Chapter 2

Elizabeth’s first week at Oxford had flown by. After her initial rocky journey, she found things went surprisingly well. Ms. Brown was much less caustic in person, and Magdalen College lived up to her dreams. She had a room in the dorms for two weeks, during the international student orientation. After that, she would need to find her own accommodation, which was something of a worry. No, it was more of a constant nagging voice in the background chorus of her mental dialogue. However, she had found no time to do something about it, since the orientation was a full schedule.

Saturday evening was the first spare moment that Elizabeth had found. There was a scheduled: ‘Bop’ which sounded, to Elizabeth, like about as much fun as going to the dentist. She decided instead to do her introverted thing and stay home to catch up on her reading and journaling. She regretted the fact that she had not dug out her journal earlier in the week to catch all her initial impressions of the city. It was too late now, but she decided to use veracious prose to make up for the immediacy her entries would lack. Under a pile of random handouts and pamphlets she had acquired through the gauntlet of meetings, Elizabeth found her precious journal. It was already precious, even though she hadn’t written a thing in it, because it was her creation, that she had taken hours and hours to make. It was the handmade book she was most proud of, the binding lay perfectly flat when open, and the gold leaf she had added to the spine shone when she turned the object to fully appreciate its beauty. But her favourite part was the inner cover paper, which she had bought especially with this journal in mind. In was hand inked and stamped by the oldest stationary in Venice, and it had cost almost $50 for the sheet. She traced the peacock-like pattern with her finger. “There are some things in life that are worth splurging on: like good chocolate and beautiful paper products.”

January 28, 2005
Oxford, the city of dreaming spires, has opened its arms to me, willing to welcome yet one more weary traveller come to study. I have come hopefully, expectantly, as a visitor entreating entrance. There seems to be a sense that most people here are not ‘native’ but are instead the blessed few with the great intelligence and even greater pocketbook needed to study at the best-known and probably most prestigious university in the world. I certainly feel lucky to be here, although I suppose I shouldn’t undermine myself too much, I have worked many a hard hour to get here! And the days I’ve dreamed away are too many to count. Now, I can day-dream from within the city I’ve always daydreamed about. Ah, life is good. Of course, it’s only the first week. So far, I’ve only really explored the central core of Oxford, and the only college I’ve been to is my own. I haven’t even been to the library. Supposedly that makes a large chunk of next weeks orientation. I shall greatly enjoy it, I think. Every time I walk anywhere near the library, I feel chills run down my spine, and I simply have to stop and enjoy the moment. I am here, I live in England, and I am an Oxford University Student. Just let me loose on that library and see if I don’t come out with a thesis on Emma Pitman that will knock those tutors’ socks off!

Elizabeth’s self-praise was cut short by a sharp rap on the door. Sticking her feet, already clad in heavy wool socks, into the even heavier slippers waiting on the floor, Elizabeth gathered her fortitude to jump out from under the blanket and up into the chilly room. “Hello?”

“Hi, my name is Edward Charles, and I am the President of the JCR. On behalf of the entire student body I would…” “Ah-ha!” thought Elizabeth “this is the elusive JCR president who left me standing at the airport and the bus station!” Edward Charles was still continuing his official spiel of welcome to her, “If you ever need someone to help you with any problem or question, I hope you will feel comfortable coming to me, or any other member of the JCR governing board. We are at your disposable.” Elizabeth’s initial reaction was to make a slam about getting picked up at the airport, but she thought better of it. “Hi Edward Charles, I’m Elizabeth Hanover. Thank you for your offer; actually, I do have a question.” Edward’s slight nod indicated to Elizabeth that he had not really meant that part about wanting to be of help. “You see, I’ll need to find somewhere to live after the international student orientation is over, and I was wondering if you could suggest where I could find relatively cheap, but hopefully charming, accommodation.”

Edward seemed relieved that Elizabeth was asking an easily answerable question that would involve giving very little of his time. “Well, cheap is hard to find, but there is no shortage of charming accommodation. You just have to decide how much of a commute you are willing to have. Most students choose to rent studio flats in the heart of the city, so they can run to the library at the slightest whim. But, for the same price, you can generally get a more spacious cottage out in the countryside. You will need to take a train into the city though.”

