AFTER lunch was a surprising affair.
For starters, Oliver actually did ask my father about his monograph. At first, I thought it very noble of him, because I was afraid my father would bore him senseless—but of course, Oliver, too, was an Austen scholar.
At first, I’d been surprised that Oliver hadn’t mentioned his studies, but after a few minutes’ listening, decided he was being discreet. My father’s many references to his years of research and his determination to win every point made me cringe. Oliver, however, appeared to take it all in his stride and I could only admire his tact.
They had a lively discussion to which Jane contributed several pithy remarks that made it hard not to giggle. Incredibly, so far from being annoyed by the cut and thrust of the conversation, my father actually seemed to enjoy it. By afternoon tea-time, I’d decided they could go on discussing Michael Giffin’s theory of Fanny Price as ‘an archetype of redemptive suffering’ for as long as they wished, since it meant me staying out of my father’s firing line.
My mother had other ideas.
Jane had just asked me: ‘So if I understand your father correctly, Cassandra, he holds to the proposition that it is my Christian beliefs and my rearing in the Anglican church that form the basis of my novels and make them social and religious – what was the word he used? Ah, yes. Commentaries. Social and religious commentaries. Is that right?’, when my mother, with a tight smile, interrupted my father’s argument about Edmund Bertram’s personal theology in Mansfield Park.
‘That’s enough about your monograph, George. I’m sure Oliver didn’t come all this way to hear about the scriptural basis of Jane Austen’s books.’ She passed Oliver a cup of tea. ‘I’m sure you have many other interests besides Jane Austen.’ She smiled at him. ‘What sort of work do you do?’
Oliver took the delicate china cup and returned her smile. ‘Right now, I’m working part-time in an old people’s home.’
My father almost choked on his tea. ‘You’re a temp? Like Cassandra?’ His tone was contemptuous. ‘She’s never held down a full-time job in her life.’ He looked Oliver up and down. ‘I must say I’m surprised. You seem bright enough. I’d have thought you’d have set your sights on something better than temp work.’
For a fleeting moment Oliver’s eyes met mine and I caught a decidedly martial gleam in their grey depths. ‘It’s very rewarding work, sir.’
‘I can’t imagine it pays very well.’
‘Now, George.’ My mother handed Oliver some cake. ‘We all have to start somewhere. Though I do think it’s a pity Cassandra is no longer using her degree.’
‘A degree in art history from a second-rate university?’ scoffed my father. ‘Hardly worth the paper it’s printed on! A casual job at that fellow Julian’s gallery is all it got her. I know she doesn’t have much talent, but if she’d just taken my advice and followed in my footsteps as a teacher...’
‘Now, George, you know Cassie’s not like you—’
‘No, she most certainly is not.’ And my father laughed: a mean, sarcastic, stomach-punch of a laugh. It gutted me, and just as I thought I might throw my teacup at him, I felt Oliver’s hand on mine.
He smiled at me: a kind, reassuring smile that seemed to say, ‘Don’t worry, I’m here for you.’ I smiled tremulously back before he turned to my mother. ‘That was a wonderful lunch, Mrs Austin. It’s been ages since I had a Sunday roast—and on a Wednesday, too. Such a treat. Oxford food’s not what it used to be – or so my mum tells me.’
‘Oxford?’ Father’s voice sliced the air. ‘What’s Oxford got to do with it?’
‘My father and my brothers, Henry and James, were at Oxford,’ murmured Miss Austen wistfully. ‘And my great-uncle, Theophilus Leigh, was Master of Balliol College for many years.’ She drifted over to the window and looked out at the garden.
‘I’m due back there in September, sir,’ replied Oliver blithely. ‘I’m only working at Happy Acres during my long vacation.’
‘So, you’re up at Oxford?’ I could hear the sudden doubt in my father’s voice – could almost see the wheels turning – as he tried to work out exactly where on the social and intellectual spectrum Oliver actually stood.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Been there long?’
Oliver grinned. ‘Not long enough, I’m afraid.’
My father was not amused and said repressively, ‘I suppose you’re in digs? Too many young people seem to prefer that to college these days.
‘Actually, I’m at Balliol, sir.’
A little spark of hope flared inside me as my father’s jaw dropped ever so slightly.
‘A Balliol man, eh? What are you reading?’
‘I’m doing a DPhil in history.’
Father’s jaw dropped a little further and the spark became a glowing ember. ‘A doctoral degree?’ I heard the scepticism in his voice. ‘And what period of history are you studying?’
‘Early nineteenth-century British, sir. Jane Austen’s period specifically.’
The ember burst into a flame of barely-suppressed triumph as my father sat up and regarded Oliver intently. ‘Ah, that accounts for it. You have some radical notions about Austen, but you seem to know your subject.’
‘Thank you, sir, though I must naturally defer to you as the resident expert. That monograph of yours will be quite something when it’s finished.’ My father practically writhed with pleasure, while I looked at Oliver in awe. I’d never seen my father so expertly handled, and by a total stranger, too.
Father’s attention was now well and truly focused on this surprising guest and we finished afternoon tea with an interrogation of Oliver’s doctoral thesis and his research methodology. Father was so impressed that I almost danced out to the kitchen with the cups and plates, returning just in time to hear him say pompously, ‘As Professor Olive Trewell said of Jane Austen, “Of all great writers she is the most difficult to catch in the act of greatness.”’
There was a pause. Oliver gave me the oddest look, before dipping his head deferentially at my father. ‘I beg your pardon, sir, but I believe it was Virginia Woolf who said that. I think you’ll find that what Professor Trewell actually said was, “The greatness of Austen’s artistry lies in the concealment of her art.”’
There was a pause before my father replied stiffly, ‘Though I hesitate to contradict a guest, I’m afraid you’re wrong. Let me assure you, young man, that I have made a close study of all Professor Trewell’s seminal works and pride myself on knowing her iconic sayings by heart. Why, she has been my companion – in a purely literary sense – these past twenty years at least.’
‘I understand, sir. And while I should prefer not to contradict my host, I feel compelled to tell you that Professor Trewell has been my companion for even longer and she would be very displeased if she thought I’d forgotten even one of her famous sayings.’ Oliver glanced sideways at me before meeting my father’s outraged stare.
‘She’s your professor then?’ he demanded.
‘No, Mr Austin. She’s my mother.’