As we continue, passing by another couple of colleges and more private homes, I mull over how H must view the world. Four hundred years of history he’s seen, first from above and then from the ground. He’s right to point out that not that long ago I would have been an interloper in a man’s world. We women are still fighting the battle, I mused.
We slip down a brick-lined alley, past a narrow gate, and emerge into a wooded wonderland.
“Welcome to tha University Park, Nat,” H announces. “Seventy acres of peace and quiet, with none of them pesky bicycles tryin’ ta run a mate down.”
By unspoken agreement, H and I slow our pace, taking in the calming ambiance of the shade trees and grassy pitches. The only sounds are children laughing and ducks quacking. I stop to read one of the information signs, bursting into laughter when I spot a goose chasing H around a small pond.
With a fiery breath, H sends the goose scurrying back to the safety of the water.
Stifling back my laughter, I check in with him, “Everything all right?”
“That’s my mate, Laurie. He’s still spittin’ about transformin’ from a tragic Greek mask into a goose. Cain’t say I blame him.” After dusting himself off, H steers me back onto one of the pathways. “Enough wasting time. Shake a leg, missie, still more streets ta cover.”
H regales me with stories about my grandfather as we stroll past the cricket fields. Many of them are ones I heard years before, but this time told from the wyvern’s point of view. It’s been years since my grandfather passed away; hearing his stories reminds me of all of those afternoons I spent curled up next to him on the couch.
I had been inconsolable in those weeks after his death, but gradually time acted as a bandage over the wounds. Discovering that H and the magic of Oxford are real makes me remember all the warmth and love my grandfather gave me, triggering none of the pain of the loss. By the time H and I reach the croquet lawn, it feels like we’re old friends.
We exit the park in front of Keble College with its distinctive red bricks and neo-gothic architecture, following the signs which point left towards the town centre.
My head swivels as we pass landmark after landmark. H points out the university museums, sending my imagination into overdrive with tales of dinosaur skeletons come to life. I barely overcome the urge to duck inside the museum and check out the scene for myself. The road carries on, the distance on the town centre signs shrinking as we glide by Rhodes House and alongside the Trinity College walls.
Finally, a giant roundabout comes into view, marking our arrival in the heart of Oxford. With the clean lines of the newly built Weston Library at our backs, we pause, waiting for an opening in the traffic.
I look left and right, sizing up the mix of cars, double-decker buses, cyclists and pedestrians before stepping into the roadway. I hear H calling my name as I reach the pavement on the other side of the road. Turning back, I’m just in time to catch him darting underneath a bright red double-decker and nearly knocking a cyclist over in his rush to catch up.
He steps onto the sidewalk, breathless from his exertions. “Nat! Didn’t ya ‘ear me? Ya gotta be careful ‘ere!”
Leaning over, I help him wipe the bicycle tyre tracks off his tail. “Um H, I know you’re supposed to be my guide, but I’m from London. I lived in Paris. An Oxford roundabout has nothing on Piccadilly Circus. Based on the look on that cyclist’s face, I think you’d better stay close to me next time.”
Feeling confident, I take the lead up the concrete stairs, guiding us under the arched entry of the Clarendon Building, following signs towards the central library quad. The library building looms over the pavement, crenelated towers and carved gargoyles lining the top. I eye them carefully but can’t guess which one used to H’s home. Carrying on through another arched passageway, I see wooden boards reminding us that silence is required as the buildings are used for research and studies.
We emerge into the library quadrangle, my eyes wide as I stand in the middle of the open-air square and try to take in the buildings surrounding me. One end is marked by a five-story tower, each level decorated with different styles of architecture. The walls of the surrounding buildings are divided into long, narrow rectangles, evoking visions of unbroken rows of book spines waiting to be picked off the shelves.
H interrupts my efforts to translate the Latin text above one of the four arched doorways. “I remember when Ole Pembrokey used ta pass through ‘ere.”
“Who? Pembrokey?” I replay the last few minutes, wondering whether I missed a verbal cue.
His little wings batting, H floats over to the large statue erected in front of the main library entrance. He huffs a fiery breath onto the nameplate, using a leathery hand to buff it into a shine. “Pembrokey, can’t ya read? ‘E was a bigwig in tha early years. Always ‘ad ‘is loaf in a book, but tha ladies liked ’im well enough. Even made it into one of Old Shakey’s plays.”
Shakey? He can’t mean… “Um, H, do you mean Shakespeare?”
❖
Dumbstruck, I follow H, curious to see how he will handle the crowd of tourists blocking the library entrance. Between the gaggle of teenagers engrossed in their efforts to take the perfect selfies and the older tourists with their noses buried in guidebooks, it won’t be easy.
To my surprise, H skirts the group, choosing one
