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SEVEN
Trinity Term, 1893
It was the summer of their first year when Jem really noticed the gap between Nicky and Ella. His first term had been a giddy blur of work, play, drink, chaos; of starting a new life and—self-consciously, awkwardly, unstoppably—remaking himself in a new form. He worked on his vowels, losing the dragging weight of his Midlands accent; he learned hierarchies and statuses and the vocabulary that marked him as one of the group; he went from humble, incredulous gratitude to a heady determination to enjoy every minute. He joined a couple of clubs, the sort where one talked rather than drank because he couldn’t afford more dissipation than he already had. By contrast, Toby was in the Bullingdon, which was exclusively for rich thugs, and Nicky belonged to something called the Peacock, for aesthetes, which Jem felt he would do well not to ask about.
By Trinity term, he was firmly an Oxford man. This was his life, these people were his friends, and it was not going to be snatched away.
It was a week before Mods started. The others were all out, leaving Nicky and Jem at a loose end after Hall. Jem thought they might perhaps have a quiet drink in his room. He was wrong.
‘Come on,’ Nicky said. He had on his gown over his jacket, a bottle of wine in his hand and a glint in his eye that made Jem’s heart stutter. ‘We’re going to indulge in a view. Have you been on the roof yet?’
‘The roof? What roof?’
Nicky led the way to the library in Old Quad. The golden light of the summer evening lit the ancient stone, which seemed to glow responsively from within; it caught Nicky’s hair and made the pale strands sparkle. Jem followed, as he would follow Nicky anywhere: into the great dark room, through the ranks of shelving and the rows of desks, into the back rooms and through a door that read No Admittance, and up a plain set of narrow stairs, their feet clapping noisily on the worn wood.
‘Ought we to be here?’ Jem hissed.
‘Not at all,’ Nicky murmured. ‘We’ll be in terrible trouble if we’re caught. Want to run away?’
‘I was just asking,’ Jem said, and kept climbing. He disliked putting weight on his club foot, so he led on each step with his left foot, which meant his left knee and thigh rapidly began to complain. Nicky climbed the stairs in a casual, lounging sort of way as though he wouldn’t have wanted to go at any other pace, and Jem gritted his teeth and plodded on.
There were occasional small windows as they went up, none at the top landing, which was extremely dark. Jem stood, feeling the burn in leg and foot and trying not to breathe too heavily, as Nicky did something with metal that rattled. Evening light flooded over them as he opened a door, and Jem looked out onto a rooftop.
‘Good God,’ he said. ‘You meant it.’
Nicky made a courtly gesture, inviting Jem to go first, and shut the door behind them. Jem came out warily. The roof sloped up to the centre of the building but had a wide flat area between the slope and the ornamental parapet, which seemed very low, considering. The flat space was, he had to assume, designed to be walked on. He went forward in a cautious way, making sure of his footing, before he turned and looked.
They were facing south, looking over Front Quad and Broad Street and towards the main spread of Oxford, and the setting sun turned everything before him to glowing rose gold. The domes and spires rose like masts from the sea, like prayers to heaven, a glory of human brilliance in stone, and Jem stared, and stared, because he couldn’t look away.
Something hard and smooth nudged his hand. ‘Here.’
Jem raised the wine bottle to his lips and swigged a mouthful without looking. Nicky took it back off him. ‘Worth the climb.’
‘God, yes. God.’
‘One can do this lawfully elsewhere, of course, but there is a dreadful likelihood of encounteringpeople. I thought you’d prefer solitude. There’s a perch here.’ He led Jem further along to where a square piece of brickwork allowed them to sit and see the view. It was a little close for two. Jem sat to rest his leg and foot; Nicky propped his arse on the remaining space, sitting sideways to give Jem more room, their backs and hips just touching.
‘Do you often come up here?’ Jem asked at last. ‘Why haven’t we been before? Or do you—’ He cut that off. He was not going to ask if Nicky and Toby had been regularly together in this forbidden eyrie. He was here now.
‘I come up now and again. It gives me perspective,’ Nicky said. ‘I had the key off a fellow who left last year. It’s not to be abused. I don’t suppose we’d get more than a stern talking-to for trespass if we were caught, but I should have to hand over the key and I’d rather not.’
‘Is that why we haven’t had a party up here?’
‘Good Lord, dear boy, imagine trying to prevent Toby from hurling empty bottles over the parapet.’
Jem grinned and took another swig of wine. It was the college hock, rather sweet for his developing tastes. ‘It’s marvellous. Thank you for bringing me.’
‘I thought you’d appreciate it. Not everyone would.’
‘Oh come. Anyone would appreciate this view.’
‘Nonsense. Toby would be finding out what the echo’s like, and Ella would be counting spires or working out mathematical ratios for more efficient load-bearing.’
‘I say,’ Jem protested. ‘Is that fair?’
‘Neither Feynsham twin has an aesthetic bone in his or her body. And it’s not about artistic appreciation, anyway. It’s about whether one imagines the world exists to serve one’s needs, or whether one is open to its wonders, a vessel into which the world may pour its beauty.’
‘I’m fairly sure I’m not that,’ Jem said somewhat warily.
