Educating Simon

by Robin Reardon

That was the first I’d heard of an art search. Didn’t mean it wasn’t true, but I’ll bet they hadn’t planned to go just now.

  Again, I was silent a little too long. Mum turned to me, not impatient, but it was time for me to say something. “What do you think, Simon? Do you want to go home and talk about it?”

  I looked at Dr. Metcalf. He was grinding his jaw, staring at something over my head. Watching his face, I said, “I’ll be there Friday.” He looked at me, and his face softened. Something in his eyes told me that although he was angry at Oxford on my behalf, he approved of my not standing on principle now. He wanted me to go. He’d fought for me to go. I felt overwhelmed by a rich, bittersweet feeling; it was almost like my father was fighting for me.

  Dr. Healy said, “Unless you feel otherwise, I’ll wait until tomorrow morning to confirm. Let them sweat just a little, eh?”

  Mum stood and shook hands all around. “Thank you both, very much, for supporting Simon in this.” To me, she said, “We’ve got some packing to do, haven’t we?”

  I shook Dr. Healy’s hand. “Thank you. I really appreciate this.”

  I turned to Dr. Metcalf and held out my hand. He reached out and embraced me.

  So I’ve got my interview. Ned was thrilled and gave me a big hug. Brian even came in from his office, beaming when Mum told him the news. And there really is a special art exhibit, and Mum and Brian really are in the market for art. So they’ll stay in London whilst I take the train to Oxford for my interviews. I like that arrangement better than having them come with me.

  I think.

  I have to say, though, after this crisis, my attitude is radically changed. I’ll go to the interviews, but they will be as much of Oxford as by Oxford. Which is to say that having them pull this on me has made me feel much less invested. They won’t be able to intimidate me. And if they don’t take me after the interview, if I don’t get an offer in January, I’ll shake the dust off my feet and move on. With the glowing report from St. Boniface, I feel confident of admission to a good school someplace else.

  I sent Kay an e-mail wishing her a happy Thanksgiving and letting her know I was on my way to England, and why. I knew she’d be glad for me.

  London, Thursday, 22 November

  I’m just going to type that again.

  London.

  London!

  I can’t quite believe I’m on English soil again. I’ve been in Boston long enough so that London seems enormous, but in a good way. We arrived late last night. Brian managed to get three tickets, despite the Thanksgiving crush. The UK is not a typical destination for this holiday, so although the Boston airport was a zoo, the flight wasn’t quite packed. Interestingly, Persie had asked if she might come. Instead of just saying no, Brian sat down with her and described what the trip would be like, especially the airports. And she decided she’d stay home.

  At this moment, Mum and Brian are at the Tate Modern. I’m writing this whilst at afternoon tea in the Lanesborough, where we’re staying. I’m not sure they approve completely of my working away right here, but—too bad. I have missed really good afternoon tea profoundly, I’m all by myself, and I’m not going to sit and stare blankly around me.

  I visited Tink this morning. Margaret was at school, but her mother was delighted to see me.

  “She’s the most wonderful cat, Simon. Your mum had said, but I thought maybe it was just that she was that fond.”

  Tink knew me. She came right over and wound around my ankles. I stroked her gently, massaged her spine above her tail, and picked her up. She sat on my shoulder just like old times, rubbing my neck with her face and purring and purring and purring. I closed my eyes and buried my nose in her fur. She smelled just the same as she always did.

  I wanted to hold her so tightly! It would have killed her for sure. I played with her some and gave her a couple of treats. She was happy and well cared for—not that I’d had any doubts, but still one wants to be sure. I left Margaret a handwritten thank-you note, gave Tink one last kiss, and headed back to the hotel.

  I’m still not nervous about my interviews tomorrow. It feels so right, being here. It really is home. Actually, it feels rather peaceful.

