent prayer—You’ve brought us together. Please be with us—and then I eased under the ancient stone archway of Magdalen into the quadrangle. Men rushed past in black robes, open and flapping in the wind, like so many crows. The students wore their suits—boys dressed as men with their buttoned sweaters and rumpled suit jackets with only the top two buttons fastened. And the cigarette smoke—it seemed a fag sprouted from every mouth. This was a man’s domain if I’d ever seen one. It reeked of leather and pipe smoke. I made it to the dining hall door with timid steps, my mask of bravado slowly cracking.
What was I doing?
Women of course weren’t prohibited （except as students, fellows, or tutors）， but I could feel in every nerve ending that here we were most welcome as appendages or footnotes. Pleasant company at best.
I wore a prim sheath dress fashioned of taupe tweed, and the double strand of pearls hung around my neck. My new nylons rubbed pleasantly against my thighs. A silk pale-blue Liberty scarf, one I’d purchased in London, was tied artfully around my neck as if I’d casually thrown it on, and yet I’d had to try the knots more times than I would admit.