I’m so relaxed I’m sorely tempted to ignore the phone inside the house when the shrill ring sounds. At the very last minute, I drop my book and sprint through the grass to scoop the receiver up.
“This is Charlotte speaking,” I say, slightly out of breath from the sudden burst of activity.
“Charlotte? This is Theo Sinclair.” He seems a little hesitant, almost as if he’s nervous. That can’t be a good sign. “Are you okay? You sound…”
“I just ran to get the phone,” I laugh. “It’s nice to hear from you, Theo.”
“Is it? I mean, yes. I suppose. I…you see, I spoke with Harry. Do you think you could meet me at the History department at Manchester at three p.m. Friday? Professor Read has agreed to meet with your father after all. I know it’s business hours, but—”
“I’m a teacher,” I interrupt him to explain. “I’m on summer break.”
“I’m a teacher too.”
“I thought you were a student.”
“Ah. No, I was a student—I finished my Master’s then did a teaching certificate. I teach high school history classes now. So will this suit Noah?”
“Dad sets his own hours. We’ll be there. Thank you.”
Theo clears his throat before he mutters, “Yes, well. Let’s see how this goes before you thank me.”
My father and I arrive at Manchester University at a quarter to three on Friday. We consult a campus map then wander in silence through the grounds admiring the beautiful stonework on the old buildings and the careful gardens around manicured lawns.
When we find the right building, Dad and I sit side by side on a park bench beneath a tree, seeking a reprieve from the summer sun. A groundskeeper is mowing the lawn nearby and the air is flooded with the scent of cut grass. Finding myself at a campus again is making me miss my carefree days as an undergraduate student. Life seemed so simple back then.
Theo greets us as he approaches along the path. Once again, he’s dressed as though he slept late and had to rush out the door. I survey his rumpled cords and the misaligned buttons on his collared shirt, the wild way his thick, sandy hair stands this way and that, as if he’s yet to discover how to tame it. He’s not without his charms—those bright blue eyes chief among them—but it’s starting to appear as though last Thursday was no exception and he has a perpetually distracted and disheveled affect. He reminds me of some of the academics I studied under at university but seems nothing like a high school teacher. I wonder if the students make fun of him behind his back. The very thought makes me sad.
Theo leads us up a stairway to a central reception area on the second floor. As soon as he pushes open the door, we’re greeted with a wave of cigarette smoke so thick I immediately start to cough.
Behind the desk, surrounded by piles of folders and books and loose yellowed papers, sits a curvy woman with bright red hair. A Dictaphone headset rests over her ears, pressing her wispy bangs down awkwardly onto her forehead, and a cigarette hangs from her mouth as she types furiously with both hands. She looks up and beams at Theo, sending cigarette ash drifting onto her blouse with the movement, but does not break with the rhythm of her typing even as we stand before her desk and wait.
She reaches the end of a sentence and her hands fly off the keyboard. She scoops the cigarette from her mouth and drops it into an overflowing ashtray on the desk, then she rises and swivels around the desk to throw her arms around Theo.
“Theo, love! It is just so good to see you. Why don’t you visit more often?”
I recognize this as Mrs. White even if her appearance is nothing at all like I imagined. I was picturing a stern woman well past retirement age—but Mrs. White is probably only in her forties, and at least toward Theo, seems very warm.
“You know I’m very busy with my own job these days, Mrs. White,” Theo says, his own voice muffled by the secretary’s smothering embrace. When she finally releases him, he has the slightly embarrassed air of a teenager whose mother has just pinched his cheek at the school gate. He makes an attempt at straightening his shirt, before he motions toward me and my father.
“This is Charlotte and Noah Ainsworth,” he tells her. “Charlotte, Noah, this is Mrs. White—she is Professor Read’s secretary, right-hand woman, all-round mastermind.”
“Oh, you,” Mrs. White says, and then she giggles like a schoolgirl, a sound so surprising my father and I exchange a wide-eyed glance. But her gaze narrows when she turns her attention to me. “You didn’t mention your father’s name on the phone, Miss Ainsworth.”
“I’m quite certain I did,” I say, surprised.
“No. You did not,” she says firmly. “Because if you had told me your father is Noah Ainsworth, I’d have put you straight through to the professor.” She looks at Dad and smiles. “Mr. Ainsworth, it is a pleasure to meet you at last. I have sent you many a letter over the years.”
Dad stares at her blankly.
“I’ve never received any letters.”
“Well,” she says, eyebrows rising. “Now that doesn’t sound right at all. I know I sent them.”
“I… I don’t know what to say to you, Mrs. White,” Dad says, after shooting me a bewildered look. “I’d never so much as heard of Professor Read until last week.”
“Hmm,” Mrs. White says, in a tone which suggests she’s certain Dad is lying but she can’t be bothered arguing with him. She waves to a bank of chairs. “Can I get you some tea?” We obediently take our seats as we all agree tea would be nice, and Mrs. White leaves the room, her cigarette still smoldering in the ashtray, a cloud of cloying perfume lingering in her wake.
“She’s not what I expected,” I whisper to Theo as he takes the plastic chair beside me.
“She sees it as her role to be Harry’s gatekeeper. I’m not surprised you found her unhelpful when you first called, but when I spoke to Professor Read yesterday he told me he’s been trying to reach your father for some time.”
“Theo,” a voice booms from the door, and Theo rises anxiously as a much older man enters the room. Professor Read is at least eighty years old. His pale blue eyes sit beneath heavy white eyebrows, and there’s much sparser white hair curved around a high forehead marked by age spots. He shakes Theo’s hand, but his gaze is slightly guarded. “Good to see you, son.” Read turns his attention to me and Dad and a broad smile transforms his face. “Well! You must be Noah and Charlotte. Welcome.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Dad says, standing.
Read clasps the hand Dad extends toward him as he replies, “Truly, Noah, the pleasure is all mine. Please, come join me in my office.”
We follow Harry Read down another long corridor, past a long series of tiny, windowless offices, winding toward the front of the building.
“Quite a rabbit warren up here, isn’t it?” I remark.
“It’s dormant over the summer but a hive of activity during term time. I’ve lost more than one graduate student up here over the years,” Read jokes.
The nameplate on the thick oak door at the end of the corridor tells us that we’ve finally reached his office. Theo, Dad and I take the three chairs in front of Read’s desk and we make small talk. Once Mrs. White has delivered a tea service on a shiny silver tray, Read motions for Theo to close the door behind her.