by Paul Kearney
Jack bends over me. ‘I remember. And how is Odysseos, my dear?’ he asks, smiling.
‘Very well sir,’ I say. ‘Thank you for –’
But the crowd comes in between us. I can hardly hear myself think, and stand there wondering where to go. Then there is a hand on my shoulder, and Mr Ronald is guiding me gently to the big fireplace where the logs are burning and there is space to sit on a low settle. Most people seem to be pushed up tight against the bar, and the room is full of blue smoke and laughter and the smell of beer, and I feel very small and out of place, but Mr Ronald stands over me and makes sure I am not jostled or trod on, and Jack joins us with two glasses and a steaming mug, and his face is shiny and broad as he hands it to me.
‘Marshmallows!’ he says. ‘That’s the key. ‘One must always have marshmallows in hot chocolate. Tollers, the girl will melt sitting there, as will I.’
‘She needs to warm up,’ Mr Ronald says, sipping his beer and looking down at me. ‘We shall be a trio of coalbiters, hogging the fire. How is your chocolate, Anna?’
It tastes like the best thing in the world.
‘It’s lovely, thank you.’
After that, Jack and Mr Ronald lean in close to one another and begin talking loudly in the way that grownups do in a crowd. They seem very obsessed with furniture, because they keep talking about a chair. I sit and feel the heat of the burning logs and my feet thaw out and my shoes begin to steam. I watch the people who are stuffed in the room like tin soldiers in a box, and wonder at the noise and the closeness of it all. Surely it would be easier to have conversation if it were quieter. But everyone seems to like talking loudly with their faces close together, and then drawing back to drink again, or puff on a pipe or cigarette. There are even a few women here, seated at tables around the walls, but everyone is quite old. I wonder if this is what grown-ups do when they reach a certain age, and if I will have to do it. It all looks rather jolly, but exhausting.
There is an old man with a grey beard by the door. I look away, and then look back, and I cannot shake the impression that he is watching me, though I never catch his eye. People come and go like a shifting flock of starlings, and when I try to pick him out again over the rim of my mug, he is gone and the door of the pub is swinging closed.
Out of the current of noise, I pick a sentence. It is Mr Ronald.
‘… wandering about on her own. It’s not right, Jack.’
‘I know, but what can one do? I spoke to the chap, and he seems sound enough. We can’t go putting our noses in.’
‘Hmmph.’
I look up to find them both peering down at me. Jack seems slightly embarrassed. He drains his glass, and hands it to Mr Ronald. ‘Your round, Tollers.’
‘I declare, Jack, you gulp down the stuff as though it were lemonade.’
‘Bibo, ergo sum, old chap. Now off you go.’
As Mr Ronald weaves his way to the bar, Jack sits down beside me on the low settle, and it creaks under his weight.
‘Is everything all right, Anna?’ he asks me, and he knocks out his pipe on the edge of the fireplace and begins refilling it from a leather pouch. There is sweat on his upper lip and he looks a little pop-eyed with the heat of the fire.
‘Quite all right,’ I say. ‘Thank you for the chocolate – it was lovely.’
‘Do you go to school?’
‘No. But Miss Hawcross comes round every weekday. Tomorrow it is French again, and maths. She says I do not apply myself.’
‘A governess, then?’
‘I don’t know. She looks after me sometimes when Pa – when father is in London. But he doesn’t go as often as he used to.’
‘What does your father do in London?’
‘He goes to the Colonial Office. He is trying to get us all home. Or he was. I think he has quite given up now.’
‘Home – you mean Greece – Smyrna?’
It is quite a rum sensation to hear that name. We never speak it. None of the exiles do. It’s like the way the Jews can’t speak the name of their God. I nod slowly.
‘Do you speak any Greek, Anna?’
‘Not anymore. I remember words here and there sometimes, but I was very young when we left on the battleship, not more than five or six. It was a long time ago, I suppose.’
‘The years are very grand and long when you are young,’ Jack tells me, fumbling for his matches. ‘As you grow older, so they dwindle, and fly past with much less fanfare.’
‘I hope so. I’m tired of being a child. I want to grow up and be able to go where I please and stay out as long as I like.’