Elizabeth stopped listening after the word ‘cottage.’ She was too busy picturing herself planting morning glories and baking scones for the parish minister when he stopped in for tea. It would almost be too much of a dream come true if she could get her own little cottage out in a village somewhere. “Oh, a cottage sounds lovely. How would I go about finding rental listings?” “Actually, if you’re interested, I know of a place. My brother lives on the farm next to a man who runs a bed and breakfast, and has a group of rental cottages that students sometimes let out.” Edward seemed much more amiable now. Elizabeth was quick to take him up on his offer, and a few minutes later she was back under the covers, infinitely richer because of a phone number tucked into her calendar book, and a ‘get-housing’ plan ready to implement on Monday. She picked up her journal and continued her self-obsessed, introverted ramblings.

She was the only passenger to get off the train at the small Charlbury stop. Edward had given her clear directions, so she knew she was in the right place, but Elizabeth was still a bit unsettled by the deserted look to the platform. This was assuaged by the pleasant pink box that appeared to be the train station, in the manner of the old, charming train stations of yore. She walked around the front and saw some sort of jeep that possibly might have originally been army green, but was now thoroughly covered in a thick coat of mud. A man wearing a tweed cap, a green cardigan, and khaki corduroys stepped quickly towards her. His outfit made him look like a middle aged country man, but Elizabeth noticed his face was quite young. “And you must be Ms. Hanover, I presume?” Seeing her nod, he briskly said “I am Mr. Barrett, owner of Banbury Hill Farm. Come with me please.”

Elizabeth reminded herself of the ‘stiff upper lip’ mentality of the British and tried not to be put-off by his seeming lack of hospitality. Instead, she went to get into the jeep. She realized her mistake too late, and was already half-way into the seat when she realized there was a steering wheel in front of her. Mr. Barrett stood by the door, observing her with an expression which Elizabeth didn’t know whether to interpret as distain or amusement. “Oh, dear, I am sorry – I’ve only been in the country about a week, and I’m still getting the hang of it” Elizabeth quickly apologized as she embarrassedly swung out of the seat. “Oh, not at all, not at all. We all have our little fumbles now and then.” Mr. Barrett gave her a small wink, and Elizabeth was relieved to discover he had thought her display humorous rather than annoying. She was quite interested to discover more about this opaque man, but that would have to be secondary to her intent to find a place to live.

They were soon on their way out of the train station, towards what looked like the center of the village. Elizabeth had to hold her tongue to keep from babbling on about how beautiful and quaint and charming Charlbury was. As they drove through the only real main street, Elizabeth knew that she would give anything, and indeed pay large sums of money, for the privilege of calling this wonderful little piece of heaven on earth home.

Mr. Barrett was silent as they drove, and after only a few minutes, he guided the jeep to a stop in front of a large country house. “This is it” he explained. There was a large series of pastures to the right of the farm house, which seemed generally unoccupied, except for a few bored-looking horses. To the left was what Elizabeth assumed to be the rental cottages, a series of 1970’s looking, two-storey buildings, that were standing in ugly contrast to the beauty of the old farm house itself. Mr. Barrett left her no more time to survey her surroundings, but instead set off at a brisk pace towards the back of the house. Although not invited to do so, Elizabeth assumed it was an understood instruction for her to follow. She was correct. “This is the key to the Ravenwood cottage. It opens both the front and the back door, although the back door sticks a little and you have to give it a nudge now and then. I’ll show you.” He was already on his way to the middle cottage and Elizabeth had no time to ask him the long list of questions she had prepared. He put the key in the lock, and threw his shoulder at the door with a force that shocked her. “A little nudge, huh?” She thought to herself.

He held the door open for her and she stepped into the small living room. It was, indeed, exactly what she imagined a country cottage to look like. The walls were a thickly textured off white stucco, and there was a large stone fireplace on one wall. The furniture looked old, but very cosy, and she saw the door to the kitchen, and the stone staircase to the upstairs. “Oh, it is lovely” she exclaimed. “Well, see the rest of it before you make a decision” he replied. She took up his offer and quietly padded through the rest of the cottage. It was completely and entirely the house of her dreams. She didn’t need to ask any of her questions, she would follow her heart on this one. Coming down the steep stone steps back into the living, she flashed a huge smile at Mr. Barrett. “I’ll take it!”