  I had a nice nap before dinner, a meal that was above excellent. The Lanesborough’s Apsleys can do no wrong. Plus, now that we’re back in civilisation, as long as an adult orders for me, I can have wine with dinner. I had salmon tartare, venison with wood mushrooms, and chocolate soufflé. The wine was a rich, fruity Châteauneuf-du-Pape. With pudding, I was tempted by a port, but Brian ordered Château d’Yquem for the table. I noticed he chose the least expensive vintage, but this . . . this elixir, this nectar from the gods, is costly beyond belief.

  So I’m a little tipsy, but it’s a pleasant buzz. I have to get up early tomorrow to travel to Oxford. I had the hotel press my interview clothes, which are strictly St. Boniface. If they didn’t like what I did at Swithin, let them see me as a St. Boniface product.

  I haven’t let myself dwell on what I’d learned from Dr. Healy. Being a little drunk, my inhibitions are lowered, so maybe I’ll go there now, and think as I type.

  My marks were not in question; that much is clear. So, stretching my mind back over my Swithin career, although I was in the debate club when I was fifteen, I dropped it after that.

  Why?

  Thinking . . . thinking . . . As I recall, I got kind of fed up with some of the other pupils. Impatient. I didn’t much like any of them, and they annoyed me.

  I was in the tennis club one year, too. Same problem.

  These words just flew into my brain: “You walk around with this chip on your shoulder. It doesn’t take much to set you off, and when you’re set off, you let everyone know it.” Words spoken to me by one Michael Vitale after I lost patience with Chas and X.

  This memory sent me over to a parallel but very different one, of when I had told Luther I’d had enough of him. I do see that as different in every way, including what I said, how I said it, and why I said it. Instead of judging him, I’d taken his lead—the one in which he makes sure his needs are met. He’d met one need of mine, which was to experience sex with someone. But after that, my needs and his diverged. It was as simple as that. It didn’t make him wrong or me right.

  If I use these two events, similar in nature but revealing different versions of me, what kind of substance was I, and what kind of metal have I become?

  It’s just struck me that this question is important not only to me, but also it could be something I’m asked about tomorrow. If what I’d seen on the Internet was true, they’re more likely to ask me questions like this than to demand a chronology of England’s monarchs.

  So. Before the fire? Before Boston . . . I see that version of myself as rigid, stiff, unyielding . . . brittle. That’s the right word. I was brittle. And after Boston, on this side of that fire?

  The obvious place to begin, of course, is steel. But there are various kinds of steel.

  An Internet search has told me that there are three good carbon steels for sword making: 1045, 1060, and 1095. Of course, my first inclination was to relate to 1095; it’s the most refined and the most expensive. But examining the properties of these three, I see that 1095 is the most brittle, even though it will keep the keenest edge. That seems rather like where I used to be. It’s important for me to admit this without being proud of it. I realise with a certain amount of shame that I have taken pride in exactly these aspects of my personality, and looking back I see that leaning on them—defining myself by them—is why I don’t make friends. Not only has it made me unlikeable, but also it’s made it hard for me to like others.

  Carbon 1045 is softer and easier to work with. But no matter how much fire I’m put through, I’ll never be soft or easy to work with.

  Carbon 1060 is a good balance between strength and pliability. It’s where I want to land, in terms of who I am. And I think I’m on the right path.

  There has to be a way to work this thought process into my inter
views tomorrow. And given that this transformation was the lever my mentors at St. Boniface used to open Oxford’s doors, it seems very likely they’ll want to know why they should consider me now, when they wouldn’t have considered me at all if I’d stayed at Swithin.

  . . .

  I need a minute, here.

  . . .

  They wouldn’t have considered me at all if I’d stayed at Swithin.

  . . .

  It occurs to me that this is the very thing they will want me to say. But—can I say it? After all the fuss I made? After nearly committing suicide twice? How much of a fool does this make me?

