Our Little Secret(21)

As fall turned to winter, Freddy and I did things I could never do at home. It became my new challenge. We went brass-rubbing in Christ Church Cathedral, listened to fiery young politicians at the Union, saw plays touring from London at the Oxford Playhouse or took tea and crumpets at the Malmaison, talking about how a jail could fashion itself into a hip new hotel.

“What if you sleep in a murderer’s old room? DNA persists, you know. It doesn’t bear thinking about what might be on the pillows.” He sighed and sipped his Earl Grey.

I did Skype with HP as often as I could, although the time difference made it difficult. His routine was fairly rigid, what with all the coaching and carpentry through the week, so we mostly spoke on weekends. The Parkers didn’t have a laptop; all of our conversations took place at their computer in the kitchen, and often I could see the back of his mother as she stirred something at the stove or drifted past holding a bag of flour. HP struggled to figure out Skype and spent a lot of the calls pressing at buttons with his forehead too close to the camera. He’d cut his hair—shaved it down to a golden Velcro. His eyes and cheekbones dominated the screen.

“My dad said it was time I looked more like a carpenter than a surfer. Does it look bad?”

“Looking bad is genetically impossible for you.”

“I miss you, LJ. How’s the studying? Are you talking to any guys?”

“Not in that way, no.” I didn’t tell him about Freddy. Not because there was anything shifty about the friendship; just that over Skype, I worried Freddy’s name would be a threat, when he was anything but. “I’m not working very hard,” I offered instead. “But the city’s amazing. I can’t wait for you to come see it.”

There was no set plan—as always with HP—but we talked of spring as if it were an anticipated reunion.

My mother didn’t call much because it was expensive long-distance. We tried Skyping, but she spent most of the conversation disconcerted by her image on the screen and smoothing out her hair. Instead she wrote me emails. Her email account was [email protected], which made her sound like a teenage chat room user.

I’ve checked in your closet, she wrote, and darling, you’ve left behind all of your prettiest clothes. Should I send them?

Your dad wants to know if you’ve covered Virgil’s “Aeneid” yet. I’ve no real desire to know what that is.

I hope you’re eating in the Hertford College dining room. Pay as much attention as you can to the upper table, I’ve heard that’s where all the dons sit.

It’s only a matter of time, darling, before they all notice you. Remember how exceptional you are.

As well as relentless advice on forging a path into the upper echelons of Oxford society, Mom was also intent on giving me HP updates.

I saw him today going into the rec center—not with a girl, so don’t worry!

And: He’s making quite a name for himself as a sports teacher.

And: HP has yet to come over for dinner. But I’m sure he will at some point.

I didn’t fly back home for Christmas—couldn’t afford the ticket—and Mom said they weren’t trying hard this year anyway. What’s the point, darling? It’s not like we’re Christians.

I spent the holidays with Freddy at his home in Dorset. We took a taxi from the train station and drove up the long, meandering driveway through the grounds of his house, which turned out to be more of an estate. The front facade of the grand mansion boasted at least twelve windows. The cook, Esther, opened the door.

“Major and Mrs. Montgomery are in the conservatory. They said to freshen up and join them for tea.”

The only thing missing from the scene was a butler.

Mrs. Montgomery was a thin, pinched woman with nostrils that seemed perpetually flared. She held out her hand and I hesitated, unsure if I should kneel and kiss it. The woman watched me for three days straight, barely cracking a smile, even on Christmas morning when we discovered that Freddy had put a book of British idioms and An Idiot’s Guide to Cricket in my stocking.

“He’s taking you on,” his mother said from her silk armchair where she clasped a tray of crystallized ginger to her lap. Her face remained utterly without expression.

On Boxing Day, Freddy took me pheasant shooting with his father, a man with a formidable mustache and a seemingly bottomless silver flask of brandy from which we all had to drink every time we stopped.

“My son’s rather taken with you,” Major Montgomery said in a rare moment when Freddy was out of earshot.

“We’re buddies,” I said.

“Good heavens.” He shook his head and snapped his shotgun open, crooking it over his forearm. “That’ll never do.”

I never found out if it was my inferior American phrasing he disliked or the platonic nature of my relationship with his son. When Freddy and I said good-bye to his folks in early January and prepared to return to Oxford, Mrs. Montgomery glared from the hallway while her husband shook my hand.

“Can we expect you next year?” he asked.

“She’ll be back with the Yanks by then,” chirped Freddy.

Both his mother and father exhaled visibly.

The strangest thing about Christmas, aside from the austerity of Freddy’s parents, was spending it without HP, but I got back to Hertford to find he’d sent me his version of a festive postcard. On the front of the card was a photo of the Cove library, as if it were some kind of heritage landmark, and HP had cut out a picture of Santa in the mall from the local paper and stuck it to the back of the card. Around the picture, in writing getting progressively smaller as he ran out of room, he’d written Merry Xmas from Cove, cultural hotspot. Dumping snow here, working hard, miss you in my truck. Fly back to me soon, little free bird. I stuck it to the pinboard above my desk.