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A   T O A S T   I N   O X F O R D

Breakfast in Swindon was a more generous affair (real fruit) than it had been in London, but still no eggs. The boys grumbled about that. The girls grumbled about the gray morning and the possibility of rain. Around them, the few guests who hadn’t already left grumbled, sometimes audibly, about the disrupted night and the behavior of some people. Enough dagger looks were hurled in the direction of his flock of students that Nigel hustled them out to the bus with more energy than usual. He’d given into the pleas of a noisy few who wanted to sleep in for a change, and maybe avoiding the breakfast crowd had been partly why.

Kristen watched the luggage being loaded into the various caverns under the bus. By now she had a fair idea who each of the suitcases belonged to. The only rival in immediate recognition to her pink-bubbles luggage was Lily’s beige with red poppies. Like all things Lily, it walked a fine line between cool and questionable. Was it Zellers or was it Zanzibar? There were many solid colors: Lindsey’s lime green, Devon’s navy blue, Sonnet’s Roots red. But most of the cases were black and, in that sea, Ashley’s leather was the only one without a tie ribbon on the handle for easy identification, because, of course, leather needed none. The ribbons bore scrutiny as well. Mr. Robson and his strip of green garbage bag—that was so “guy.” It was fun to wonder what the variations might mean. Christian: a length of red yarn (my mother tied it on for me?). Sonnet: a floral bow (I’m a girly-girl?). Tim: a piece of white string (I’m just a basic kinda’ guy?).

The only suitcase that fit into no category was Josh’s old-school hard-sided brown suitcase. It looked like something out of the sixties, and the last thing you’d expect a party boy to be dragging around. The only suitcase on the whole bus without wheels and it must weigh a ton. Someone early on suggested he was carrying bottles, but Kristen didn’t think so. Josh seemed to have no difficulty keeping himself supplied.

Maybe, she thought, there’s something sentimental about it. It was the suitcase his dad brought to England when he was a kid. Or his granddad. Something like that.

Boarding the bus today was a low-stress event. They all fell into accustomed seats in accustomed pairs. She and Alan. Sonnet and Christian. Lindsey and Josh, Lily and Devon. Sienna, who she thought would have been one of the first snatched by a guy, seemed quite content to sit with Ashley.

First names only, she realized. All these bonds and ties in the moment, none with any of the strings that connected any single one of them to their real homes, families, siblings, lives outside a bus and series of hotel rooms in England. But then, of course, temporary was part of the traveling life.

Temporary. The thought led to another: if they didn’t know each other’s last names, there would be no reconnecting on Facebook when they were all back home.

“What’s your last name?” she asked Alan as the bus pulled out of the parking lot.

“Oh, God,” he groaned, “here it comes. My worst nightmare.”

“What? It’s that bad?” She laughed.

“Oh, yeah.”

She waited.

When he saw that she wasn’t going to change the topic, or otherwise let him off the hook, he sighed and gave in. “All right. My last name is Thistlethwaite. My full name is Alan Nathaniel Thistlethwaite. Feel free to change seats.”

He was joking, but only half-joking. So, in the past, his name had cost him. She knew that feeling.

“Say it again.”

“Thistlethwaite.”

She repeated it slowly. “Thistle. Twaite?”

“Gotta get that extra ‘th’ in there.”

“Thistlethwaite.”

“You nailed it.”

“Well, it’s different. Where does it come from?”

“North of England. It means something like a field full of thistles.”

“So, I’m guessing you took a lot of teasing for it.”

“It has been a heavy burden, not always manfully borne,” he said solemnly.

She laughed. Alan Thistlethwaite was a good talker. Could you compliment a guy on being a good talker?

“Since you’re still sitting here,” he continued, “it’s your turn now.”

“My turn? Oh. Right.” Yes! ... she thought; he wants my name for Facebook, too. “Kelly. Kristen Kelly. Not much interesting about that, I’m afraid.” No way was he getting her middle name out of her.

“I don’t know. Has a nice alliteration. What’s your middle name?”

Oh, God. But he’d been so good-humored about his own name ... there was no way she could hold back. “Kathleen,” she said glumly. “After my grandmother.”

