One by one the crowd wandered away, and soon the ringers were gone also. I stood alone in that tower, my hands over my heart, tears wet on my cheeks. God might not fix things for me, but he would be with me in whatever waited ahead, that was clear. I knew nothing of the future, except that in two days’ time I would arrive at Warnie and Jack’s to spend Christmas at the Kilns.
And in the new year I would return home to a new kind of family.
CHAPTER 23
I brought my love obedience; cupped my hand
And held submission to his thirsty mouth
“SONNET VIII,” JOY DAVIDMAN
December 15, 1952
Oxford slumbered under a freeze, but I didn’t bother about the weather at all as the taxi careened on the ice toward Kilns Lane. I only cared that I would have two weeks with Jack and Warnie. Back in London, thick fog carrying the smoky remnants of coal exhaust had consumed the city, killing thousands （they were still counting） and sending Parliament into a tizzy until Winston Churchill finally declared he would implement new laws to protect his citizens from the poisonous smog. I’d been hiding in my room with a cloth over my face, and I was thrilled to be away from it all.
I stood at the end of Kilns Lane as the taxi drove away with a few of my last shillings. I’d left most of my belongings in London, as I’d return there for a few days before boarding the ship home.
Silver birch trees formed a long path to the brothers’ home. The lane was thin and muddy, frost and ice at the edges.
“The Kilns,” I said to the air and the birds and the naked trees, with a great love for everything that was to come. I lifted my suitcase and took a few steps to the fork of the lane, where a ramshackle shelter, possibly a garage caved in on itself, stood with a sign attached that pointed the way down the lane. The Kilns, it said in crooked letters with an arrow.
Two thick green hedges bordered the path to the house by the back way. I carefully stepped forward, keeping my eyes on the ground so I wouldn’t slip. When I reached the end of the lane I glanced up to see the rambling cottage, smoke rising from a roof chimney pot, and a rush of expectation ran through me.
The house spread out as if stretching. Built of deep-red brick and creamy stucco, the dormered windows sprouted like bugs’ eyes from the russet-colored roof, where three chimneys stood staunch guard over the gardens and property. I walked under a brick archway and through a small iron gate that creaked with rust as I pushed it open. I reached the green front door of the house in only a few strides. The white porcelain doorbell was pressed into the doorframe and bade me PRESS in a small white sign. Which I did.
Many others had visited here. I’d heard Michal say that Jack frequently took in strays—both animals and humans. Maybe I was one of them, but a stray I would be.
It was quiet all around, and then came a barking dog and a woman’s voice, and the door flew open.
A balding woman, whom I had to look down at to see her face looking up at me, was wearing a dirt-smudged apron. “Well, well, you must be Mrs. Gresham.”
“I am,” I said.
“Well, don’t stand out there in the freezing cold, my dear. Come in, come in!” She moved aside, and I stepped into the dimly lit entry hall to set my suitcase on the brick floor. Beside me there was a long bench that ran the length of the wall. I set my purse on it.
“I’m Mrs. Miller,” the woman told me.
“I’m Joy.” I smiled so widely I could feel it reach my eyes in a wrinkling at the edges. Her thick English accent and my New York one made it sound as if we spoke altogether separate languages. Already I felt we looked at each other with certain camaraderie—women in a house of men.
“The brothers are in the common room. Follow me.”
We took only a few steps down the dark-paneled hallway before turning left and emerging into a room so covered in books that I believed they must be holding up the roof itself. I took it all in: papers scattered around, a half-finished Scrabble game on the table, comfortable chairs, and the aroma a soft amalgamation of fire, cigarette, and pipe. The walls were painted a hideous mustard yellow, and the window decor was obviously left over from the war—curtains made of army blankets. A fog seemed to fill the room, and I took off my glasses and rubbed at the lenses with the edge of my cotton shirt.
Jack stood from his chair, a book falling from his lap, and gave a boisterous bellow. “Good afternoon, Joy! Well, well. You must have sneaked into the house like a cat.” He shook Warnie’s shoulder. “Look who’s finally here.”
They both came to me and vigorously shook my hand.