  I’ve just spent maybe forty-five minutes sitting in a chair by the window, looking out across the relative darkness of Hyde Park. The conclusion I’ve come to is this: I’m not a fool, but I have been foolish. That said, my mother and Brian are not blameless. Like Luther in some ways, they put their own needs first. The question is whether a truly devoted parent would have waited for me to finish at Swithin to avoid yanking me into an unknown environment at a crucial time of my life. Mum couldn’t have known that limiting my career to Swithin would have lost me my chance at Oxford, rather than assured me of it.

  If she hadn’t followed her own needs, though, I would have stayed at Swithin, and lost Oxford. Swithin was not going to begin my transformation into carbon 1060.

  Life is complicated. And whilst I do think we can make some judgement calls on each other’s behaviour, we can’t ever be sure about the future, and we can’t know whether an apparent blackness is only that, or if it will force us to improve ourselves so that we can create light.

  Success will depend on how we manage change. Brian told me that once, and I hated him for it.

  Enough. If I go round on this again, I’ll be up all night.

  London, Friday, 23 November

  Back in Boston, they celebrated Thanksgiving yesterday. I’m celebrating it today.

  After all that insistence that I wasn’t nervous—well, of course I was. As I’ve said before, I’m fine once a test begins, but right before it I’m quite anxious. And it wasn’t just the interviews. There was also the train ride to Oxford, which I’d done only once years ago with my father, and getting around Oxford. I didn’t quite know what to expect: Would taxis abound, or would they be scarce? Mum offered to hire a car for me, but I really wanted to do this on my own. So I suffered through the shakes.

  As it turned out, the train ride was nothing much, and although there weren’t a lot of taxis about, I managed; the overall campus isn’t horribly spread out, and I wasn’t carrying anything heavy, just my book bag with my tablet, my mobile, a paper notebook, and a couple of pens.

  I’m not going to try and rehash all my interviews. The most important things I had to say are in my last journal entry, and I made sure I said them.

  Other than that, there were two things that stood out from the sessions. One was that the Pembroke tutor, Dr. Franklin, asked me the most questions—and got the best answers out of me—about the idea of working in the field of autism. Dr. Franklin was absolutely fascinated by my experiences with Persie. She knows Persie has AS, which is different, but it’s still autism. She was especially taken with my approach—to think of it like working with a cat. She was equally fascinated by the way I had used my synaesthesia in conjunction with the art that Persie already loved to communicate with her. All three of them liked that I had pulled so many aspects of my new environment into my academic work, but Dr. Franklin was the most enthusiastic.

  The other thing that stood out was that Trinity wanted to talk to me at all. It turns out they’d seen quite a bit of my writing, both from Swithin and from St. Boniface, and they saw a philosophical bent that made them encourage me to consider comparative theology. Once I knew this, I realised that to take full advantage of all opportunities to get an offer from somebody at Oxford, I needed to describe my experience in the labyrinth. I was careful not to be too specific about what had driven me to walk the shape that day. Dr. Aspenwald was at least as fascinated by my metaphysical meanderings as Dr. Franklin had been about Persie.

  After this interview I took myself on a little tour of Trinity. It has probably the most beautiful library I’ve ever seen. The grounds are lovely, and the buildings ornate and impressive.

  Then I found Pembroke, which is a little farther out of town from Magdalen and Christ Church. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing, and it’s not like it’s terribly far. Magdalen is small and pretty, and Christ Church is large. I’m leaning away from that larger size; I think I do better in smaller groups.

  I was standing outside the dining hall at Pembroke, marvelling at how similar it is to other buildings all over the campus, when someone came round a corner quickly and walked right into me.

  “Oh! Sorry, really.” He seemed about to go on, but he looked more closely at me. “Say, are you a student here?”

  “Not this year. Maybe next.” He was adorable. Fresh face, lively blue eyes, blond hair going every which way.

  He held out his hand. “Spencer-Nelson. Julian.”

  I took his hand. “Fitzroy-Hunt. Simon.”

  We dropped hands, but held eyes. He said, “I’m only a lowly fresher. That what you’ll be next year?”

  “Mmmm. What are you reading?”

  “Linguistics, mostly. You?”

