Oxford English
We were sat on a bench in the sunshine. Nice to feel the breeze after the car ride. Mum was wearin' a hat, like she were going to a wedding, and we were laughing at how it kept nearly blowing into the river. It wasn't creased, though: she wore it all the way down to make sure of that. Even with the dog on the back seat and Granny in the middle, saying "oooooh" and tutting in wonder at the buildings. Grand day out. But here we were, now, evening light streaming through the willow, golden yellow on the river. And it was time to say goodbye. I would stay here, surrounded by the soft, hazy light and the sunny Jurassic stone. They would return to the clear, windy moorland, grey cliffs. We all pretended not to mind. Dad stared at the river. It's alright here, you've not done bad, said my brother. And everyone laughed.
Term started after they left. I got my head down and got on with it. I'm not bad at learning. Soon found myself coming top, with a scholarship at the first exams. Anyway, it's alright when you enjoy it. The tutorials especially, you have to debate with each other. At home, I always ask too many questions. Here, I can fight with words and win. And no-one criticises me; I almost said that no-one minds, but that's not true at all. My tutorial partner is called Imogen. She knows about all this, Oxford, I mean. I think she minds a bit, but she's too polite to show it.
I started singing in the chapel choir. Imogen too. I've been in choirs since I was four, but this is quite different. Up there, we sang Maunder's Olivet to Calvary every year. Here, it's all Palestrina and Byrd, which I like more, especially Byrd. I've never heard anyone be so controlled and yet so sad. I wish I knew how he did it. My army uncle always sheds a couple of tears at Elgar, I reckon he'd need a mop if he heard Tristitia et Anxietas. On Sundays, we're all invited for a sherry by the Chaplain, then we sit together at Formal Hall. I wondered whether to bring Granny a bottle of College Sherry, mainly because I wanted to see her puckered, disapproving face before she poured me a nice glass of madeira. We drink port in Hall too. I had to ask Imogen about that, because you're supposed to pass it across your heart. There's a game called pennying. You have to drop a penny in someone's glass without anyone noticing, then they have to down it to save the queen. Feels a bit like my brother's rugby mates, although I don't think they would save the queen from drowning in port.
We were sitting by the river, close to the end of our first year. Imogen and I had just finished our prelims and were thinking about our journey home. I was telling her about the Jurassic sun still shining out of the Oxford stones. She was recounting bits of the year, laughing at the time we jousted using shopping trolleys in front of the Rad Cam, after the music society dinner, or, sitting on Tom and Peter's shoulders, squashed ourselves through the wicket gate still singing The Silver Swan, drinking port together in the organ loft. She turned to me with a smile: you know, she said, I'm so glad you speak normally now; when I first met you, you sounded so stupid.
