The Collected Short Stories Read online

  On the journey down to Hampshire, Philippa talked about her father’s work as a parish priest and inquired after William’s family. They stopped for lunch at a pub in Winchester—rabbit stew and mashed potatoes.

  “The first meal we’ve had together,” said William.

  No sardonic reply came flying back; Philippa simply smiled.

  After lunch they traveled on to the village of Brockenhurst. William brought his car to an uncertain halt on the gravel outside the vicarage. An elderly maid, dressed in black, answered the door, surprised to see Miss Philippa with a man. Philippa introduced Annie to William and asked her to make up the spare room.

  “I’m so glad you’ve found yourself such a nice young man,” remarked Annie later. “Have you known him long?”

  Philippa smiled. “No, we met for the first time yesterday.”

  Philippa cooked William dinner, which they ate by a fire he had laid in the front room. Although hardly a word passed between them for three hours, neither was bored. Philippa began to notice the way William’s untidy fair hair fell over his forehead and thought how distinguished he would look in old age.

  The next morning, she walked into the church on William’s arm and stood bravely through the funeral. When the service was over William took her back to the vicarage, crowded with the many friends the parson had made.

  “You mustn’t think ill of us,” said Mr. Crump, the vicar’s warden, to Philippa. “You were everything to your father, and we were all under strict instructions not to let you know about his illness in case it should interfere with the Charles Oldham. That is the name of the prize, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” said Philippa. “But that all seems so unimportant now.”

  “She will win the prize in her father’s memory,” said William.

  Philippa turned and looked at him, realizing for the first time that he actually wanted her to win the Charles Oldham.

  They stayed that night at the vicarage and drove back to Oxford on the Thursday. On the Friday morning at ten o’clock William returned to Philippa’s college and asked the porter if he could speak to Miss Jameson.

  “Would you be kind enough to wait in the Horsebox, sir,” said the porter as he showed William into a little room at the back of the lodge and then scurried off to find Miss Jameson. They returned together a few minutes later.

  “What on earth are you doing here?”

  “Come to take you to Stratford.”

  “But I haven’t even had time to unpack the things I brought back from Brockenhurst.” .

  “Just do as you are told for once; I’ll give you fifteen minutes.”

  “Of course,” she said. “Who am I to disobey the next winner of the Charles Oldham? I shall even allow you to come up to my room for one minute and help me unpack.”

  The porter’s eyebrows nudged the edge of his cap, but he remained silent, in deference to Miss Jameson’s recent bereavement. Again it surprised William to think that he had never been to Philippa’s room during their three years. He had climbed the walls of all the women’s colleges to be with a variety of girls of varying stupidity but never with Philippa. He sat down on the end of the bed.

  “Not there, you thoughtless creature. The maid has only just made it. Men are all the same, you never sit in chairs.”

  “I shall one day,” said William. “The chair of English Language and Literature.”

  “Not as long as I’m at this university, you won’t,” she said, as she disappeared into the bathroom.

  “Good intentions are one thing but talent is quite another,” he shouted at her retreating back, privately pleased that her competitive streak seemed to be returning.

  Fifteen minutes later she came out of the bathroom in a yellow flowered dress with a neat white collar and matching cuffs. William thought she might even be wearing a touch of makeup.

  “It will do our reputations no good to be seen together,” she said.

  “I’ve thought about that,” said William. “If asked, I shall say you’re my charity.”

  “Your charity?”

  “Yes. This year I’m supporting distressed orphans.”

  Philippa signed out of college until midnight, and the two scholars traveled down to Stratford, stopping off at Broadway for lunch. In the afternoon they rowed on the River Avon. William warned Philippa about his last disastrous outing in a punt. She admitted that she had already heard of the exhibition he had made of himself, but they arrived safely back at the shore: perhaps because Philippa took over the rowing. They went to see John Gielgud playing Romeo and dined at the Dirty Duck. Philippa was even quite rude to William during the meal.

  They started their journey home just after eleven, and Philippa fell into a half sleep since they could hardly hear each other above the noise of the car engine. It must have been about twenty-five miles outside Oxford that the MG came to a halt.

  “I thought,” said William, “that when the gas gauge showed empty there was at least another gallon left in the tank.”

  “You’re obviously wrong, and not for the first time, and because of such foresight you’ll have to walk to the nearest garage all by yourself—you needn’t imagine that I’m going to keep you company. I intend to stay put, right here in the warmth.”

  “But there isn’t a garage between here and Oxford,” protested William.

  “Then you’ll have to carry me. I am far too fragile to walk.”

  “I wouldn’t be able to manage fifty yards after that sumptuous dinner and all that wine.”

  “It is no small mystery to me, William, how you could have managed a first-class honors degree in English when you can’t even read a gas gauge.”

  “There’s only one thing to do,” said William. “We’ll have to wait for the first bus in the morning.”

  Philippa clambered into the back seat and did not speak to him again before falling asleep. William donned his hat, scarf, and gloves, crossed his arms for warmth, and touched the tangled red mane of Philippa’s hair as she slept. He then took off his coat and placed it so that it covered her.

  Philippa woke first, a little after six, and groaned as she tried to stretch her aching limbs. She then shook William awake to ask him why his father hadn’t been considerate enough to buy him a car with a comfortable back seat.

  “But this is the niftiest thing going,” said William, gingerly kneading his neck muscles before putting his coat back on.

  “But it isn’t going, and won’t without gas,” she replied, getting out of the car to stretch her legs.

  “But I only let it run out for one reason,” said William following her to the front of the car.

  Philippa waited for a feeble punch line and was not disappointed.

  “My father told me if I spent the night with a barmaid then I should simply order an extra pint of beer, but if I spent the night with the vicar’s daughter, I would have to. marry her.”

  Philippa laughed. William, tired, unshaven, and encumbered by his heavy coat, struggled to get down on one knee.

  “What are you doing, William?”

  “What do you think I’m doing, you silly woman? I am going to ask you to marry me.”

  “An invitation I am happy to decline, William. If I accepted such a proposal I might end up spending the rest of my life stranded on the road between Oxford and Stratford.”

  “Will you marry me if I win the Charles Oldham?”

  “As there is absolutely no fear of that happening I can safely say yes. Now do get off your knee, William, before someone mistakes you for a straying stork.”

  The first bus arrived at 7:05 that Saturday morning and took Philippa and William back to Oxford. Philippa went to her rooms for a long hot bath while William filled a gas can and returned to his deserted MG. Having completed the task, he drove straight to Somerville and once again asked if he could see Miss Jameson. She came down a few minutes later.

  “What! You again?” she said. “Am I not in enough trouble already?”

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