‘Harry took this walk every Sunday afternoon, Gareth,’ Ditte said. Gareth fell into step beside me.
‘He came here to discuss the week with Lily. Did you know that, Esme?’
I didn’t.
‘I say discuss, but it was a meditation, really. He would walk along this path with his head full of the week’s concerns, and by the time he arrived at Walton Bridge the most pressing would have asserted itself. He told me he would sit and consider it from Lily’s perspective.’ She looked to see if she should continue. I hoped she would, but I was mute.
‘Of course you were the main topic of conversation, but I was surprised to hear that he would also consult Lily on everything from what to wear to some function to whether he should buy lamb or beef for Sunday lunch – on the few occasions he decided to tackle a roast with all the trimmings.’
I felt the smallest smile, remembering the beef, raw or burnt, and our Sunday strolls into Jericho.
‘Truly,’ Ditte said, squeezing my arm.
It was a gift, this story. As I listened to Ditte, my memories of life with Da were subtly touched up, like a painter might add a daub of colour to give the impression of morning light. Lily, always so absent, suddenly wasn’t.
‘There it is,’ Ditte said, as we approached the bridge. ‘This was their spot.’
I’d walked under it so often, but now it looked completely different. Gareth took my hand, then he led me to the bench at the edge of the path and sat close enough to feel me trembling.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen, I thought. But was I thinking about Da or Gareth? Gareth had never held my hand before. I’d thought I’d have Da forever.
We sat. The stream barely moved beneath the bridge, but small disturbances broke the surface every now and then. I could easily imagine Da sitting there, letting his thoughts ebb and flow.
‘Someone’s left flowers,’ Gareth said.
I looked to where he was pointing, as did Ditte, and saw a bunch of flowers laid carefully beside the arch of the bridge. They were not fresh, but they hadn’t completely expired. Two or three blooms still held some shape and colour.
‘Oh, my,’ I heard Ditte say with a catch in her voice. ‘They’re for Lily.’
I was confused. Gareth shifted closer to me.
Tears ran quietly along the creases around Ditte’s eyes. ‘I was with him the first time, after her funeral. I had no idea he was still bringing her flowers.’
I looked around, half expecting to see him. It had only been a few days, but I was getting used to this trick of grief, and for the first time I was not overcome. The breath that filled my lungs felt easier. Before I let it go, I caught the decaying scent of rush daffodil. Da had never liked them, but he’d told me they were Lily’s favourite.
I couldn’t escape Da’s absence. I felt it when I turned onto Observatory Street, and when I opened the door to our house, I had to force myself to step over the threshold. Lizzie stayed for a few weeks, and the smell of Da’s pipe faded beneath the smells of her cooking. In the morning, I rose when she rose and we walked together to Sunnyside. I’d help her in the kitchen for an hour to make up some of the time she lost by staying with me, and when the first person arrived at the Scriptorium I would cross the garden and go in.
There was a space at the sorting table that no one filled. Perhaps it was out of respect for me, but from where I sat I saw the way Mr Sweatman tucked in Da’s chair, and how often Mr Maling looked in that direction with a query on his tongue. Dr Murray got older in the weeks and months after Da died. He stared along the length of the sorting table and made no effort to look for a new assistant. I hated the space that Da had left and avoided looking at it whenever I came into the Scriptorium.
Grief was all I could feel. It crowded my thoughts and filled my heart and left no room for anything else. I walked out with Gareth every now and then. If it rained we would have lunch in Jericho, but if the weather was fine we walked along the Cherwell. Hawthorn marked the months since Da’s death: berries ripened, then leaves fell. We wondered if the winter might bring snow. I took Gareth’s friendship for granted. I needed it to fill the void and couldn’t contemplate anything more or less than what it was. When he sought to take my arm in his, I didn’t notice until the gesture had been withdrawn.
Christmas loomed, and my aunt insisted I visit her and my cousins in Scotland. Without Da, they seemed almost like strangers. I made excuses and travelled to Bath instead, where Ditte and Beth administered liberal amounts of good humour, pragmatism and Madeira cake. I returned to Oxford feeling lighter than when I’d left.
I walked into the Scriptorium on the third day of 1914 and there was a new lexicographer sitting where Da had once sat. Mr Rawlings wasn’t young and he wasn’t old. He was unremarkable and oblivious to who had sat in that spot at the sorting table before him.
It was an enormous relief to us all.
There was a new hum in the Scriptorium. I felt it as an animal might when there is a decrease in air pressure before a storm. The prospect of war had heightened our senses. All over Oxford, young men were getting about with more spring. Their strides were longer and they talked louder – or so it seemed. The students had always