“Kristen Kathleen Kelly. Has a nice ring,” he said, clearly puzzled by the look on her face. And then he got it. “K.K.K. What were your parents thinking?”

“They weren’t, Alan Nathaniel Thistlethwaite. They just weren’t.”

The bus arrived in Oxford at 11:00 and pulled to a stop at the base of the Martyrs Memorial. It was a pointy, churchy-looking column with statues set in niches at the top, all elaborate gothic arches and fancy stonework, and Sienna wondered why such an ugly thing was worth the stop.

Josh, in no way dimmed by the midnight drama that had tired out everyone else, hopped over to the steps and started reading the text in a booming, nasal, fake British tour guide voice:

“To the Glory of God, and in Grateful Commemoration Of his servants, Thomas Cranmer, Nicholas Ridley …”

“That boy is an embarrassment,” said Mrs. Robson. Sienna noted her glare at the Oshawa teacher, who moved over to yank Josh off his perch, but not until he’d done his worst:

“… Hugh Latimer, Prelates of the Church of England, Who near this spot Yielded their Bodies To be burned…”

Sienna saw the grin freeze on Josh’s face. It had nothing to do with the teacher’s hand landing on his arm. The look was rigid shock at what he’d just said, but why? Why go all weird because some old guys died hundreds of years ago?

Josh’s mouth snapped shut but Lindsey tried to keep the game going, singsong mock-Cockney, saying, “Bearing witness to the sacred truths which they had affirmed and ...”

“Shut up,” Tim told her. She stopped in the middle of a word, surprised at the bite in his tone, and then she turned to follow Nigel.

Standing on the steps, the tour guide gave them a twenty-word history of the city and university, and listed the possibilities—walking around the colleges, shopping, the Ashmolean Art Gallery (free).

“Be back here at the Memorial for the bus at 1:00,” he said, and started giving directions to a handful whose sole goal in Oxford was not to see the University but to buy a T-shirt that said University of Oxford.

Cheesy, thought Sienna.

“Two hours for Oxford?” Mrs. Robson sounded really annoyed. “Calling that a visit to Oxford is just about fraudulent. We lost an hour here because some babies had to sleep in.”

Sienna silently agreed that things were moving just too fast. After racing around Bath in a rush, she’d decided that it would be a lot smarter to choose one or two things and just do them calmly.

“I’ve got to go to Blackwell’s Bookstore,” said Sonnet. “It’s the best bookstore in the world, and my dad will never let me hear the end of it if I don’t go there. In fact, I better buy something just to prove I did.”

“Sounds good to me,” said Christian. “If we’re fast, we can walk around after that.”

Bookstore won’t be good for penniless Ashley, Sienna thought. The free art gallery?

“I’m going to the Ashmolean,” said Kristen. “Mrs. Robson said they have a lot of Pre-Raphaelite paintings. You guys ever see that one of Ophelia drowning? I love that period.”

Lindsey said, “I heard that other teacher saying they filmed Harry Potter at Christ Church College. I really want to see that. All those guys are going.” Then she and everyone else turned to see how an argument between Tim and Josh would turn out.

The two boys stood a few yards away on the step of the monument in a debate that wasn’t as audible as yesterday’s in Warwick, but definitely more heated, leaning in, intense. Tim’s hand on Josh’s arm was urgent, Josh’s shrug dismissive, and he got loud enough for his, “Fuck off, Tim. I don’t have to do anything,” to run a ripple through everyone pretending not to listen.

The young teacher had clearly had enough of waiting. “Potterites, let’s go!” he called, and deliberately led the others away from the glaring boys.

“You coming, Josh?” Lindsey called back, and he turned abruptly and walked off to join her.

To the shops. To the gallery. To the colleges. Everyone dispersed and, in a minute, Sienna found herself alone with Tim on the monument sidewalk. Even Ashley had disappeared.

Tim stood where his friend had left him. Absolutely still, but exuding rage and something else ... sorrow? Furious but with eyes damp, biting his lip to contain whatever it was he was feeling. Sienna thought maybe he needed to be left alone.

“Hey, Tim.” She tried to be quiet, careful. Hesitant to question, available to help.