Mr. Barrett seemed slightly put off my Elizabeth’s North American display of enthusiasm. She had the impression that the British people found it below them to express affection for inanimate objects. Undaunted, she forged forward, expressing her great joy at having found such a perfect cottage for her to make her home. Mr. Barrett sat awkwardly on the sofa, seeming ill at ease in his outdoorsy wear in the enclosed neatness of the living room. He watched Elizabeth, but did not move, as she finished her second, more animated, tour of the “Ravenwood” Cottage that would become her home. She was already imagining how nice her address would look:

Elizabeth G. Hanover
Ravenwood Cottage
Banbury Hill Farm
Charlbury, Oxford, England

Elizabeth’s romantic reveries were interrupted by the more mundane details of life, brought to her attention by the ever down to earth Mr. Barrett. “Now, the hot water is a bit tricky, let me show you. If you want a shower, you have to go upstairs, into the linen closet and press the button on the left. Then you should have hot water in about 20 minutes.” Elizabeth was slightly worried about the ‘should’ in his statement, but she decided to think positive. “Here’s where you need to keep an eye out for flies, they have a habit of getting in that crack by the window, and there’s always more flies in this room than in a horse barn.” Again, the image of her house compared to a cow barn was discomforting, but hope prevailed. “Now the gas stove is broken…” “More!?!” thought Elizabeth, “I don’t know how much more I can handle!” But as Mr. Barrett finished explaining the special knack to get the stove to work, Elizabeth felt great relief as he continued: “That’s about it for the cottage, shall I show you the grounds?” “That would be lovely!”

The grounds were as charming as the cottage, she instantly fell in love with the rag-tag assortment of farm animals, that seemed to be kept as more of a zoo for the children than anything else. There was a donkey named “Trouble” and two miniature ponies, which she was quite glad to see, were smaller than she! The sheep were friendly looking, if somewhat miserable; they seemed to be shivering in the brisk January wind that ignored the walls of their little ‘house.’ The animals were only kept in one part of the field, over the other hill lay a glorious vista of the Cotswolds, which Elizabeth had read was one of the most beautiful parts of England. The Banbury Hill Farm was enclosed from the farm next to it by a lovely hand-laid wall of various sizes of stone. (“Thanks to the Enclosure Act of 1784”, thought Elizabeth to herself, “Oh, the unusual benefits of useless facts when talking to oneself!”) She looked over the land onto the center of Charlbury lying below. It looked like a picture that could be used as an illustration next to “charming English countryside village” in the dictionary.

“Well, that’s the grand tour. If you like, I’ll give my friend, the porter – or I suppose you call them a ‘gatekeeper’ where you’re from - at Magdalen college, a call, and see if we can’t work out some arrangement to get your bags brought out here later this afternoon. Save you a trip.” “Elizabeth thanked him profusely and accepted his offer. She felt a little guilty, “He obviously didn’t ask the porter how much luggage I had!” She thought.

“I’ll give you a ride into town so you can gather supplies.” Mr. Barrett said it more as a statement than a question, but Elizabeth had no objections. She did have a funny mental picture of her hunting and gathering, but she kept her laughter to herself. After only about an hour or so, she had the deep realization that she and Mr. Barrett did not share the same sense of humour. They returned to the jeep and made the short journey to what seemed to be the main corner of the main street of Charlbury. “You can find your way back to the farm tonight?” Mr. Barrett asked Elizabeth as she stepped out of the jeep onto the street corner. “Well, yes, it’s just straight on this road, through the town, over that hill, right?” “Yes,” replied Mr. Barrett. “Just keep an eye out for lorries that take those countries road pretty quickly, especially at night. There was a proposal to build a path along the road a few years ago, but the council vetoed it – so you’ll just have to walk on the road and hit the bushes when a car comes.” “Ah…Thanks.” Said Elizabeth, suddenly unsure about whether she could get back to the farm safely or not. But she wasn’t about to bother Mr. Barrett for a ride, so she feigned confidence. “Yes, I’ll find my way back to the farm later.”