“Mriaoowwwww.”
The cat leaps in, landing on one of the visitor chairs. He arches his back, begging for a gentle stroke. Dr Radcliffe gives him a welcoming pat. “And good morning to you, Ceremonies cat. Come along, you probably know this place as well as I do.”
With another miaow, he drops beside her heels and follows her out of the doorway.
I stare in wonder as Dr Radcliffe chats away with the cat. Is everyone here slightly crazy? Maybe something’s in the water. I make a mental note to get a filter.
The cat darts in and out of doorways, stopping to sniff a corner or bat a tuft of dust. Dr Radcliffe chatters away as we walk around the main building, providing an overview of the full University, St Margaret college and its environs.
“The University is made up of thirty-eight different colleges, St Margaret being one of them. Each college recruits their own students, but they all graduate with a degree from the University. Here at St Margaret, we have 800 students in total. The main Oxford shopping district is about a mile from here.”
I wrack my brain for a reference point, failing to find anything other than the total number of university students. “Is that a lot for an Oxford college? Sorry if I should know that already.”
Dr Radcliffe waves off my apology. “It’s your first day, I’ll give you a bit of leeway. To answer your question, yes. We’re one of the largest of the Oxford colleges. St Margaret started as a women’s school, but we now accept both sexes.”
We stop in the college library, examining a collection of objets d’art on display in the atrium. I sigh wistfully. “What I’ve seen so far is gorgeous. I wish I’d had such a tranquil environment when I was a student.”
Dr Radcliffe opens a set of French doors and steps out onto a small balcony. I can see the top of the iron fence bordering the grounds. She leans over the railing, explaining, “The grounds are enclosed by the fence, and tall hedges line most of the garden areas to keep out prying eyes.”
The grounds reek of privilege, leaving me feeling like an interloper. “I’ve heard about the town and gown concept, but I didn’t realise it was still accurate.”
Dr Radcliffe smiles gently. “We don’t mean to be so exclusive, but we owe it to our students, both past and present, to give a protected enclave where they can study and learn enough to rise to the top of their chosen fields.”
She guides us back out into the main hallway. We slow to a stop in front of one of the enormous portraits lining the hall.
“This one is a particular favourite of mine. Catherine Morgan, one of our early benefactors. She was passionately involved in the fight for the women’s vote and became interested in the university when she heard about the challenges women faced in trying to get an education. She defied expectations for how a wealthy woman should live her life.”
“Sounds like my kind of woman,” I agree, staring into the blue eyes of the older woman in the painting. The old-fashioned pin curls soften any harsh lines in her face, and her cunning smile makes me think of the Mona Lisa.
“Indeed. She never married. They say it’s because she feared giving a man control of the fortune she would inherit. In reality, I suspect her head was turned in a different direction. When she passed away, she left most of her money to her lifelong female companion and bequeathed a substantial amount to the college.”
A loud miaow triggers my startle reflex. I’d forgotten it was following us.
“And it would appear that Cat is also a fan. Look at the time! We’d better get a move on. Chef Smythe will be fit to be tied if we interrupt her in the kitchen once breakfast starts.”
Our unlikely trio continues along the long hallway, arriving at a set of swinging double-doors marking the entrance to the dining hall. Dr Radcliffe pushes one open to reveal a broad L-shaped room. Our steps echo as we come inside and let the door swing shut behind us.
Metal rails and shuttered windows line the narrow end where we’ve entered. I can imagine a line of hungry students waiting to gather trays and collect their food. Tall windows line the righthand wall, providing glimpses of the manicured gardens. In between the windows are stands for cutlery and a small refrigerator with bottled drinks.
Further ahead, I spot the start of several rows of polished wooden tables. Intricately carved wooden seats are tucked underneath, so close together I can’t help wondering how often diners elbow one another. Overall, I’d rate the room as 96% typical college dining hall and 4% Harry Potter.
Dr Radcliffe casts a surprised glance at the shutters. “I’m surprised the food windows are still closed. Chef Smythe always has at least one open so she can shout at the late-arriving staff.”
“Lovely,” I mutter before reminding myself that I can achieve anything I set my mind to, including making this horrid woman like me. At least a little.
“Trust me, wait until you taste her scones and homemade strawberry jam. She’s famous for them, they practically melt in your mouth.”
She raps on a shutter to announce our arrival. “Chef Smythe, are you here? I’d like you to meet our newest staff member.”
The echo of her knock is the only response. “Strange, she might be back in the refrigerator. Let’s go into the kitchen.”
We cross the room, my mouth watering at the thought of a bacon roll or a few slices of buttered toast. The cat sticks by our side, sniffing the air, searching for the smell of fresh-cooked meat.
We pass the last shuttered window, striding around a small cashier station.
“With any luck, perhaps we can
