Becoming Mrs. Lewis(52)
“I’m not worried about sharing anything,” I said.
Awkwardness settled over us, and I wanted to shoo it from the room. It would take a little bit, getting used to sharing a home.
“This way,” Warnie said and waved his hand toward the hallway.
I followed, Jack behind, until we reached two doorways.
“We added these rooms as soon as we bought the place,” Warnie announced and opened the bedroom door. “This was once my room, but I’ve moved upstairs since Maureen moved out. This will be yours for the weeks.” He waved his hand to the door next to it in the hallway. “This is my study. But I’ll try not to disturb.”
I peeked into his chaotic study, books and papers and a little bronze Buddha sitting serenely in lotus pose on his mantle, staring at the mess. My room was small, with a single bed in the corner, a dresser tight against the wall, and a washbasin. The bed was made with what must have once been a white bedspread, but now was gray and faded. On the walls were pictures of trains and steamships, framed in dark wood and hanging crooked. Without thinking I walked over and straightened a photo, then turned to the men.
“Favorite trains?” I asked.
“Well, you know Jack’s very first toy was a train,” Warnie said with authority and a laugh.
“First toy? No. That I did not know.” I smiled at them both. “How nostalgic. I’m honored to share a room with them.”
“Not exactly plush, but comfortable.” Jack dropped my suitcase into the room and pointed down the hall. “Bathroom that way.”
“Now let’s get outside and show you around the grounds,” Warnie said.
“Well, Warnie, let’s allow her a little time to settle in.”
“No, I don’t need that.” I smiled. “I want to get outside. Let’s go out and see it all.”
The house sat on the outskirts of Headington Quarry, settled on rolling lowland. To the south lay a lake and a wooded area that slowly rose into Shotover Hill. The three of us set out as Warnie began his tour speech.
“The house was built in 1922,” he said as the frigid wind whipped our faces. “We fell in love with it the first time we saw it in 1930.” He stopped a few yards into our walk and pointed to two conical-shaped kilns shooting from a brick structure like overgrown funnels. “This was once where all the bricks were made for the city. Thus . . .”
“The name of the home,” I finished.
From there we ambled off, and I comprehended the extent of the property: I would need hours to search it on my own, to soak in the acres of beauty, though most was hidden under winter’s caul. We passed chestnut, mountain ash, and oak. I ran my hand along the bark of a slanted fir tree, its arched branches and needles being all the green in the landscape.
“It’s like Narnia,” I said. “I’m almost able to see the walking trees, not ambling along as we do but as you described, wading through the forest floor.”
Shivering, we eventually reached the pond and stood at its edge next to a little red punt with ice filling its center and crusting its edge.
“We should have chosen a warmer day to show you around.” Jack pointed at the frozen pond. “It’s a dirty little thing, a flooded clay pit where they once dug out the mud to make bricks in the kilns, but surprisingly you come out quite clean when you swim in it.”
“Are there fish?” I asked, peering over their shoulders.
“Perch and pike. But poor things get eaten by my two swans.”
“Swans?” I craned my neck, looked past Jack and into the reeds.
“You’ll see them surely enough,” Warnie said. “They’ll want to know who you are and why you’re here.”
“I’m Joy Davidman,” I called out over the pond, using my maiden name, my writing name, my real name. “And I’m here to celebrate Christmas with two old bachelors.”
Great bellowing laughter carried across the water, and Warnie shook his head. “Well, you may have scared them off for good.” Then he became quiet and reflective, his expression serious. “This place is more than Jack and I ever deserved. In spring the primrose and gardens burst forth. In autumn we have the windless sunny days . . . it’s a veritable Garden of Eden.”
I smiled at Warnie’s sweetness, his almost childlike admiration. We rushed through the remainder of the outdoor tour until we passed a lilting shelter, a small almost-house. “This?” I asked.
“An air raid shelter,” Jack said. “Paxford built it during the war.”
“Who is Paxford?”
“Ah, you’ll meet him soon enough. He’s our gardener and lands-keeper.”
“The war.” I pointed at the bomb shelter. “How can it all seem so far past when it just happened? Maybe because the bombs themselves never reached my shore.” I ran my hand along the concrete walls, moss growing thick along its edges.
We continued on until I paused at a dormant garden. “Oh, Jack. You have room to grow so much! I can almost see the vegetables and flowers.”
“That’s Paxford’s territory,” Jack said as a dog came loping into the garden. I dropped to my knees to greet the dark lion, a flopping pack of fur.
“Who is this?” I buried my face in its neck, memories of the midnight hours with such animals coming back to me with pangs of nostalgia: the lion at MGM, the lion of my childhood Bronx Zoo, Aslan, and this animal.