She waited while he pulled himself together.

“Sorry,” he said, trying to smile.

“You want to check out the colleges?” she asked.

Tim shook his head. “There’s a pub down this street. It’s where Tolkien and C. S. Lewis used to hang out. I can’t be in Oxford without going there.”

It was hard to read his voice. “I don’t want to hold you up, if you want to do something else ...”

Did he want company or not? She took the bull by the horns: “You want to be alone?”

“No, actually. Company would be great. I was supposed to have some,” he said, jerking his head bitterly in the direction of the departed Josh. “But, yeah, the more the merrier.”

“Okay, the pub,” she said. “My buy.”

“No,” said Tim. “It’s mine. My Middle Earth. My Narnia. My buy.”

“You know, you make no sense at all,” said Sienna.

It was nice to see that half-smile travel across his face. “Only to the uninitiated,” he said. “And it’s still my buy.”

Almost as soon as they left the Memorial, Carly got lost. The group had headed down the Balliol College side of the island across from Magdalen Street and, at the corner, a fleet of vans and trailers for a movie crew swept around the corner. What film? she wondered, trying to read the sides of the vehicles as they drove past. And when they’d all roared past and she turned around to join the group, she was all alone.

Though, technically, not lost. As long as she could get back to the Memorial for 1 PM, she was okay. A map would be good, she thought and, ten minutes later, having found a poster-board outline for tourists on Broad Street, she could see what had gone wrong. The group had simply walked the short distance along Broad, jogged a few feet to the right, and continued south on Commercial toward Christ Church. When she looked up, they’d been just around the corner, only she couldn’t see them.

It would be easy to catch up, she thought.

But did she want to? After days of tensely answering to someone else’s name, it was a relief to be on her own. And while Sienna, for some mysterious reason, was going out of her way to take care of “Ashley” and hide the reality of her empty wallet, did that generosity come with a hidden price tag? Sienna didn’t seem one bit like the charity type. More like the kids who mocked the school food drive while revving out of the parking lot in Daddy’s convertible. So it was a treat to be out from under that speculating gaze.

Here she was in Oxford, an hour and a half in a city that everyone treated like the center of the university universe. Instead of rushing after the group, she would poke around on her own.

But where? She knew nothing about Oxford. It made her feel stupid, as so many things on the trip had made her feel, all this history that whispered all around in stories and art and architecture, and raised questions that made you feel like you knew so little and ought to know more.

Carly stood in the sunshine on Broad Street and thought, Okay, Oxford. Show yourself. What are you all about?

The tourist board map was half-geography, half-art, an aerial view of the main attractions with pictures, the colleges with turrets and towers, the margins jammed with history, the white spaces around each college filled with the names of its famous graduates in fine print.

The others had headed for Christ Church, but many colleges were closer and, taking a mental snapshot of a possible route, she turned right and walked farther down Broad Street, ready to follow the attraction of anything that caught her eye. Three separate colleges, she knew, were just down the corner of Turl Street, so she turned toward them. In the next hour, she wandered past Jesus College (founded in Shakespeare’s time), Exeter (seven hundred years old, and where the Lord of the Rings guy went to school), and Lincoln College (covered in Virginia creeper).

The buildings were beyond beautiful, the grass in the quads greener and thicker than any grass carpet she’d ever set foot on, the gothic windows like views into another time. It was hard to believe that ordinary people could go to school here, do homework, have rooms behind those leaded panes.

But maybe because she’d started out annoyed, Oxford started to annoy her, too. She was tired of all this walking and there wasn’t a bench to be found. And the list of famous alumni—men, every last one of them, except for Lincoln College, which boasted that Emily Mortimer had studied there. That actress with the part in Notting Hill? The only woman they could list in all of Oxford was an actress?

It was odd for her to think like that. In that Social Issues class last semester, she had laughed at the group who called themselves feminists. That was back when she and Dom first started hanging together. The magic of a guy and a girl together had been a fresh discovery. One of those obvious truths that every song on the radio sang about: men and women, different but so much better together. Nature as genius.