Jack lights his pipe, cupping the flare of the match in his hand and running the flame around the bowl. The pipe smoke is sweet and blue. He puffs a moment, looking straight ahead, but he is not seeing anything in the bar. I can tell.
‘These years are the crucible of your life, Anna,’ he says at last. ‘The things that happen to us as children, they mark us all the rest of our days. That is why this time is so important. Do not wish it away.’ He smiles through the smoke. ‘I am an exile of sorts too. I was born across the water, where the mountains meet the sea. The land of our birth never truly leaves us.’
Mr Ronald returns with beers, and a plate with a thick-cut beef sandwich. ‘I thought you looked a little peckish,’ he says to me.
‘Really, I can’t –’ I say.
‘It’s all right my girl. I had purchased it for Jack, but forgot he’s a very picky eater. Prefers mustard with his roast beef instead of horseradish. Can you imagine?’ He makes a face, and I laugh, and take the sandwich.
Apart from Queenie’s rabbit, I have not eaten beef in weeks, and the taste is glorious, and I prefer horseradish too.
‘You are very nice gentlemen,’ I say with my mouth full, and I shouldn’t, because it is not genteel, but I don’t care.
‘You are very welcome my dear,’ Jack says, and he sets his big hand on my head for a moment. He and Mr Ronald look at one another.
‘You should come to tea sometime,’ I go on, still chewing. ‘We have Earl Grey, and toasted muffins sometimes.’
‘That would be fine,’ Jack says.
Mr Ronald is consulting his wristwatch. He gulps at his beer. ‘We’ll be late for the service, Jack.’
‘Oh, hang the service.’
‘Even an infidel like you must make an appearance from time to time.’ He looks at me. ‘You will go home after this won’t you child? I hate to think of you wandering the streets.’
‘I like wandering,’ I say, and look at Pie, wondering if I have done something wrong. ‘I can look after myself. I have been to Wytham Wood in the middle of the night, and I was quite all right.’
‘What on earth took you there?’ Jack asks, astonished.
‘I wanted to see the trees in the moonlight.’
They both laugh. ‘What glory there is in being young,’ Jack says. And to Mr Ronald, ‘You go on, Tollers. I will see her part of the way, at least. Miss Francis is rather more engaging than the Chaplain.’
Mr Ronald nods. He stoops and holds out his hand. ‘Miss Francis, it has been a rare pleasure,’ he says as I shake it. ‘And I quite agree with you about the moonlight on the trees.’
8
THE STREETS ARE quieter now, and the sun has hidden itself in cloud and Oxford is grey with cold, but the warmth of the fire and the chocolate stay with me as we walk up the High past all the grand colleges and churches. Jack is still puffing on his pipe and despite the fact that he is rather a large man, he strides along quickly in his shapeless old flannels.
‘Walking stirs up the mind,’ he says. ‘I can see you and I are eye to eye on that one, Anna.’
‘I like walking, and exploring. There’s always so much to see. I should like to spend my life tramping all over the interesting places of the world, and reading as many books as I please.’
‘I couldn’t agree more my dear. A new book is an adventure in itself.’
‘I suppose that’s what you do – you read a
lot of books?’
‘Among other things. There’s nothing like a good old sullen read, with a pot of tea and a good pipe to hand.’
‘And what about adventure? Have you been to many places? I should love to travel. Oxford is all very well, but it seems to me there are so many other more interesting places in the world.’
‘Ah, there you have me. I am one of those pitiful souls who would rather read about adventure than go out and look for it. Perilous things, adventures. They are invariably uncomfortable at some point, and they make you late for dinner.’
We walk along briskly, and I look at Pie. ‘I had an adventure,’ I say quietly.
‘Port Meadow. Yes, you told me. It sounded a little too hair-raising for someone of your age, Anna. I do beg you to be careful.’
‘No – after that. When I went to Wytham Wood in the moonlight. I met people there. I saw things.’
He looks at me somewhat sharply. ‘What kind of things?’
I feel uncomfortable with Jack’s stare, but I am bursting to tell someone, and have been for days.
‘There were people living in the wood, all sat around a fire eating rabbit stew, and singing. Some of them were quite frightening, but others were not so bad. I think I like them.’
