Becoming Mrs. Lewis(21)

P.S. to Davy: The aquarium here has a five-foot grand salamander from Japan!!


Davy had written to me of the snake Bill had finally let him get—Mr. Nichols, he named him. I thought of my boys continuously, and when I went to the London Zoo I missed them fiercely and bought souvenirs to send.

I visited Madam Tussauds Museum and every chapel or cathedral or art studio open to me. Then there was my solo journey to Canterbury, which felt like entering a book I’d read as a child. I’d never seen a land that echoed my dreams—the seductive, rolling green hills in their variegated greens, lined with stone walls and dotted with cottony sheep.

I fell in love with England again and again. The shape of my soul was changing with every view; I wanted to be strong and steady before I met Jack in person.

I traveled through Kent, a country of short-horn cows and undulating golden hills. I tried to describe it in my letters, but how could I do it justice? Miles and miles of apple and pear and plum trees. Hazel thickets and rowan trees with red berries flaming like fire that didn’t consume. Chestnut trees and fields of hops flew past like Renoirs. I filled myself with the views. The WWII bombed-out spaces revealed ancient Roman pavement and walls below—there was a story everywhere I looked. Oh, how America seemed provincial and boring in comparison.

Then there were the friends I found. Two days into my trip, at Jack’s urging, I knocked on Florence Williams’s door. Her late husband, Charles Williams, had dubbed her his “Michal,” and although he was gone, the name had stuck. He’d been a poet, theologian, author, and an Inkling with Jack and J. R. R. Tolkien. And in a connection that made us both break into the laughter that binds friends, we discovered that Bill had written a foreword for one of her late husband’s books—The Greater Trumps. Not only did we become fast friends, but she also introduced me to an author’s crowd in London—a group of science fiction writers who gathered off Fleet Street on Thursday nights in a low-slung ceiling pub called the White Horse. They dubbed their group the “London Circle,” and I ducked into their cluster and drew that circle around me. Over thick beers and bangers their stories, debate, and publishing gossip swirled around me. It was community I’d been after and community I found, as though I’d washed up on an island after being lost at sea.

Bill:

It’s nice to hear you went to both the doctor and the dentist already. I hope you are healing. The boys are doing well but miss you more than they let on.

Renee:

Thank you for the Liberty scarf! I’ve been wearing it everywhere. Please forgive Bill for not sending much money; we are broke as we can be—sorry to be so down, but it’s just the gosh awful truth: Bill is having trouble selling anything at all.


Joy:

Dear Poogabill,

I’m sorry you can’t send money and that you actually are “broke as can be.” I am writing every day and if I sell something, I will send some cash to you. Meanwhile I will scrape by—thank God for Phyl and a place to live. You’ll be thrilled to know that I’ve found a writing group. Most of them are sci-fi writers, and many of them know your work. And guess who I met? Arthur Clarke! You know, the famous author who is a member of the British Interplanetary. As for my health, I’ve never felt better. Just you wait, Sweetabill, when I come home I’m going to be the nicest poogle you’ve ever known me to be.


“Joy!” Phyl’s voice called from the hallway. “We must leave or we’ll miss the train to Oxford.”

I’d switched outfits and hats three times; I had almost chosen the black Jaeger wool jersey I’d just bought but changed my mind when I saw it might look dreary. I’d put my hair up and then down, and then pinned again in my regular bun. It was Michal Williams who’d told me that Jack liked it when women made an effort in their dress.

Phyl poked her head into the room and pressed her hands to her chest. “You look beautiful. I love that tartan dress.”

“Oh, Phyl.” I pulled up my stockings and snapped them into the garter that dug into my thigh. “I wonder what we’ll all talk about. I’m not very good with new people. That’s Bill’s realm in the kingdom of our marriage—he’s engaging and charming, he laughs loud and tells jokes, he plays his guitar and participates in games. I usually find myself in a corner debating politics or religion or books.” I slid my glasses on and smiled at Phyl.

“But you already know this man.”

“I do, I believe. He’s bringing a friend, and there’ll be four of us.” I glanced in the mirror one more time, tucked my hair under the grosgrain hat with the blue ribbon. “Thank you for coming with me.”

“It’s no trouble,” she assured me. “And I certainly want to meet him too. Plus Oxford—who doesn’t want to take a sojourn to Oxford? You think you like London? Just you wait. And you’ll adore Victoria’s little guest room, both convenient and cozy.”

I fetched my bags and straightened my shoulders. “Let’s be on with it then.”




Phyl and I sat side by side as the train lurched from the platform. She read a novel and I watched her face, her long eyelashes sweeping down and up, and a horrid memory flooded me: a terrible fight with Bill in December of last year. He’d taken Phyl in our old Chrysler to Pier 88 in Manhattan for her return trip to London. I’d been sick, miserable, cooped up, and suspicious after the previous nights of admitted infidelity, and I hadn’t been rational. When Bill called to say the car was sputtering with trouble and he would spend the night at Hotel Woodstock, I accused him of seducing Phyl. I screamed and cursed and embarrassed myself. He in turn raged at me. I didn’t remember the words that were said, but the gaping soul-wounds had cut deep and remained.