All the same, she’d had no patience when Dom had to have it proved that she could drive the John Deere at the farm. He just wouldn’t believe she’d been doing it since she was twelve.

Well, no Dom now, and those lists of men—centuries of men in the fine print on the map beside each college—those lists really made her mad. How many women in all those centuries had been just as smart and never got anywhere near an Oxford college?

It really pissed her off.

Sudden clouds gathered and, in a matter of minutes, the sky unleashed a brief shower. After a quick duck into the arch above the gate of Brasenose, she wandered forth and found herself in front of a tower she had seen before. In a film scene, in the rain. Two bundled people huddled damn-foolishly in the early morning, May Day, looking up at this College Tower, and then the choristers begin to sing madrigals. Shadowlands—that flick that had cost Mom half a box of tissues when C. S. Lewis’s wife died, and eight-year-old Carly asked questions every minute: Why are they in those funny dresses (academic robes)? Why do they talk so funny? Why is that boy banging at the back of that cupboard? And then Mom bought The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe, and they read the novel together every night at bedtime for a month.

Carly found a plaque that said: Every year on the first of May at dawn the Choristers of Magdalen College greet the sunrise from the top of this tower.

A girl pedaled past on a bike, raincoat flapping, wicker basket stuffed with books.

Could she, Carly Venn, ever be that girl? Southern Ontario girl with no money and adulthood looming in one year. Her meager savings “borrowed” and a mother who, instead of a help, needed caring for herself. An impossible proposition but, by the time the sun came out, she’d made a resolution. Along with her applications to universities at home, just for a laugh, just to remember all those women who never got to go, she’d apply to Oxford herself. Just for a laugh.

The Eagle and Child Pub was just up St. Giles from the Martyrs Memorial, a narrow white building with leaded windows and a black door opening right onto the sidewalk. Above the door, from a filigreed wrought iron pole, an oval medallion hung—flying Eagle on a blue background, its talons carrying away a captive child.

“They nicknamed it ‘The Bird and Baby,’” said Tim, looking up at the sign.

It was dim inside, two little rooms on either side of the entrance, several tiny tables jammed into each other, a bar further down, and passages leading back to other clusters of patrons. Tim motioned to the empty room on the left and they took the table by the window.

“So Tolkien hung out here. It would be cozy in winter,” said Sienna, pointing at the tiny fireplace.

Tim embarked on an enthusiastic speech about the writers for whom The Child and Eagle had been a hangout. “And a lot of other writers. They called themselves The Inklings and got together to read their manuscripts to each other. You never read Lord of the Rings? Or the Narnia stories?” he asked hopefully.

“When I was little, my dad read The Hobbit to me, and The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, too. We went to see that movie when it came out last year.” Good times, she thought, remembering her dad and his amazing business drive, and the way he’d loved those books, and his sudden strange rebellion against the way their life as a family was lived. She wished she could tell him about The Bird and Baby. Maybe there was a coaster or something she could pick up to show him, show him she’d been here and thought of him.

The waitress came and they ordered—a Coke for her and some kind of beef sandwich, but Tim asked what kind of beer they had and ordered a pint of bitter. The woman hesitated for a second, looking at his young face, but finally nodded.

They waited for the food, making random conversation. She wondered if Tolkien got the idea of having Bilbo and the Hobbits rescued by the Eagles from the pub sign. Tim said it could be.

But nothing more. Sienna commented on the wide streets of Oxford. Different from Bath. Tim said it was nice the rain had held off.

But it was all flat. Lifeless, as if there were weight in the air. As if something was going on that you couldn’t see just by looking.

The waitress arrived with their food, returned with the drinks, and left again.

“Isn’t it kind of early for beer?” Sienna asked.

Tim shrugged. Looked down at the dark brown liquid, ran one slow finger up the condensation on the side.

He looked downhearted and Sienna said, “You really wanted to come here with Josh, didn’t you?”

He nodded.

“Don’t take it personally. He seems really into Lindsey right now. When those things start up, they mess with the other friendships for a while.”

“That’s not it. That’s not it at all,” he said, his clear brown eyes looking at her like he was trying to make a decision—and then decided.

“It was a promise. We made a promise to a friend.” His voice was rough with emotion.