  “More general PPL. Might study autism and related disorders.”

  “Brilliant. Um, are you on campus for a while?”

  “No, actually, about to head back to London.”

  “That where you live?”

  “No. Staying at the Lanesborough for a few days. We’re in Boston currently.”

  “Lovely restaurant, Apsleys. Love to pick your brain about Boston sometime. I’ve visited a cousin there and can’t quite make sense out of the place. Listen, if you get back here . . .” He dug into a pocket and handed me a card.

  “Thanks. I’ll look you up. I’m in between cards; in between countries, you know.” I made a mental note to have cards made, even if they had to have the Marlborough Street address.

  We nodded, in typical English fashion having sized each other up thoroughly enough to know that we have much in common: our backgrounds, our education, our social standing, our hyphenated last names, and our sexual orientation. All without fuss.

  I love England.

  I stood for a good five minutes staring into the front gate of New College from the street. Then I headed for the train.

  I had another school visit to make today, and I didn’t want to do it in school clothes. If I’ve had a transformation, I want to look transformed. So I went to the hotel when I got back to London and put on some of those new clothes Brian had bought me. Over the black shoes I wore my tightest jeans, a silk shirt in a terrific pattern of coloured lines, and the shearling jacket with the cape-like lapels. I made sure my new hairstyle was perfectly coiffed. And I took myself over to Swithin.

  I stood across the street for a bit, marvelling at how impressive the place looks. The wrought iron front gate is formidable. When I went over and rang the bell, I recognised the guard who appeared. I smiled at him.

  “Baker. Good to see you.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. You are—?”

  I blinked. “It’s me. Fitzroy-Hunt. Simon.”

  He blinked back. “So it is. Sorry, sir; didn’t know you at first. Back for a visit?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He opened the door, and I puzzled over whether I looked so very different out of school clothes, or whether I’d really changed substantially.

  I wandered into a couple of buildings, decided against going towards any of the classrooms, and found myself outside the library. I’d seen several pupils I recognised, but even when I looked right at them they didn’t respond. Could be English reserve not letting them look closely; hard to tell. I stood at the library door, debating whether to look up a couple of my old teachers, when I heard my name.

  “Fitzroy-Hunt? Is that you?”

&
nbsp; I looked to my right, directly into the eyes of Graeme Godfrey. Something about him seemed more mature—maybe just that his hair was a little shorter. In amazement, I realised he was not as handsome as my Graeme.

  I found my voice. “It is. Though no one else seems to recognise me.”

  “Well . . . look at you. You’re not the same person at all.”

  “No?”

  He shook his head, and by the look on his face I could tell he approved of the change. “Are you back?”

  “Interviewing at Oxford. Thinking seriously of Pembroke. Though Trinity gave a very good interview as well.”

  “Interviews? Already? Mine’s not for two weeks. And . . . what do you mean, they ‘gave’ a good interview?”

  I smiled a knowing smile. “Mine is a special case. And of course, I was interviewing them as well. It’s not just me on trial, y’know.”

  He laughed. “You haven’t changed that much, then. Still arrogant. But I always liked that about you.”

  It was on the tip of my tongue to say, “What else did you like? And what do you like better now?” Instead, I asked, “You still with . . . What was her name?”

  “Madeleine, I think, when you were here.” My mind went to red-haired Maddy in Boston, and I had to shake myself mentally. “It’s Brenda now. You? Anyone special?”

  “I’ve been seeing a couple of guys in Boston, sure. Nothing serious, of course. Knew I was coming back to England.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Which part?” I knew very well which part. I made him ask, though.

  “You said ‘guys.’ ”

  “Of course.” I waited two beats. “I’m gay, you know.”

  “Uh, no. That is . . . no.”

  I reached out a hand and grasped his upper arm briefly. “Good to see you, Godfrey. Maybe we’ll run into each other at Oxford.” I walked away whilst he was still gawking.

  Yes! That felt good. That felt so fucking good. And I don’t even know why.