‘Gypsies, I’ll warrant,’ Jack says, frowning, and he gives a harrumph. ‘Listen to me Anna, it is all very well having a high spirit, and the urge to explore and so on, and I do not doubt your courage for one moment, but you must exercise caution, too. The greatest explorers are those who return safe and sound to tell the tale of their travels.’
‘Captain Scott did not come back. Or Magellan either.’
Jack chuckles. ‘Well, you have me there. But Amundsen and Shackleton returned safe and sound, and Columbus had to get back to Spain before we knew that America was out there across the sea. Just think if he hadn’t! What a pickle we would have been in.’ He slows, and takes his pipe out of his mouth, stabbing the air with it. ‘The Gypsies, or Romani as they are known, are an ancient people, and they have been with us since time immemorial; but they have their own ways and customs, and it does not do to cross them. The country has taken some shrewd blows this last year or two, Anna, and there are more poor and desperate folk abroad than there used to be. It is... it is a damned ticklish time for a young girl to be out on her own, even in the environs of a city like Oxford.’
He jams the pipe back between his teeth.
‘Your father would tell you the same, I’m sure.’
‘He has.’ I am disappointed in Jack. All grown-ups are the same after all. I was going to tell him about the animal in the trees, but I won’t now. I feel sure he would not like it, or not believe me. So it must stay between Pie and me, like the killing of Fat Bert, and the shine in Luca’s eyes as they met the moon. It is a tiresome thing to have so many secrets after a while, not exciting at all. Like walking around with stones in your pockets.
We are at the corner of George street, and the Randolph is just ahead. It has begun to snow again, and the flakes are thin, biting flecks which chill my face and legs.
‘When is Midwinter?’ I ask Jack.
‘Eh? Oh, that would be tonight. Today is the shortest day of the year, and this will be the longest night. But Christmas will be here soon. I’m sure you’re looking forward to that.’
‘Yes,’ I say, not really attending. I wonder what Luca and his family are at, out in the woods right now. There was something about Midwinter’s night that seemed special to them.
‘There will be carols in Magdalen Chapel. Perhaps you and your father would like to come.’
‘Why did Mr Ronald call you an infidel?’ He stops in his tracks. ‘I only ask, because it was what we were called by the Turks, and they were all very horrible, but Mr Ronald does not seem horrible at all, so I wondered why he used that word. You are friends, aren’t you?’
Jack is standing in the street looking up at the sky, and the snow gathers bit by bit on his hat. He does that for what seems quite a long time, and then gently touches me on the shoulder and we resume our walk, more slowly now.
‘An infidel,’ he says slowly, ‘is a pejorative – it is a rather nasty word used to describe someone who does not believe in the same God as you. But believe me, Anna, Tollers meant it in jest.’
‘Oh, a joke.’
‘Well, not quite.’ He smiles around his pipe. ‘Our friend is a Papist – a Roman Catholic, and he has always been faintly scandalised by my atheism.’
‘What’s that?’ I ask, puzzled.
Jack sighs a little, and looks me up and down with his head cocked to one side. ‘I don’t believe in a God, Anna.’
‘Really? How interesting. I thought everyone believed in God.’
‘Well, most say they do, I suppose.’
‘I pray to God all the time, but I’m sure He doesn’t listen much. I never considered that He might not be there at all. I just thought He was busy, or that I was too wicked to help.’
Jack sets a hand on my shoulder as we walk along. ‘If there were a God, He would not find you wicked, Anna, I am sure of that. And I pray too, from time to time. It is a thing I cannot help. It is a need that is embedded in us all. That is man’s condition. He must always look to something greater than himself, be it a deity, or a king, or a myth. To believe that the world is just as we find it, with nothing of the numinous at its heart; that is intolerable. It simply throws the fact of our own mortality in our faces, and Man cannot bear too much reality, to quote Eliot.’ Then he stops. ‘Bless me, my dear, I’ve started to lecture you. Do forgive me.’
‘That’s all right.’
I like it when a grown-up talks to me like an equal, like a real person. It does not happen much.
‘I know Pie is only a doll, but I love her, and she…’ I hesitate. ‘She makes things better. So even if she is not a real person, I am glad she is here. It’s like that, isn’t it?’