“And Josh isn’t keeping it.” Sienna put it into words for him.

He nodded.

“Look,” she said, “I know he’s your friend but he’s been a jerk on this trip. Maybe you’re better off—”

”No! It’s not like that, either. I know Josh has been an ass the whole time you’ve known him, but that’s not really what he’s like.”

She was puzzled. How could you console a guy who stuck up for a friend who so obviously ditched him when it mattered?

“Your lunch is getting cold,” he said. “Let’s eat and I’ll tell you what happened.”

Their sandwiches were toast with mushrooms and melted cheese on thin slices of beef. It was delicious and, when the last bite was gone, Tim told her a story that finally explained everything odd about the students from Oshawa they’d been riding with for five days.

“Were you ever in Band?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“What’s your instrument?”

“Flute.”

Why should that make him wince? she wondered.

“So you know what it’s like. Band kids are different from jocks. You practice all year, not just in the season; there are road trips, competitions. You’re in Band from Grade 9 right through. You really get to know each other.”

Sienna knew exactly what he was talking about.

“Most of the kids on this trip were in Band,” Tim continued. “Mister Malone is our music teacher.”

She thought about the kids in her own school music program. Not necessarily nerdy, but keen. Smart in all kinds of subjects and also disciplined enough to practice, cooperative enough to make big music with many instruments. The Oshawa kids were nothing like that.

“Josh, too? And Lily? And that crazy Devon?”

Tim smiled, recognizing her disbelief. “Josh is first trumpet. A really good one. Devon plays tuba and Lily’s on trombone. In fact, you know that old suitcase Josh uses?”

“Yeah. What’s up with that piece of junk?”

“He brought his horn with him. He didn’t want to use his instrument case, because everyone would see he couldn’t leave it home. You should have seen him sweating at the airport when they made him run it through the scanner three times; he was scared they’d make him unpack in front of everybody.”

“And the suitcase is for ...?”

“The old hard sides are to keep it from getting banged up.”

Weird, she thought. “What do you play?”

“Drums.”

Instruments were bizarre. No reflection of personality. She’d have put Josh on the noisy drums, and the clean, clear notes of the trumpet together with Tim.

“We had a friend in Band for four years. From the first week of Grade 9. He was the Tolkien nut. Got us all reading the books, dragged us to the movies every time a new one came out—and he’d go two or three times. We used to call him ‘Hobbit’ but it didn’t bug him, even if he was being teased for being a shrimp.”

He smiled. “He played the flute, like you; we used to say he played a girl instrument, no offense, because he lined up so nice height-wise.”

“Sweet,” she said, sarcastically. “You guys are so mean to each other.”

“He didn’t care. Told Devon it took someone big and stupid to handle the tuba. He was the first one to sign up for this trip, and he earned every cent of his ticket himself, stocking shelves at the Metro store. Couldn’t stop telling us about Stonehenge and the barrows, and how Tolkien’s translation of Beowulf revived Anglo-Saxon studies, and he knew Norse, and maybe that was how he made Elvish, and made us go see that crap movie Grendel. He was studying up on the Druids ...

He’s talking slower, thought Sienna. It’s getting more serious. “What was his name? His real name?”

He stopped. Looked down at the table, as if gathering himself. “Luke. His name was Luke. He died.”

Sienna set her Coke glass down carefully. “What happened?” she asked gently.

“He lived in one of those little wartime houses with his mom and a couple of sisters. My dad says those wood houses were slapped up after the war for returning soldiers. Luke’s house caught fire one night in the spring. Two months ago. Bad wiring, they said. Anyway, it was at night, and Luke and his mom got out and one of the sisters, and it looked like it was all okay. But then they weren’t sure if his other sister had come home late from work, or if she was in there, and Luke went back in.”

He talked fast now, as if that would make the telling easier. “But the roof came down on him and, in the end, it turned out she’d stayed at work late, so the whole fucking thing had no point at all.”

That was the first time she’d heard him swear.

“So he died in the fire?”

He grimaced. “Maybe it would have been better. They got him out with third-degree burns all over his body. His face was ...”

