My Oxford Year(37)

There’s no need to talk, but I do. “Do you ever write poetry?”

“Oh God, no. I don’t create, I appreciate.”

I snort at his rhyme. Our hands find each other, our fingers entwining. My head lazily rolls in his direction. I gaze at his profile. That straight nose, those high cheekbones brushed by errant wisps of hair, that perfect jawline. “You certainly look the part.”

“Yes, well, judging a book by its cover and all that. Striking covers often hide blank pages.”

I playfully nudge his shoulder. “I bet you’d be a natural. Have you ever tried?”

He shakes his head. “The problem is I have standards. I have taste. That’s what a bloody DPhil has got me. I’d feel like a fraud, writing something.” He turns to me. “Do you know how hard it is? Writing good poetry? Condensing the wealth of human emotion into the sparsest of language? There’s an alchemy that eludes me, a distillation. Boiling the content down, down, down until you’re left with liquid gold. It’s what Picasso did with a pen. One perfect, curved line and you have a woman in profile.”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t try.”

He sighs. “That’s what being here does to people. Gods live among these spires. I spend my days with Tennyson, and he’s a decent ol’ chap and I learn quite a lot from him. We get on splendidly. But he still intimidates the hell out of me.”

“He’s dead.”

He shakes his head. “We will leave Oxford, we will die. But they remain. They always remain. They are immortal.”

“But, why not you?” He scoffs, turns away from me. “I’m serious. You don’t know until you try. You could be the next Tenny—”

Jamie suddenly reaches over and grabs me, hauling me on top of him. The punt rocks, almost tipping us over. I open my mouth to cry out, but he captures it with his. We lose ourselves in the kiss for a moment, before we both stop and pull back, as if we have something to say. But Jamie doesn’t speak. I stare at his bottom lip and touch it lightly, muttering, for lack of anything more important to say, “Well, I think you’d make a damn fine poet.”

He looks at me, his eyes old yet also innocent somehow. Then kisses me softly. Small kisses landing on different parts of my face like individual raindrops. Then he unceremoniously flips me to the side.

“Hey!” I yelp as the punt rocks.

He grins, sitting upright slightly and fumbling around in the bottom of the punt. He comes up with the thermos. “And now we must try this. My specialty.”

“What is it?” I ask, propping myself up on my elbows.

“Blast poetry, this may very well be what I’m remembered for. Liquid winter,” he says, unscrewing the cap. “I drink this from Bonfire Night bang on through Hilary Term. Try it,” he says, thrusting the thermos at me.

I take it and sniff. Instantly, Pavlovian, my throat tightens and my breathing halts. “What is this?”

“Guess.”

“Chocolate, hot chocolate,” I say quickly, breath still trapped, throat still closing.

“Yes, predominantly, but I’ve added—”

“I don’t want it.” I hold out the thermos.

He takes it quickly. “Oh no, are you allergic?”

“No.”

“Then you simply must.” He pushes it back toward me. “There’s a special twist, you see, which no one . . . Ella? What’s wrong?”

Even though I’ve turned away to look out over the water, I can sense Jamie peering at me. I force myself to breathe and turn back to him. “Nothing.”

Jamie just looks at me. “What is it?”

“It’s just my dad.” I barely get the words out. The second I do I want to take them back. I look out at the water. In my peripheral, I can see Jamie’s brow furrowing. “It’s not a big deal,” I assure him. “Really.”

He’s not buying it. “Tell me.”

“It’s not important.”

“At least assure me that he’s not on his way here to flatten me for taking advantage of his baby girl.”

He succeeds in lightening the moment. We share a gentle laugh and I say, “No, you’re safe, he’s dead.”

I can’t believe I said it like that. We’re both stunned into silence for a moment.

“Is that so?” Jamie asks quietly. All I can do is nod. He slides down onto his back, nestling in next to me. I join him, coming off my elbows and resting my head on the bench. Finally, Jamie speaks. “What was he like?”

I haven’t heard this tone from him before. It’s disconcerting; it’s not sexual, or playful, or arch. It’s comforting. It’s the wool blanket he wrapped around the thermos. It’s also different from anyone else who finds out my father died. The first question is always “How did he die?” Jamie wants to know how he lived. “He was the best,” I say simply. “I know every little girl thinks that about her dad, but mine really was. He was funny and handsome and he had this energy and I was his partner in crime.” The words come easily. Surprising. “He always said that waiting for me to learn how to talk was like waiting for his long-lost friend to arrive.”

“That’s wonderful. And as it should be. But . . .” Something resides in Jamie’s voice. Personal reflection. I believe its source is the fragments of interaction I’ve witnessed between him and his father.