My Oxford Year

Maggie huffs in affectionate exasperation. I playfully twirl a finger at her. Tom follows my finger.

“Oh, Mags! Right! Jolly good!”

There’s a silence.

“So?” I prod, trying to get this ball—or bicycle—rolling.

“So?”

“Where is it?”

“Where’s what now?”

Fortunately, Maggie takes charge. “The bike, Tom, can she see the bike?”

“Why, s’right there!” He flails his hand at a space behind us. Next to the door, camouflaged by an array of papers, more books, and coats, is an adorable beach-cruiser bike, banana seat and all. I walk over to it. It’s in good shape. Surprising for this guy.

“Duchess.” Tom sighs. “A fitting name for the gal who got me through the thick and thin of my first six years.”

My head snaps up. “You’ve been here six years?”

“Sorry,” Maggie chimes in. “Tom came here to read philosophy, then started over in maths, then … well, I believe it was classics, wasn’t it?” Her brow furrows. She looks to Tom.

“Linguistics, philology, and phonetics.”

“Then classics?”

“Bang on, Mags.”

Maggie beams. Definitely into him.

“Which college are you at?” I ask.

“He was at Magdalen with Charlie and me!”

I glance back to Tom. “And now?”

“Oh, no one will have me now.” He leans in and nudges my shoulder with his knobby elbow. “Story of my life, eh?”

I think I’m understanding this. “So you don’t go here anymore?”

“He’s actually become quite the popular tutor!” Maggie enthuses. “Helping people apply to Oxford!”

Tom’s open face turns wry. “I can teach ’em how to get in, just not how to get out.”

He laughs, Maggie reciprocates, and I nod, murmuring, “Cool, cool.” I look back to the bike. “So what are you thinking?”

“At present? In general?”

This is what happens when you’re the book equivalent of the crazy cat lady. “The price. What do you want for it?”

He chews his lip. “Forty quid.” I pause, considering. I open my mouth to accept and Tom blurts, “All right, all right, you drive a hard bargain. Thirty.”

I smile. “Done!” I dig into my pocket for cash.

He claps his hands and jumps up. “Spiffing!” I hand him the money and he clears a path so he can wheel the bike out into the vestibule, down the stairs, and onto the street. We follow him. I look back at Maggie. I have to do something. “Tom?”

“Yes?” He’s bent over the bike, examining some invisible flaw. He licks his finger and wipes at it.

“Maggie and I are meeting Charlie for tea. Would you like to join?”

His face lights up. “Spiffing!” He swings one long giraffe leg over Duchess, mounting her like a prize stallion. “Parsonage?”

Maggie and I look at each other. Maggie takes this one. “Tom. Ella would like to ride her bike now.”

“Right!” He guffaws. “Just warming the seat.” He dismounts and gallops up the stairs, calling, “I’ll just grab Pippa!”

As he disappears inside, Maggie crosses to her bike and begins unlocking it. There’s a silence. She clearly wants to say something. She doesn’t.

“I can’t thank you enough,” I say. “It’s perfect.” She nods and smiles politely as we climb onto our bikes. She seems to be avoiding my gaze. I wonder if I’ve overstepped something. “Sorry if I … I probably shouldn’t have just invited him to tea, considering—”

But Maggie shakes her head. “No, no. That’s why I was coming here in the first place. To invite him. The battery on his mobile always dies, you see. He can go days without realizing no one’s called him.” Her tone is easy, but she still doesn’t look at me.

I test the waters. “I’ve never met anyone like him. He’s very … unique.”

She finally looks at me, chewing her bottom lip, seemingly on the verge of a confession. “I don’t know quite what it is. He’s a bit doglike, really. As you saw, ready to be loved by anyone willing to give him a pat. It can be quite annoying, actually.”

I smile, understanding where Maggie’s coming from. “He did the same thing to you when you first met him?”

There’s a moment of silence and something crosses Maggie’s face. “No.”

“No?”

“No. He didn’t.” She looks away. “Sorry. He just … gets to me.”

Now I really understand where Maggie’s coming from. “I can tell.”

She sighs, reddens. “He does it with everyone! Literally everyone! Just not me. It’s baffling. And maddening. And embarrassing! Sorry.” She straightens her back, aligns her dress, smooths her cardigan, regathers her pride.

“There’s nothing to be sorry about.”

“Charlie says I should consider myself lucky. I mean, don’t misunderstand, he loves Tom, but—”

I shake my head. “It’s not about anyone else. If you want it, you should go for it.”

“Oh God, no.” Her eyes bug. She pauses, shakes her head, and groans, “He’s just so damn sexy.”

While that wouldn’t be my takeaway from an encounter with Tom, to each her own. We look at each other again and both of us smile. I like this girl a lot. We already have each other’s back. To protect, not stab. That’s universal sisterhood, no matter which country you come from.