When it was all over and we’d left the library, Jack and I met Warnie, who’d been lingering in an old pub, hunkered in a corner booth. Jack let out a long whistle.
“Well, that was a blooming disaster. I should best stick to writing for the little ones and not speaking to them.”
I watched Jack with wonder. How could this man, the most revered, have such little personal pride?
“Jack, you held those children completely in your thrall. They sat motionless, mouths open, eyes unblinking. When children are bored, they fidget and move about like little worms in a bucket. You captured them in your net of stories.”
“You believe so?” he asked.
“I know,” I said. “You are very good with children. You enchanted them.”
“I actually feel rather shy around children.” Jack squinted at me in the low light. “I do believe I forgot to tell you—I wrote back to Davy. He sent me the most accomplished letter. He told me all about his new snake.”
“What?”
“You didn’t know about the snake? Have I gotten him into trouble?”
I laughed and rested my hand on his sleeve. “I know about Mr. Nichols. I meant I didn’t know that Davy wrote to you. Bill told me that he wanted to, but . . . What did you write in return?”
“I told him that I was working on the last Narnian adventure and I hoped he’d love it just as well.”
Jack wrote to my son.
A peculiar warm happiness fell over me as if I’d awoken to discover it was spring and my garden, which I’d planted in the desolate winter, was in bloom.
Warnie broke into the conversation. “How are those science fiction boys doing? Do you still go to Fleet Street?”
“It’s my only real social hour, at least until I see you two or meet Michal for a show. But even with the writers, it seems I can’t escape you Lewis brothers. They are quite enthralled with Perelandra. And they can’t believe I’m friends with the two of you.”
Jack lit a cigarette and paused before his next inhale. “Oh, I know there are those in that crowd who don’t like my stories. I’ve received their letters. I believe there are probably some there who would like your husband’s stories more.”
“I met a woman the other night who nearly fainted when she discovered I was married to the man who wrote Nightmare Alley.” I stared off for a minute. “It’s odd. For all the pain, when I think of the man who wrote that book, I’m quite fond of him.”
“But he’s not the same man now?” Warnie asked.
“No, he’s not.” I shook my head and changed the subject.
Eventually, as with every gathering, we said our farewells. I wandered away from them as they hailed a cab to the train station. In a cocoon of contentment I spent that late afternoon on Regent Street, where I bought a cheap wool jersey for a mere five guineas that fit me for the weight I’d lost during the flu. In a great fit of missing my littlest poogles, I also wandered the aisles of the huge two-story toy store and with the last of my shillings bought Douglas a globe and Davy a long plastic snake that slithered when shaken.
The afternoon dwindled to evening, and by the time Jack and Warnie would have been at the Kilns, I’d wandered back to the bus station to ride to Claire’s cold house and boiled parsnips.
The dismal month behind me faded away, for there were more days to come with Michal, with London, with my White Horse boys, and with Jack and Warnie. Those times seemed to hold secret and as yet hidden rewards, waiting patiently for me to arrive.
Happiness was the greatest gift of expectancy.
CHAPTER 21
Here I am, and what have I deserved?
Here I hunger, waiting; I am cold
“SONNET V,” JOY DAVIDMAN
I awoke slowly one morning, my bones creaking with the cold but my heart eager with the realization that I was headed to Oxford again. That day I would travel by train to hear Jack lecture on Richard Hooker. This was his first of the semester and would be my only chance to see him properly in his element.
I’d moved away from Claire and her vegetarian diet and cold house. My new room in the Nottingham Hotel was a dingy fourth-floor walk-up, but I’d spruced it up to keep my spirits from flagging—red and gold flowers from the market, a cheap India-print bedspread, a glazed and chipped pot, and a floral tablecloth with a small stain on the lower corner. I hung the three little pictures I’d bought that first month in Hampstead Heath when I’d thought the money and the good cheer would last. As shabby as the room was, at least the location was good—in the middle of the West End with lovely shops and easy walking.