Becoming Mrs. Lewis(92)

“They will knock on the door, you’ll see.” He came to my side, and together we looked down at the park. “They expect King Caspian or a man in long black robes with the keys to God’s kingdom, and all they ever find is an old balding man with glasses.” He laughed, and the family below looked up. He waved, and they wandered away.

I rested my head on his shoulder, only for a moment. “Thank you, Jack. Thank you so much.”

He’d leave in the morning, and the boys and I would have the run of the house and gardens, and I of his college rooms.

This was dangerous territory in the land of love—he wasn’t yet gone, and I already missed him.





CHAPTER 41


You are all the gold of all the rocks

Precious in my fingers; brighter things

“SONNET XLII,” JOY DAVIDMAN



October 1954

I opened the front door of Avoco House to see my mother and father standing there in the brisk October day. Mother was prim and proper in her hat and pearls, her buttoned coat and lacquered hair. Father stood in a three-piece suit with his moustache greased to stand out as if at attention. Both looked as if they’d come from a party instead of a long journey across the ocean.

“Mother. Father,” I said and hugged them both. “Welcome to London.”

Their suitcases were propped on the sidewalk where the cab driver in his bowler hat and suit waited to be dismissed. I motioned to bring in their bags. “I’m glad you’re here.” I ushered my parents into my home.

“Oh, darling, this is such a lovely neighborhood.” Mother’s voice grated against my ears for a moment until I realized that I had become so accustomed to the melodic English accents that even my very own accent sounded rough around the edges.

After paying the cab driver and shutting the front door, Father silently roamed around the house. “This is a nice place. Much nicer than I expected, with your financial condition.”

“Yes, it’s been tough, Father. You’re right. But people here are generous—the landlord has given me a fantastic price.” I motioned for them to follow me. “You have the boys’ room, right here.”

“How have you survived here?” Mother asked. “That horrid ex-husband of yours not sending money. And you being in another country. I’ve been worried.”

“Worried?” I almost laughed, but held back. If she’d been oh-so-very worried, maybe I would have heard from her more than in a random letter here or there. The only reason they were here was to see London on their way to a tour of Europe and Israel. And of course they wanted to meet my famous friend, C. S. Lewis.

I cleared my throat. “Are we going to talk about money and misery before you’ve even had tea and put up your feet?” I tried to smile. “Why don’t you wash up and meet me in the sitting room for a cuppa?”

As they shut the door to my boys’ room, I boiled water on the little gas circle and set biscuits on a flowered plate. I heard their murmured voices, but not the words. I wondered what they were saying, how they were judging this change in my life. Letters had been exchanged, but rarely had I confided my true feelings to them. What was the point? Could they have possibly understood? I hadn’t told them of my health problems. I hadn’t told them how I missed my boys but felt boarding school was best. I hadn’t told them that even though the job in the dank printing press basement was misery, I was bereft that it had closed down, leaving me in even a greater pinch for income. Or how I’d entered a writing contest and lost—another way I thought I’d make money and hadn’t.

It had only been two months since I’d left the summer enclave of Jack’s rooms, the pureness of those sacred hours alone working while my boys ran through the woods and took a kayak Jack had bought them out on the pond and ran through Whipsnade Zoo. We’d cooked together and gathered plums, apples, and beans. When we’d departed, they’d voiced what I felt: Why can’t we just stay here? But I was back in London now, and they were back at Dane Court.

“Darling?” Mother’s voice called out.

“In here,” I answered.

She smiled as she entered the room and went straight to the window to look out over my tiny garden. “Not quite the acres of vegetables you had on the farm, but you’ve made this your own.” She turned to me, and for one moment I thought there might be tears in her eyes. “Your garden outside and bright fabrics and paintings inside. You’ve made yourself a home.”

I laughed. “Did you think I was living in a bloody hole?”

“I didn’t know, darling. I just didn’t know.” She squinted at me. “And aren’t you quite the anglophile now, with your little words like cuppa and bloody. Next thing I know you’ll have an accent.”

“Maybe I’m just trying to fit in,” I said, “but yes, one does pick up these things quickly. I’m the only American around far as I can tell.”

Father’s cough caused us both to turn to him. “You very well could have been living in a hole, for all the support you’ve received from that no-good ex-husband of yours.”

“Oh, he’s not so bad, Father. He does what he can; it’s just that he can’t do very much. I took his sons across an entire ocean, and he misses them. He lost his house also, and he can’t seem to hold down a job. It’s not like he’s living it up and stiffing me.”