Becoming Mrs. Lewis(24)
“We’ve been writing about our spiritual journeys,” Jack said to George and then turned to me. “And you have brought to my attention holes and missing links in some of my arguments. I must say I have rarely met such a worthy adversary.”
Adversary? I wanted to be anything but.
George cleared his throat. “Well, do tell us what you think of England, Mrs. Gresham. You’ve been here a month now?”
“Well, I have fallen in love, Mr. Sayer. In mad, passionate love.” The heat of a blush filled my face and neck. I reached my hand to my décolletage, grabbed onto the pearls I’d strung there that very morning thinking they looked elegant, and took in a long breath. “It is England I’m talking about, of course!”
George nodded, patting his lips with a napkin.
I continued as I often did when nervous, words pouring out. “I love everything about it. I’ve practically walked my legs off. I’m enamored with the golden light. And how can air be softer here? I have no idea, but it is! The kindness of strangers is unparalled. And oh, the pubs.” I exhaled. “I adore the pubs. The dark warmth of them, the murmur of conversation, the music played by a man with a fiddle tucked away in a corner.”
George burst out in hearty laughter. “You obviously haven’t yet seen the bloody English fog. Just you wait; we’ll see if you’re still romanticizing our country then. Which, by the way, is jolly fine by me.”
Jack lifted his glass. “When I first saw Oxford I wrote to my father and told him it was a place beyond my wildest imaginings, a place of the fabled cluster of spires and towers. I’m quite envious of your view of Oxford today. There’s only that one first time.”
We all fell silent and finished our desserts slowly, as if not one of us desired the parting that would naturally follow. I felt bereft by Jack’s absence, even though it was merely an idea and had not yet happened.
Then he stood, wiped crumbs from his jacket, and smiled. “Why, let’s walk to Magdalen and I’ll show you around a bit, if you have the time.”
If I have the time . . .
CHAPTER 11
Between two rivers, in the wistful weather,
Sky changing, tree undressing, summer failing
“SONNET VI,” JOY DAVIDMAN
September in Oxford is a glory of color and silken air, of golden hues and ivy-covered hope. It was like being transported to the land of a fairy tale you’d forgotten you read.
I ambled next to Jack as he swung his walking stick with each step, his fisherman’s hat settled crooked on his head. We crossed High Street for my first view of Magdalen College, which rested regally on the River Cherwell. I stopped midstep. “Stunning!” I stared at the college’s stone tower with six spires reaching toward the bluest sky. A great fortress of walls and doors surrounded the limestone buildings. It was a painting, a diorama from a fantasy movie, the architecture medieval and mystical.
“My first view of it stunned me the same,” Jack said. “It still does. It’s just as beautiful as you draw close. Come.”
“You know,” I said, “after the bustle of London and the bombed-out spaces, this feels pristine and untouched.”
A wistful expression passed over Jack’s face, but then he turned to me and nodded. “Yes, we were spared the bombs—Hitler planned on making Oxford his own and he wanted to save it. We’d watch the planes head here and then veer to the left or right using the river as their guide.”
I glanced up as if the planes were whirring overhead. “I’m so glad to be here.”
“I’m quite happy you made the journey.” He smiled at me.
Phyl and George walked ahead and through the great wooden door of Magdalen, leaving Jack and me alone. The yellow leaves formed a plush carpet under our feet while a few still clung to the trees by their fragile stems. Gravestones were as common along the sidewalks as benches or stone walls.
We ambled; I was in no great rush. We passed the gray weathered wooden doors to Magdalen, as grand as the castle doors I’d seen at Buckingham, and Jack motioned for us to first walk across a stone bridge. Halfway across he paused and we stood together, leaning against the ancient wall and absorbing the sight of the River Cherwell. We stood, our shoulders only a breath apart, as a line about rivers from Shakespeare’s King John came to me. “‘Trust not those cunning waters of his eyes, For villainy is not without such rheum.’”
With a sudden laugh Jack lifted his face to the sun and finished. “‘And he, long traded in it, makes it seem like rivers of remorse and innocency.’”
Our eyes met, widened, and together we said, “King John.”
Jack removed a case from his pocket and took out a cigarette, striking the match hard against the flint in a swift movement. He set the fire against the end and puffed until it was lit. This was all done slowly, carefully, as if he had all the world’s time to complete this singular act on a stone bridge over a river. Below, punts were crowded against the banks, lashed together and held tight, waiting to be chosen. The willow trees swept downward as if to stroke the river, their branches waving with a breeze.
I broke the silence. “This river,” I said. “It’s very much like life.”
“How so?” Jack turned to lean against the stone parapet, taking a long drag of his cigarette.