Jack raises his eyebrows. ‘My dear, you have it in a nutshell.’
‘So, there is no God, but people feel better believing in Him.’
‘Which would be a fine thing,’ Jack says, ‘if only they would let everyone else believe or not believe in peace. Belief leads to religion, and there we have the start of all the trouble.’ He laughs. ‘I am so glad Tollers is not here, my girl; you would have him spitting smoke by now.’
‘Well, I don’t care what people believe. I just want to be left alone,’ I say.
‘And I say Amen to that,’ Jack replies gravely.
We come to a halt outside the windows of the Randolph. There is a Christmas tree inside, all lit with candles, and very well dressed people are taking tea, and waiters are moving back and forth with starched collars and silver trays. I rub my cold nose, and stare.
‘That is not to say there is not beauty in belief,’ Jack says quietly. ‘The story has a power all to itself. And I for one love a good Christmas Carol.’
We walk on. Somehow, looking in at all the people snug in the Randolph has made me feel colder, and though I don’t much care about Christmas, I can’t help feel that I am missing something, and I hug Pie close and bury my cold nose in her hair. Luca’s people around the fire in the forest were out in the cold too, but they were together, like a family. I wish I had that. I wish the Turks had left us alone and we were all still together in the beautiful city by the sea.
‘I had a brother once,’ I tell Jack. It just spills out of me. ‘He was tall, and dark haired, and he would throw me up in the air and catch me again, and he had big dark eyes. But he went away with the army to fight the Turks, and never came back. That was before we had to leave our home. I remember, though I was very small – just a baby really. Perhaps he is still alive somewhere. Perhaps he is even looking for us now. Father thinks I have forgotten him, but I never will.
‘He gave me Pie, before he left. He was in his uniform. I remember – he looked so smart. She came in a box lined with pink tissue paper.’
We walk along in silence up St Gile
s, and Jack sets his big hand on the back of my neck for a moment. In a thick voice, he says, ‘You are a brave girl, Anna. As brave as anyone I have ever met.’
I cannot think why Jack should consider me brave, but I am enormously pleased by his words. And I cannot figure why I suddenly blurted out all that about my brother. Perhaps it was the sight of the warm people in the Randolph taking tea. It reminded me of the drawing room of the old house, and Nikos – that was my brother’s name – standing stiff and tall before the mantelpiece, all in khaki, and with a big grin on his face.
We come to Walton Street, and the snow is quite thick now, and it is no longer the kind of day where I want to play at snowballs and run around in it. The snowman on the corner looks dingy and lost and has slumped to one side like a cripple. I feel sorry for him.
Jack kneels down in the snow beside me and takes me by the arms, staring into my face. I can smell the beer on his breath.
‘Anna, if ever you are in trouble, or you are just in need of a friend, then you must come to Magdalen, and leave a message in the porter’s lodge for Professor Lewis. Will you remember that now?’
I nod, wide-eyed.
‘Do not let them fob you off or hunt you out. Stand your ground like I know you can, and tell them to find me.’
‘I will, Jack.’
To my surprise, he hugs me.
‘If there is a God, then I am sure that He is looking down on you my dear,’ he says into my ear. He stands up again. ‘I will leave you here. I don’t want your father to entertain the notion that I spend my days promenading around the streets with little girls, intriguing though they might be.’ He grins, and holds out his hand.
‘Merry Christmas, Anna.’
‘Merry Christmas Jack,’ I say firmly, shaking it.
He lifts his hat to me, then turns on his heel and walks away followed by the ribbon of his pipe smoke, a faint blue trail in the falling snow.
9
THERE IS A storm that night, a great noisy wind that leaps up through the streets and whips the snow into a thrashing fog in which the gaslights are mere orange flickers, and the roads empty of traffic and people, and there is a great blow-down of soot from our chimney which sends it all over the front room, like black snow. We try to clean it up, father and I, but after an hour he throws down his duster in disgust and we step down into the basement to make tea over the spirit stove and huddle in the lamplight with blankets over our shoulders. Above us, the tall old house groans and creaks in the wind, until I almost imagine it is swaying. It is like being in the hold of a ship while the masts and sails are battered overhead, and the sea swirls in great waves about the hull.