He stopped. “He lived for ten days. The pain was ... anyway, his mom said he wanted to see me and Josh. So we went to the hospital. He could hardly talk but he tried to joke. Said since he couldn’t come, we had to have a beer for him at The Eagle and Child. And we had to say hi to Stonehenge. For him. He made us promise.”

The silence they shared for a few moments was like a tribute. An offering of time to a boy who had no more time at all. In the quiet, Sienna rethought everything she’d seen of Tim and his friends in the last five days.

She spoke first. “Good for you, Tim. Being here. Keeping the promise.” She had to work to keep her disgust at Josh out of her voice.

But then, thinking of the scene at the monument, she saw it differently. She, too, had seen Josh’s stricken face. Burned. Cranmer, Ridley, and Latimer had been burned at the stake, and the word had stuck in Josh’s throat like a rock.

“But don’t be too hard on him,” she said . “What you’re saying explains a lot. Especially all that drinking. He’s running away from it. It hurts too much. It’s not that he wanted to let you down. It just hurts too much.” Is this me? she wondered. Me, doing this soft and fuzzy caring stuff?

Tim looked at her gratefully.

And then, soft Sienna disappeared as she remembered last night. “But what about that crap with the lighters last night?” She couldn’t keep the indignation out of her voice. “The sight of a fire truck must be like ripping off a bandage for your friends, and Josh goes and plays with fire? With fire?”

“Yeah,” Tim acknowledged wearily. “I know it was harsh. But what you said before was true. My mom and dad made me go to a counselor. He says we all grieve different. That fire thing was pure Josh. He can’t talk about things but he’ll walk straight at them. I think that’s what he was doing last night.”

Sienna considered. “I think you’re way too soft on him. He should be here. A true friend would be here, no matter what it cost him.”

Tim smiled but he was clearly reserving judgment. “Anyway, I’m glad I’m not alone. Thanks for being here. And Josh ... I’m not giving up on old Josh yet.”

She swallowed the words that might have come out and said instead, “Well. About the beer. The beer you’re going to drink for Luke.”

They looked at the so-far untouched glass of bitter. Would he rather fulfill his promise alone, or would company be a comfort? “Can I join you?”

“Yeah,” he said with a grateful smile. “That would be way better.”

They went to the bar together. “Something light,” she said, and he pointed to the tap of amber Irish ale.

While the waitress filled the glass, Sienna took a careful look around the room. Another fireplace, cozy chairs. Tables ringed from wet glasses. A place where famous men had sat. Writers. Too bad Sonnet wasn’t here, she thought, and that was a funny thing about this trip, how they were all landing in odd places with surprising people.

On the opposite wall, a framed bit of writing hung and she wandered over to have a look. Then called to Tim, “You’ve got to see this!”

He joined her in front of the framed words. Handwritten. A jovial scrawl that read: We, the undersigned, have drunk your health ...

The first signature was C.S. Lewis, Fellow of Magdalen, sometime scholar of University ...

“Oh, my God,” said Tim. His eyes scanned the names, the titles, the changes of handwriting of eight men gathered to read and laugh and drink beer together.

The last on the list, the elaborate print in heavy, careful letters was John Ronald Reuel Tolkien. M.A. Merton Professor of English Languages and Literature ...

Tim’s hand hovered reverentially above the glass. “He wrote that. His pen. Wow.”

Another silence and they retired with the beer to their table.

Sienna thought something about Tim had changed. He looked taller.

“To Luke,” he said, raising his glass.

“To Luke,” she said. They clanked the glasses and sipped the bitter beer and listened to the voices rising in the pub behind them.

It was good, but it needed more, Sienna thought. “Let’s switch brews,” she suggested. The glasses rotated clockwise. Bitter, ale, and lager

“Yes,” said Tim. “Luke would have liked that.”

“To Luke,” they repeated with glasses raised, clinked, and downed.

“Better in threes,” Tim said, so they exchanged again and they said, “To Luke,” a third time, and the door to the pub swung open again and again as the lunch crowd began to build. Behind them the laughter rose, filling the small rooms with good jokes, present friends, and past company. The long dead. The newly lost. It all mingled together in the old wood, the voices, and the smell of hops.